I wrote this on the plane home today on the Traverse City to Minneapolis-St. Paul. It's probably more draft than anything at the moment.
Life At 30,000 Feet
This vision of America
Geometric and crisscrossed
Broken by mountains
Rivers
Vast empty stretches
Not so empty when we look
Closer
Not from 30,000 feet
Up here we are stilled by sameness
Colors muted by high pressure
Sealed Plexiglas windows
Metal tubes of bunched
And crowded seats.
This is life at 30,000 feet.
Farmers' fields both square
and Round--
Roads parallel, straight, diagonal
A child's primer of shape
and design.
As distant from the ground
The seat beside us
What lives lived below
Unknown
As the lives
Lived
By those around us
We are all strangers
In the air, on the ground
Every moment lived
In the Hurried Rush
We hurtle through the world
Every life lived alone
Every life lived
At 30,000 feet.
Chris Kmotorka
8/15/2009
Traverse City to Minneapolis-St. Paul
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Caffeine and No Sleep
Joan went on vacation with her mom today. I was up later than usual last night, having drunk copious amounts of iced tea, and was up at 4:00 a.m. to take her to the airport. After leaving the airport with her unfinished coffee and not enough goodbye time, I had that jittery, fragile feeling I used to get when I did acid. Er, I mean, like I hear some people experience when they do certain drugs. This is what came out. I thought it was the beginning of a poem but the more I look at it the more I think it is complete.
Caffeine and No Sleep
Caffeine and no sleep,
That mescaline-like fragility,
The erotic sense of blood flow,
And a heart that never fails;
Ceaseless and ready,
I could love you forever--
If only you were here.
Chris Kmotorka, 28 Mar. 2009
Caffeine and No Sleep
Caffeine and no sleep,
That mescaline-like fragility,
The erotic sense of blood flow,
And a heart that never fails;
Ceaseless and ready,
I could love you forever--
If only you were here.
Chris Kmotorka, 28 Mar. 2009
Restoration
First, no, this is not "autobiographical." It came from a moment of wondering what a full recovery really means--often it is based solely on the physical and not necessarily on the emotional. Who knows how these thoughts flesh themselves out. I don't.
Restoration
I had the love knocked out of me.
A flash of light and ringing ears,
And memories drained and flushed
As though they never were.
This accident has left me hollow,
Drained, it seems, not filled
By the inability to love.
My limbs, though whole, they seem encased
In braces of indifference.
I touch without feeling.
I see without emotion.
And nothingness is all that touches me.
Your fingertips caress my cheek.
Your lips press lightly into mine.
But my heart no longer tumbles,
If once it ever did.
Like phantom limbs that never were,
Gone numb,
I feel I must be missing
What surely once was there. But
A full recovery, they say these words,
And so it seems that it must be,
I have always been this way.
Chris Kmotorka, 23 Mar. 2009
Restoration
I had the love knocked out of me.
A flash of light and ringing ears,
And memories drained and flushed
As though they never were.
This accident has left me hollow,
Drained, it seems, not filled
By the inability to love.
My limbs, though whole, they seem encased
In braces of indifference.
I touch without feeling.
I see without emotion.
And nothingness is all that touches me.
Your fingertips caress my cheek.
Your lips press lightly into mine.
But my heart no longer tumbles,
If once it ever did.
Like phantom limbs that never were,
Gone numb,
I feel I must be missing
What surely once was there. But
A full recovery, they say these words,
And so it seems that it must be,
I have always been this way.
Chris Kmotorka, 23 Mar. 2009
Bedouin
Bedouin
Bedouin, like shadow, drift
On sands shifting, timeless
Scimitars of existence,
History a crescent, curvilinear
Turns back upon itself
Nomads passing in and out
Of time itself.
Trader, merchant, herder,
Recognizing no border beyond
The soul of a man who
Lives without, but thrives.
The World shifts its axis
Around an island of sand.
Crisscrossing deserts
By way of oases
That mark the travels
Of generations, of species,
Of the origins of life.
This is the source of survival:
Welcome the stranger as brother--
One day you will travel,
And the need will be yours.
