Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Glenworkshop East 2013




I threw up on the plane in a 
little blue bag I borrowed from 
my neighbor, who I woke from 
sleep to save my honor and the 
necks and laps and seats 
in my vicinity. 

Brandy's smile greeted each 
and every one of us on the 
stone steps of North Rocky.
This smile greased the hinges 
on the door into the unknown. 

Inside, Tyler, Nicole, and Anna Joy
pointed me to a room where I slept 
until keys and cards and rooms were 
assigned. I left drool on the
blue couch where the light comes 
in the tall paned windows. 

My bas bleu bohémien 
teacher gave Montaigne 
much attention, leaving us
wanting more on every score.
She gave books out like prophetic
prescriptions, saying, "Do you know....?"
or, "You must read....." 
I don't know who midwifed and booked
our hungry hearts and minds better, 
Warren or Patricia. 

I left kisses on the lips of 
the bereft, cranky, recently 
widowed one, and 
the lesbian who came out of a 
long relationship straight. 
I wanted to leave hugs and kisses for 
the other single girls to unpack 
when they too opened their doors 
to an empty house. 

I saw a green shoot growing between 
stones, an impossible, inhospitable place
lacking soil. 

I saw kaleidoscope cracks in the 
sun roof over the library.

My thoughts twirled as I pondered 
them in the quiet octagon room 
set with round windows.  

I saw empty pews in the chapel and 
empty card catalogues in the library. 

I saw myself through the camera 
lens of a pair of loving eyes. 

I heard poetry, learned new words, 
heard words of life, wiped tears, 
and sang with friends old and new. 

I heard broken apologies and saw grace
returned. 

We celebrated new work being published. 

We hovered over silent auction offerings. 

We broke bread together. 

We raised our glasses. 

Tin whistle tunes haunted the halls. 

Songs and plays were pieced together 
like Sedrick's quilts.

Self portraits stared out at the crowd 
well pleased with themselves. 

I learned that I may write bad poetry and
immature essays, take amateur photos,
and piece a beginner's quilt as a starting
place, knowing that I will grow from 
here because I'm willing to be 
easy being imperfect. It's OK 
to try something hard, new, 
and keep on trying to master
 the mess anyways. 

We left with this one last imperative 
wedged inside a song -  
"Leave the edges wild."