NaPoWriMo Day 4

It's been a long time. Forty some years
since I landed on this land. It was cold
then too, like today, even though then
it was February. A newcomer with all
the newcomer's fears and anxieties,
insecurities, what am I doing here?
Why have I left my home for this?
How will people receive me?
Will they appreciate my wit,
my intellect? Will they accept me?

It's been a long time. Forty some years
since that time and I'm still afraid.
Whenever I walk into a new situation,
with new people,
my stomach knots, my heart beats
just a little fast, armpits moisten.
Will they appreciate my mind,
my humor? Will they focus
on my looks, my voice, my accent?

My accent - that red light of foreignness.
A clear marker of difference. The tiny voice
with sharp vowels and misplaced prepositions
flashing STRANGER STRANGER.

NaPoWriMo Day 3

Wet streets today,
gray sky,
chilled air on my face:
I nevertheless go out,
against my better judgment?

No, this is a good judgment.
Go out into the world,
smell the damp breeze,
feel the drops of rain on your eyelashes,
sit and read
and write!

What's the point of living if you don't
imagine,
create,
experience.
What's the point? Really...

So much happier when you do that.
Even for a few moments,
a handful of minutes or even
a number of hours. Sometimes.

NaPoWriMo Day 2

The runaway

i wanna go home

i’m scared

can you help me?

i’ve been sleeping

in the streets

since last week

I listen

Careful not to interrupt

“Aha” ing and “I see”ing

every now and then lest

the young girl think I’m

not listening, her voice thin

and hesitant, yet determined.

i need

help

please

i left my house

and walked

for a long time

then i hitchhiked

a trucker picked

me up and

brought me to florida

She needs empathy and

support more than anything

else right now. She needs

a safe place to sleep and

a warm meal, some options

on what to do - too old before her time.

i know nobody here

i have no money

my father was violent

my mom on drugs

i had to leave

please

what can you do for me?

She’s seen too much, she’s hurt

more than anyone should’ve at 15.

NAPOWRIMO

What's that? you ask. It's the poetry version of NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. We're supposed to write a poem a day for the month of April - National Poetry Month. There is a website and everything. If you want to participate, go ahead, jump in. You'll swim, I promise.

The prompt for today is writing about a secret shame or secret pleasure. Well...if it's secret, I don't know if I want to divulge it. Plus I have so many!

Some of them involve parts of the body
that are not supposed to be touched or
delved into, at least not in public. I always
try to be discreet. But lately I find myself
forgetting that I'm out in the open or
(somehow-for some reason) not caring.
What happened to me? Where did my shame
go? my following societal constraints and
rules and restrictions? Did something
happen to my frontal lobe? You know,
that's the one where the rules and morays
grow and store. If you injure your frontal
lobe, you are apt to behaving bizarrely,
shamelessly, flouting norms and customs.
I think as you get older, the frontal lobe
just slows down, gets lazy, says "fuck
it, do whatever you feel like, who cares."
That's right. Who cares. Be yourself,
to hell with rules and society. Pick your nose,
fart, scratch your crotch, who cares.
If they give you pleasure, that's all that matters.

THE IMPORTANCE OF.... III

"Lorca Forever" or "Lorca Alma Presente" is the name of the program we experienced last night at The Poetry Foundation. Four different Latino theatre companies read excerpts of his works accompanied with piano music and percussion. There was also some singing. I love Lorca's work. I read him when I was an adolescent and my first poems were imitations of his rhythmic poetry, rich with repetitions and musicality. The program focused on his plays however; only one poem was read :"Ode to Walt Whitman."

I'm not convinced reading the play excerpts was successful; although, it proved powerful at times, moving, yet a tiny bit difficult to get a feel for his plays. The voices were magnificent. The music majestic and the last song moved me. I am glad to have attended. For the beauty of the words and for the opportunity to see some friends and network a bit with the Poetry Foundation people.

I'm hoping to read there sometime (soon) although I think it won't be before next year. In any case, it was good to get out and do something. And to find my first poetry collection in the immense library tucked among all the other books. What a confirmation! I am a poet. Here is my book. In the Poetry Foundation. I was (and am) thrilled.

THE IMPORTANCE OF DOCUMENTING YOUR LIFE II

Whatever happened to spontaneity? To calling a friend and saying "let's meet for coffee in the afternoon"? Why does everyone need a two-week advance notice to sit for a chat and a drink? I have friends who need to make an appointment, send email, back and forth about dates and times, until it really doesn't matter anymore whether I see them or not. If it is that big a problem that requires major negotiations, I must not be that important. I have friends who are always busy. Busy with what? Not even an hour to renew our friendship? Really?

I remember when I'd ring a doorbell and my friend would come out and I'd ask "do you want to play?" Or I'd yell from the street her name and she'd come to the window to see what was going on. And we'd walk over to the park or go for a stroll.

Is everything now preplanned? preprogrammed? Must everything be? If I wake up one morning and want to see someone, I should be able to call them and they should be able to say yes or no but not send emails and offer possible dates and on and on...geez...I must be getting old.

Nostalgia for the old days overcomes me sometimes. I miss my friends who are no longer alive but were always ready for a cup of coffee and conversation. I miss my friends who were always available, ready and willing.

I find myself spending a large chunk of time alone: eating, walking, writing, watching movies when I'd rather do those things with a friend, or two. Do I need new friends? I like the ones I have. I just wish they had a little time for me.

THE IMPORTANCE OF DOCUMENTING YOUR LIFE

So...I thought, if I don't write about it, how do I know it happened? Does it matter? If I don't write about it, what's the point of doing things?

Sometimes I journal. Sometimes I don't. That's what the blog is supposed to be for but...I'm not very disciplined. Life beckons with food and books and television and sunshine and movies and whatnot. So many distractions.

I must conquer the distractions. Win over their tempting luxury. I must write to survive, to resist, to become immortal.

Here it goes:

The other day we watched "Dolores", a documentary about Dolores Huerta, the activist who worked with Cesar Chavez organizing the farmworkers in California and elsewhere starting in the 1960s and still active. What am I doing? What have I done to improve people's lives? To find justice? Sadly, not much. Dolores Huerta had eleven children and still had time to organize, travel, work hard and resist the injustice of the growers and improve the workers lives.

The day before we took our granddaughter to see the film "A Wrinkle in Time." It was a Monday at noon. There were only five other people in the cinema. I love going to the movies during the day. It's quiet, calm, and you can sit wherever you want. The movie was entertaining but no great shakes. She was frightened during a few scenes. She's 7.

Now I know it happened.