Chris Kmotorka, 28 Mar. 2009
Bedouin, like shadow, drift
On sands shifting, timeless
Scimitars of existence,
History a crescent, curvilinear
Turns back upon itself
Nomads passing in and out
Of time itself.
Trader, merchant, herder,
Recognizing no border beyond
The soul of a man who
Lives without, but thrives.
The World shifts its axis
Around an island of sand.
Crisscrossing deserts
By way of oases
That mark the travels
Of generations, of species,
Of the origins of life.
This is the source of survival:
Welcome the stranger as brother--
One day you will travel,
And the need will be yours.
Chris Kmotorka, 28 Mar. 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Classroom Activities in Creativity
Last night I divided my students up into groups after talking about specific details. I then sent them outside with the assignment of finding four specific details, three for the group and one to bring back to me. They had ten minutes. When they came back they gave me my details and then they had fifteen minutes to work a poem that included the details they picked up outside. I had to write my own poem with the detail each group gave me. It took about ten minutes but I'm actually kind of happy with it. It could use a title, but hey, other than that it's not bad for about ten minutes work with no idea what I was going to be working with, etc. Here are the details the class gave me and the resulting poem:
1) Striped Crosswalk 2) hardened black gum 3) iron horse 4)weird nosy people
1) Striped Crosswalk 2) hardened black gum 3) iron horse 4)weird nosy people
I stumble on the striped crosswalk
And blame the hardened, blackened
Speedbump of gum and not the
Shadows and the grid, like a cow
Who can't cross a painted cattle guard.
People stare, weird, nosy people
Who should watch their own feet,
The obstacles that block their paths,
Instead of watching me. I flush and glow
In the darkness, my shame hidden by
Sodium light and low-hanging bangs.
I'll mount the iron horse that watches
Over the quad and all these souls
And race away to a place I know
Where I am iron, and I am steel,
And nothing will shame me
And nothing will stumble but the fear
That runs before me.
Monday, March 2, 2009
I Heard An Owl Outside My Window
I have a photo framed and hung upon my wall
Of the view from the end of my road:
Cactus and sand, the shadow of mesquite and scrub,
The desert lit by sunset as if by flame.
And thus I have the first tentative lines of a poem. Last night I heard an owl outside my window. It was likely sitting on the neighbor's roof line. There was a time, when that photo was taken, when we heard owls all of the time. Across the road the other way there was once a large open field (much as I am sure there was where my house sits) and in that field was a large, albeit dead, tree. That tree was special because every year a pair of large great-horned owls would come and nest in that tree.
In addition to the horned owls we would hear screech owls and other small "hoot" owls. They would often perch on the peak of our roof at night and wait for the movement of mice and snakes, large insects, and whatever else seemed appetizing. We would sometimes go outside and look up at them there. Their heads would turn on a swivel, but they never viewed us as much of a threat and so just sat there and kept their watch.
All of these fields are gone now, taken over by housing developments and a post office. If I were to stand where that photo was taken I would be standing on the pavement of the widened road, at risk of being run over by the ever-increasing number of cars that speed past. For the most part the owls are gone, or at least scarce. We haven't seen a horned owl in years now. The coyotes are fewer, though I hear them singing in the distance sometimes of a quiet night. Javelina are rarer, too--where we once had a dozen or more in our front yard on late winter nights, it's a rare thing to see them around at all.
I've always known I am not innocent. I am part of the sprawl, not part of its solution. We were among the new vanguard, moving into the subdivision when it was more empty lots than homes. But it still pains me to realize just how fast it all disappears and how soon people forget why they move places--they move to get away from the cities and what do they do? They build new cities all around them.
I miss the owls and coyotes and the javelina in my yard. I miss the cactus wrens and know the meaning of the coming of the grackles and sparrows and house finches.
I hope to get a poem out of this. I don't know if those first lines will remain or remain the same, but I'll give it a go and see what happens. If I finish it, I'll post it here.
Of the view from the end of my road:
Cactus and sand, the shadow of mesquite and scrub,
The desert lit by sunset as if by flame.
