A new season, maybe a new dailiness for poems...

It's cool and rainy today. Students are streaming onto campus, moving in... Here's a poem from a notebook I've been carrying since mid-May. Draft #15 I think.


Double Negative

Until then everything we knew about it
had to do with rabbits;
bunnies to be precise---
Our father's hands plunged
into a blue pail filled with water
as he crouched in the space
beneath the porch.
We hid to watch.
Curious.
She was busy with a baby
while he dispatched the newborns
orphaned by our cat.

So much of this is human-
made, the cat domesticated
but not, the man a few years out
of the caves of Tarawa, silent,
now our father taking those little lives
because death comes one way
or another; sooner or slower;
harder.

Her suicide became the cat;
the shock of her dead body water
in a pail. So he turned his back to us and began
his own drowning while we watched,
knowing it would not not happen.

okay, so I'm a failure at regular blogging, but....AND outlawing language

I'm back here to brag a little tiny bit. And to post the link for The Guidebook, which is where my poem "Homesick" has been published, and where they will also publish my first poem translation of an Italian poet. So stay tuned.

I'm also going to work on getting daily poems going for the summer. Stay tuned for that too, those faithful followers of mine who haven't heard from me in more than half a year deserve something for not abandoning me altogether.

And here's something to think about,

I'm editing a book on Basque Politics and have just finished the section on all of the ways that the Spanish and French states have tried to extinguish Basque language and culture for good. Although many were sweeping acts of legislative tyranny, one in particular has grabbed my attention. On September 25, 1936 the (Spanish) military commandant of Lizarra (a Basque city known to Basques as 'Estalla' (city of stars) put an ordinance in place that prohibited the use of the Basque word 'agur' which means 'good-bye'. I think, for that reason alone, if there was ever a word that deserved its own poem, it would have to be 'agur'. I'll begin to work on it!

First official translated poem coming soon!

Hi All My Dear Followers,

I wanted to share that, finally, I have a poem I translated from Italian coming out in a journal. The journal is called The Guide Book. Look for it online and in print in April. The poem is titled "Canto 18". It will be published along with an original poem of mine "Sesso e l'Anima: Sex and the Soul".

I'll be posting more here in about 6 weeks, after the semester's dust settles.

Bless you all,
Miriam

Daily smaily, writing, but not here

A none-poetry entry just to tell my 7-8 followers that I know I've been silent on these pages, but I AM getting a little bit out writing done and I HAVE intentions of getting back here soon.

Translating Italian several hours a week now, if not every day. I'm also putting some of my own poems into Italian to share with a friend.

Reading Cattafi in Italian and some in English.

Grading papers again, it pays the bills.

Stay tuned. And thanks for being out there.

M.

making borscht in September

Shred the beets
simmer them in broth and onions
until tender

add white potatoes
green cabbage
a bouquet garni

of parsley and bay.
Bring to a boil
and simmer for an hour.

Walk the dog,
put away the towels.
Scrape the chopping boards clean.

Your mother's voice won't help this,
but sing; even though she's not listening
and doesn't know that you remember everything.

trying to get back

Belonging

I don't join well;
don't walk into the midst
with confidence. Once
I thought I'd make a habit
of prayer, but even God
seemed difficult to be with. Maybe
I'd be asked for what I didn't have.

When I do decide I'm in
I've usually missed the fine print,
been subject to the only caveat
about membership; tried
too hard; believed my own fear. Maybe
I belong somewhere else

and that's why my heart
is so easily strained.
It has no group memory;
no impulse to open or offer access. Maybe
that's why I end up staring
confusedly around the crowded room.

from scratch because I have an itch a 'splendid' revision

From Scratch Because I Have An Itch


The day your sister disses you on Facebook
because you spelled your niece's name wrong
you want to split
the atom or a blister on your
heel, you're not supposed to, but

if you don't know something
you have a hard time getting it right,
you might even do it all wrong
though you mean well.
And you know

family is the torque
of the spinning pot
standing on its lone foot.
Who knows
how it does that?