And thus I have the first tentative lines of a poem. Last night I heard an owl outside my window. It was likely sitting on the neighbor's roof line. There was a time, when that photo was taken, when we heard owls all of the time. Across the road the other way there was once a large open field (much as I am sure there was where my house sits) and in that field was a large, albeit dead, tree. That tree was special because every year a pair of large great-horned owls would come and nest in that tree.
In addition to the horned owls we would hear screech owls and other small "hoot" owls. They would often perch on the peak of our roof at night and wait for the movement of mice and snakes, large insects, and whatever else seemed appetizing. We would sometimes go outside and look up at them there. Their heads would turn on a swivel, but they never viewed us as much of a threat and so just sat there and kept their watch.
All of these fields are gone now, taken over by housing developments and a post office. If I were to stand where that photo was taken I would be standing on the pavement of the widened road, at risk of being run over by the ever-increasing number of cars that speed past. For the most part the owls are gone, or at least scarce. We haven't seen a horned owl in years now. The coyotes are fewer, though I hear them singing in the distance sometimes of a quiet night. Javelina are rarer, too--where we once had a dozen or more in our front yard on late winter nights, it's a rare thing to see them around at all.
I've always known I am not innocent. I am part of the sprawl, not part of its solution. We were among the new vanguard, moving into the subdivision when it was more empty lots than homes. But it still pains me to realize just how fast it all disappears and how soon people forget why they move places--they move to get away from the cities and what do they do? They build new cities all around them.
I miss the owls and coyotes and the javelina in my yard. I miss the cactus wrens and know the meaning of the coming of the grackles and sparrows and house finches.
I hope to get a poem out of this. I don't know if those first lines will remain or remain the same, but I'll give it a go and see what happens. If I finish it, I'll post it here.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Inauguration Day 2009
Inauguration Day 2009
And now we must stop making excuses.
Beyond that, I have no words.
No words that seem adequate;
None that seem eloquent enough,
Deserving enough to be shared.
Some two million strong
Along the Washington mall
Wave flags and hats and hands
And wishes and hopes and dreams.
We are all strengthened by their pride.
Wrapped in the icy embrace of
A winter both literal and symbolic,
Their breath plumes white
But their hearts beat warm
And the future smells of sweetest spring.
From ball to ball, tonight
America dances toward the future.
The waltz beat strains of Hope and Change
And all the best the World can offer:
This is what's to come.
So no more excuses. No blame deflected.
Responsibility is ours once more.
Gather up the tools of growth,
And fertilize with faith and hope;
America, your future has already begun.
--Chris Kmotorka, January 20, 2009
And now we must stop making excuses.
Beyond that, I have no words.
No words that seem adequate;
None that seem eloquent enough,
Deserving enough to be shared.
Some two million strong
Along the Washington mall
Wave flags and hats and hands
And wishes and hopes and dreams.
We are all strengthened by their pride.
Wrapped in the icy embrace of
A winter both literal and symbolic,
Their breath plumes white
But their hearts beat warm
And the future smells of sweetest spring.
From ball to ball, tonight
America dances toward the future.
The waltz beat strains of Hope and Change
And all the best the World can offer:
This is what's to come.
So no more excuses. No blame deflected.
Responsibility is ours once more.
Gather up the tools of growth,
And fertilize with faith and hope;
America, your future has already begun.
--Chris Kmotorka, January 20, 2009
Monday, December 8, 2008
Criticism
I am not a great writer. I'm likely not even a consistently good writer. But I do write. As a writer, or would be writer, the one thing I have come to accept, though I'm sure no one ever gets to the point of liking it, is rejection. Rejection and criticism go hand in hand, part and parcel, as part of the writer's life. And, if the writer expects to continue writing, these also become part of his or her toolbox. Yes, criticism often hurts; sometimes it invokes, at least in the short term, a sense of anger. However, I for one have always been of the school of thought that if I don't know what's wrong with a piece of writing I can't fix it. Or perhaps make the next piece better than this one. Writers who reject criticism do so at their own risk. As I said, none of us like it, but we should strive to welcome it and grow from it.
I have long felt that the words, "This is wonderful. I wish I had written it," are some of the most useless words ever strung together. Sure, they feel good, but how do they help you grow as a writer? As a part-time writing instructor this is something with which I struggle. I know kids, especially today, expect nothing but praise. We have raised them on a steady diet of self-esteem boosting rhetoric. I think we're all paying for it, by the way, with a population of young adults who can't see themselves as anything but right, no matter what they do; nothing is ever their fault. Still, a steady diet of nothing but criticism isn't much good, either. Especially if it's not constructive criticism. "This sucks" doesn't help a writer improve anymore than "This is perfect." I have to force myself to remember this and to always address the strengths of an essay first. But the bulk of my comments have to do with how to improve the paper and the author's writing techniques. That's the whole point of education, isn't it? Improvement more than a feel-good-free-for-all.
I explain to my students that all of us have trouble finding the flaws in our own work. I know I do. I can find mistakes or flaws or stylistic errors in other people's writing all day long and easily gloss over even the most simplistic errors in my own. Part of this has to do with the writing process. We work on things and see them over and over and our brains know what is supposed to be there--so that's what they see. Our brains fix things on the fly. Missing words and common semantic issues go unnoticed. Most of us have seen the oft circulated e-mail where all of the letters (save the first and last) of the words are jumbled up yet we read the passage easily. This is the same principle. The brain is an amazing thing. This is why it is always a good idea to rely on outside readers to help proof our work. I have a nephew who is a writer and film maker. He often sends me his stories to proofread before he hands them in at school. He will be the first to tell you that I am a horrible nitpicker. He often comes back with, "Hey, that actually happened," or another explanation. But I'm about trying to bulletproof his stories. Just because something happened in real life doesn't mean it's going to fly in a story (and vice verse). If I question something, others will, too. Which brings me to an important aspect of criticism that every writer should be aware of.
If one person comments on something in your writing, listen and take it into consideration. If two people comment on something in your writing, listen closely and take it into consideration. If everyone comments on something in your writing, listen and act on it. However, in the end, you are the author and the piece is yours. You are the final judge, jury, and executioner (well, actually, most publishers are the executioners). The point is that we should not immediately reject criticism. If you are certain your piece of writing is perfect despite the criticism, you can be almost certain it is not. Always listen and seriously consider your critics' comments before you reject them out of hand.
I suppose you can take this too far. I haven't completed anything of length in fifteen years because I just think the things I have to do in a story that are mundane transitions seem too much like space fillers. I am not a poet. I have never considered myself a poet. But I write a fair amount of poetry. Some of it, I think, isn't half bad, either. I write poetry because I can usually finish a poem. My poems are generally short. I try to maintain, if not a strict adherence to a particular form, at least a stylistic consistency and metrical base. I often suspect my poems are too prosy, but I do pay attention to word choice and connotation. I believe these things are important, along with effective imagery. I work mostly on the literal situation and hope the figurative one happens. It's the figurative situation that determines whether a poem works or not. This is often why my criticism of other poems often seems too negative. I have a low patience threshold for poems that just use words to seem artsy. Or poets who think they need to phrase things in a seemingly lofty manner in order to seem "poetic." Word choice and connotation and the simple conveyance of meaning are the most important aspects of an effective poem. If you force a rhyme just to rhyme, it will only hurt the poem. If you sacrifice grammatical correctness for a rhyme or metrical adherence, you are sacrificing the whole beauty of the language and you will turn away a lot of readers. This last one is one of my biggest pet peeves and it is surprising how commonly it occurs.
On a last note, too many people in this world think that criticism negates the possibility of liking something. Nothing could be further from the truth. I like a lot of things that aren't perfect. I like a lot of things that could be "fixed up" a bit. And I guarantee you I like a lot of things that I write or have written that are far from perfect and could really use a good critique. You can like something just fine and still be constructive about it. I like it, but I could like it a lot more if.... One of my favorite maxims is that no piece of writing is ever finished, it is only abandoned. That is, at some point, you have to publish it, let go and move on. It's a fact of life. I'd dare say you could find ways to improve almost everything that has ever been written if you wanted to take the time to do so. If you insist on making something perfect before you release it into the wild, you will never finish anything (trust me on this). So you should not be surprised by criticism; if anything, you should expect it. Plus, if someone takes the time to give you a critique it means one of two things: Either they are an instructor paid to do so and therefore have no choice, or they see enough promise in the piece to, in their view, help you improve it. Attempting to publish will help get you used to rejection. You'll never learn to like rejection, unless you're really sick that way. It doesn't even really get easier (though your reactions become less severe with time). But you do, on some level, come to accept it. In fact, you start hoping for personalized rejections because you start to realize that if someone takes the time to write you a personal note in addition to the form rejection you're at least on the right track. When you get a handwritten note on the rejection letter that says, "I really like this piece, it just isn't right for us at this time," it can be an ecstatic moment of hope.
So don't reject criticism. Don't hate the critic. Take criticism in hand and give it honest consideration. You don't have to blindly accept it--sometimes, often even, critics are just plain wrong. It would be a huge mistake, however, to blindly reject criticism without consideration. You will do yourself no favors by doing so and you will certainly not grow as a writer.
I have long felt that the words, "This is wonderful. I wish I had written it," are some of the most useless words ever strung together. Sure, they feel good, but how do they help you grow as a writer? As a part-time writing instructor this is something with which I struggle. I know kids, especially today, expect nothing but praise. We have raised them on a steady diet of self-esteem boosting rhetoric. I think we're all paying for it, by the way, with a population of young adults who can't see themselves as anything but right, no matter what they do; nothing is ever their fault. Still, a steady diet of nothing but criticism isn't much good, either. Especially if it's not constructive criticism. "This sucks" doesn't help a writer improve anymore than "This is perfect." I have to force myself to remember this and to always address the strengths of an essay first. But the bulk of my comments have to do with how to improve the paper and the author's writing techniques. That's the whole point of education, isn't it? Improvement more than a feel-good-free-for-all.
I explain to my students that all of us have trouble finding the flaws in our own work. I know I do. I can find mistakes or flaws or stylistic errors in other people's writing all day long and easily gloss over even the most simplistic errors in my own. Part of this has to do with the writing process. We work on things and see them over and over and our brains know what is supposed to be there--so that's what they see. Our brains fix things on the fly. Missing words and common semantic issues go unnoticed. Most of us have seen the oft circulated e-mail where all of the letters (save the first and last) of the words are jumbled up yet we read the passage easily. This is the same principle. The brain is an amazing thing. This is why it is always a good idea to rely on outside readers to help proof our work. I have a nephew who is a writer and film maker. He often sends me his stories to proofread before he hands them in at school. He will be the first to tell you that I am a horrible nitpicker. He often comes back with, "Hey, that actually happened," or another explanation. But I'm about trying to bulletproof his stories. Just because something happened in real life doesn't mean it's going to fly in a story (and vice verse). If I question something, others will, too. Which brings me to an important aspect of criticism that every writer should be aware of.
If one person comments on something in your writing, listen and take it into consideration. If two people comment on something in your writing, listen closely and take it into consideration. If everyone comments on something in your writing, listen and act on it. However, in the end, you are the author and the piece is yours. You are the final judge, jury, and executioner (well, actually, most publishers are the executioners). The point is that we should not immediately reject criticism. If you are certain your piece of writing is perfect despite the criticism, you can be almost certain it is not. Always listen and seriously consider your critics' comments before you reject them out of hand.
I suppose you can take this too far. I haven't completed anything of length in fifteen years because I just think the things I have to do in a story that are mundane transitions seem too much like space fillers. I am not a poet. I have never considered myself a poet. But I write a fair amount of poetry. Some of it, I think, isn't half bad, either. I write poetry because I can usually finish a poem. My poems are generally short. I try to maintain, if not a strict adherence to a particular form, at least a stylistic consistency and metrical base. I often suspect my poems are too prosy, but I do pay attention to word choice and connotation. I believe these things are important, along with effective imagery. I work mostly on the literal situation and hope the figurative one happens. It's the figurative situation that determines whether a poem works or not. This is often why my criticism of other poems often seems too negative. I have a low patience threshold for poems that just use words to seem artsy. Or poets who think they need to phrase things in a seemingly lofty manner in order to seem "poetic." Word choice and connotation and the simple conveyance of meaning are the most important aspects of an effective poem. If you force a rhyme just to rhyme, it will only hurt the poem. If you sacrifice grammatical correctness for a rhyme or metrical adherence, you are sacrificing the whole beauty of the language and you will turn away a lot of readers. This last one is one of my biggest pet peeves and it is surprising how commonly it occurs.
On a last note, too many people in this world think that criticism negates the possibility of liking something. Nothing could be further from the truth. I like a lot of things that aren't perfect. I like a lot of things that could be "fixed up" a bit. And I guarantee you I like a lot of things that I write or have written that are far from perfect and could really use a good critique. You can like something just fine and still be constructive about it. I like it, but I could like it a lot more if.... One of my favorite maxims is that no piece of writing is ever finished, it is only abandoned. That is, at some point, you have to publish it, let go and move on. It's a fact of life. I'd dare say you could find ways to improve almost everything that has ever been written if you wanted to take the time to do so. If you insist on making something perfect before you release it into the wild, you will never finish anything (trust me on this). So you should not be surprised by criticism; if anything, you should expect it. Plus, if someone takes the time to give you a critique it means one of two things: Either they are an instructor paid to do so and therefore have no choice, or they see enough promise in the piece to, in their view, help you improve it. Attempting to publish will help get you used to rejection. You'll never learn to like rejection, unless you're really sick that way. It doesn't even really get easier (though your reactions become less severe with time). But you do, on some level, come to accept it. In fact, you start hoping for personalized rejections because you start to realize that if someone takes the time to write you a personal note in addition to the form rejection you're at least on the right track. When you get a handwritten note on the rejection letter that says, "I really like this piece, it just isn't right for us at this time," it can be an ecstatic moment of hope.
So don't reject criticism. Don't hate the critic. Take criticism in hand and give it honest consideration. You don't have to blindly accept it--sometimes, often even, critics are just plain wrong. It would be a huge mistake, however, to blindly reject criticism without consideration. You will do yourself no favors by doing so and you will certainly not grow as a writer.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A Christmas Poem, 2008
A Christmas Poem, 2008
Oh, Santa, dear Santa!
Anagram for Satan,
Silly Simpson dog.
Crumbly old bag of bones,
Viking Saint and Haitian port--
You roly poly chimney sweep,
You elfin bearded scamp.
Warm milk and cookies,
Bags of toys and coal,
Spread yourself thin this Christmas, sir--
The world needs some cheer:
Real or make believe.
Nostalgic thoughts of
Jolly fatman lapsitting
Prankster, gift-giver,
Fire-warmed and Love-toasted
Anticipation.
The best is yet to come.
----
Chris Kmotorka, 11/25/2008
Oh, Santa, dear Santa!
Anagram for Satan,
Silly Simpson dog.
Crumbly old bag of bones,
Viking Saint and Haitian port--
You roly poly chimney sweep,
You elfin bearded scamp.
Warm milk and cookies,
Bags of toys and coal,
Spread yourself thin this Christmas, sir--
The world needs some cheer:
Real or make believe.
Nostalgic thoughts of
Jolly fatman lapsitting
Prankster, gift-giver,
Fire-warmed and Love-toasted
Anticipation.
The best is yet to come.
----
Chris Kmotorka, 11/25/2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Friends
Friends
I have friends and I can prove it.
Check out my Facebook profile--
There are names there
And what does it say?
Friends. Twenty-two of them!
And I have others, I swear.
Undocumented. Low tech.
But friends just the same.
I have friends, confirmed and rumored.
I have friends I know.
Some I think I know.
I have friends and
I don't have to prove a thing.
Chris Kmotorka, 11/21/08
I have friends and I can prove it.
Check out my Facebook profile--
There are names there
And what does it say?
Friends. Twenty-two of them!
And I have others, I swear.
Undocumented. Low tech.
But friends just the same.
I have friends, confirmed and rumored.
I have friends I know.
Some I think I know.
I have friends and
I don't have to prove a thing.
Chris Kmotorka, 11/21/08
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Election Day, November 4, 2008
Election Day, November 4, 2008
I want to feel hope.
I want to feel the blissful
Sense of renewal and
The Dawn of a New Age.
I want to know the firm embrace
Of collective accomplishment,
The comfort of a united nation.
I see the loosening of chains:
Real, imagined, metaphorical.
Centuries of oppression
Lifted like a veil by a simple count.
Like a magic trick: 1, 2, 3...you're free.
At least for the moment.
At least for the foreseeable future.
Tonight we shed our tears.
Tonight we feel the weight lifted.
We try to hide our schadenfreude:
Our victory is over more than
The small minded, the short sighted,
The angry few grinding down our foundation
To a rubble of division.
Our victory is over limits,
The barriers that held us back;
Barriers of fear and suppression.
Barriers we helped erect
In a moment of weakness and sorrow.
Tonight we have come together
To reclaim a vision and to swing a hammer.
So tonight, amidst the rubble,
I feel the hope and I see the renewal.
Half sheltered behind these broken walls
Of a decade of ruin, I feel it.
But it is cautious. It is guarded.
For it is newborn and vulnerable.
We must be vigilant for its survival.
-Chris Kmotorka
I want to feel hope.
I want to feel the blissful
Sense of renewal and
The Dawn of a New Age.
I want to know the firm embrace
Of collective accomplishment,
The comfort of a united nation.
I see the loosening of chains:
Real, imagined, metaphorical.
Centuries of oppression
Lifted like a veil by a simple count.
Like a magic trick: 1, 2, 3...you're free.
At least for the moment.
At least for the foreseeable future.
Tonight we shed our tears.
Tonight we feel the weight lifted.
We try to hide our schadenfreude:
Our victory is over more than
The small minded, the short sighted,
The angry few grinding down our foundation
To a rubble of division.
Our victory is over limits,
The barriers that held us back;
Barriers of fear and suppression.
Barriers we helped erect
In a moment of weakness and sorrow.
Tonight we have come together
To reclaim a vision and to swing a hammer.
So tonight, amidst the rubble,
I feel the hope and I see the renewal.
Half sheltered behind these broken walls
Of a decade of ruin, I feel it.
But it is cautious. It is guarded.
For it is newborn and vulnerable.
We must be vigilant for its survival.
-Chris Kmotorka
Monday, August 11, 2008
A Poem I Hesitate To Post....
This is a poem I probably shouldn't print. It's presumptuous on too many levels. I've never had a miscarriage and I can't possibly know the pain and frustration of having a miscarriage. I understand this. Yet, as a writer, I can't help but try to put myself in the positions of others, even when those positions are painful. Let me just say this, if I offend anyone by putting this here, I'm sorry. I really am. I don't intend to cause you pain.
Miscarriage
Don't call me barren. I am not barren.
I have taken seed and held it.
I have brought forth life.
I have done everything right.
So why don't I have a baby?
Why am I not a mother, as I long to be?
Every day my womb aches with emptiness.
I wrap my arms around my own belly,
Too flat, hollow, wasted.
I've nearly run out of tears.
My head spins with the endless cycle
Of anger, depression. Anger. Depression.
Whoever came up with this name?
As though I made a mistake.
As if I dropped something after a misstep.
As if I failed to carry my baby correctly.
The implication is there, that this is my fault.
That I can learn to do it properly.
That I can avoid the next "spontaneous abortion."
As though a brief moment of doubt caused this.
One whimsical moment of impulse.
Spontaneous abortion.
Stop fucking calling it that!
Do you hear me? Stop. Fucking. Calling. It. That.
None of these things is right.
I have had no "spontaneous abortions."
I have not failed to carry my baby correctly.
Above all, I am not barren.
I have almost been a mother.
And no matter what, I will be a mother.
August 2008
Miscarriage
Don't call me barren. I am not barren.
I have taken seed and held it.
I have brought forth life.
I have done everything right.
So why don't I have a baby?
Why am I not a mother, as I long to be?
Every day my womb aches with emptiness.
I wrap my arms around my own belly,
Too flat, hollow, wasted.
I've nearly run out of tears.
My head spins with the endless cycle
Of anger, depression. Anger. Depression.
Whoever came up with this name?
As though I made a mistake.
As if I dropped something after a misstep.
As if I failed to carry my baby correctly.
The implication is there, that this is my fault.
That I can learn to do it properly.
That I can avoid the next "spontaneous abortion."
As though a brief moment of doubt caused this.
One whimsical moment of impulse.
Spontaneous abortion.
Stop fucking calling it that!
Do you hear me? Stop. Fucking. Calling. It. That.
None of these things is right.
I have had no "spontaneous abortions."
I have not failed to carry my baby correctly.
Above all, I am not barren.
I have almost been a mother.
And no matter what, I will be a mother.
August 2008
Birthday
Birthday
You think this gift is important. Expensive. Quality.
The rich caramel hide and stitching,
Soft, yet stiff, perfect, yet incomplete.
What is missing is the love.
Like this glove I need to be filled--
Oiled and rubbed, nurtured to a perfect fit and form.
What does it matter if you give me a symbol?
A glove without a ball, or a hand to throw it?
This gift is empty whether my hand fills it or not.
I don't need a glove. I don't even need a ball.
What I need is you in front of me--
Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
Wanting to throw me a ball should one come rolling by.
You think this gift is important. Expensive. Quality.
The rich caramel hide and stitching,
Soft, yet stiff, perfect, yet incomplete.
What is missing is the love.
Like this glove I need to be filled--
Oiled and rubbed, nurtured to a perfect fit and form.
What does it matter if you give me a symbol?
A glove without a ball, or a hand to throw it?
This gift is empty whether my hand fills it or not.
I don't need a glove. I don't even need a ball.
What I need is you in front of me--
Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
Wanting to throw me a ball should one come rolling by.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
A Poem About King Kong (?)
Tonight on AMC (Seriously, AMC? Yes. AMC.) they are showing the 1976 Dino de Laurentiis remake of King Kong, starring Jeff Bridges, Charles Grodin, Rene Auberjonois, and, oh yeah, Jessica Lange. The movie had an impact on my young, impressionable mind. I decided to write a poem about it....
King Kong
I'm thirteen years old and Jessica Lange has changed my life forever.
A Black Velvet Girl pulled from the sea, wet and pure and flawless.
Her smile has opened my eyes to a world of imagination,
An imagination that won't quit for a lifetime.
It's 1976 and I'm sure there is something important going on,
But I can't for the life of me care what it just might be:
Jessica Lange is wearing a cut-off top that promises everything.
And she's this close to slipping into the ocean.
I immediately understand this creature's obsession.
I saw her on the pedestal of offering; I would have grabbed her, too.
I'm sitting in a theater watching a monster movie,
But the monster is not the one on the screen--
I've been struck and I never saw it coming, never considered
Anything could overshadow and render irrelevant
The awesome and terrible power of King Kong.
King Kong
I'm thirteen years old and Jessica Lange has changed my life forever.
A Black Velvet Girl pulled from the sea, wet and pure and flawless.
Her smile has opened my eyes to a world of imagination,
An imagination that won't quit for a lifetime.
It's 1976 and I'm sure there is something important going on,
But I can't for the life of me care what it just might be:
Jessica Lange is wearing a cut-off top that promises everything.
And she's this close to slipping into the ocean.
I immediately understand this creature's obsession.
I saw her on the pedestal of offering; I would have grabbed her, too.
I'm sitting in a theater watching a monster movie,
But the monster is not the one on the screen--
I've been struck and I never saw it coming, never considered
Anything could overshadow and render irrelevant
The awesome and terrible power of King Kong.
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