Just One More Time...

As Addonizio is prolific in form poems, I thought I'd try again at the love sonnet. Not nearly as juicy, but what can I say...I'm just a big softie...

Just One More Time

It's one more time that I get to kiss you.
One more time to count all of your freckles.
One more time to wake up and remember
that your nose is incredibly special.

One more time watching you walk down the hall.
Just one more time to be thinking in twos.
One more time whispering nothing at all,
except I love you, I love you, I do.

Each time you climb out of bed or each time
doors close behind you as a chance to say
Whoever you are, please give me a sign,
blessed on my lips, just one more time today.

Because no matter how long we are one
I'll have one more time on the tip of my tongue.

Poem #30 - A Sonnet

Well, today is the final day of November. A full month of poetry and as I looked back through the blog archive over the last 29 poems, I've realized how quickly and slowly the month has gone. So much has happened: newlywed poems, a friend's wedding, my cousin's birthday, writer's block, dirty haiku, and untranslatable words.

My poetry partner in crime, sasqi, also messaged me tonight to mark this eve of departure into the rest of our poetic lives. With it, she sent today's poem, a beautiful moving sestina.

Tonight, I took her cue again with a form poem. I found myself struggling to sit down and actually write (a month of poems is HARD, my mind said, and the dishes had been waiting for days...), but then realized, again, what to write about?

One of my message over this month with sasqi checking in on our poetic adventure was about how I was grateful for its timing. For me, it's been a year of celebrating my love and commitment for and to another person. Our second and final (?) wedding was in October and by the time the first of November came around, I found myself wanting only to write of her and my love for her.... *sigh*

Of course, as you know, I didn't write sappy love poems all month. But it did feel appropriate to end this project with a form poem historically dedicated to love: the sonnet.

Without much more ado then, I give you a love sonnet. First though, one more thing: I don't know yet if I'll keep writing a poem a day from December 1st onward, but I'm sure glad I did in November. And, I like writing to you again so check back here tomorrow.

Sonnet #30

Waking up beside you looks like all this:

your sweet face hidden by a quilt cover;

eyelids closed in absolute blissfulness;

a kiss waiting on your lips, my lover.

Rising in the morning with you brings such

joy for the day's possibilities that I

can hardly contain songs from my lips much

or from snuggling back into you beside.

But this is only the briefest of times.

Then the day stretches out before us--

away from the lands of duvets the clock chimes

and the hours become our heard chorus.

Still, my love, my sweetheart, my one darling,

there is always the song of the starlings.*

*Poetic inspiration to ee cummings and Josh Ritter

Writer's Block

or, otherwise, how to split my time:

How do I

split my time

between you, dear reader,

my first love,

and the one with whom

I share my bed,

our home,

the dreams and

silly things,

my her?

The Way You See Things (Thursday)

Howdy, folks. I've been MIA the last few days, carrying out and recuperating from a hectic week at work. But, I have been writing poems nonetheless.

A few stanzas from another one about Alex. I can't seem to help myself.

How many love poems I could write in a day
when surrounded by thoughts of you.
I could write about your soft eyes,

indeed I've already have,
or how I simply melt

in the presence of your smile.

But mostly, I want to write about

the things you say that have me in stitches,

the observations I never would have come to,

the pun so funny I keep repeating it to others.

Before I Met You

I sat on a beach and declared
I would do what I wanted.

Then I looked out at a lighthouse
and imagined two people in love,
one on shore, one at sea.

They drifted together.

My wanting came from wanting
to find out what it was like
to stay,
anchored to another,
a person I didn't want
to take my eyes from.

By whom in doing right by me,
I would do best for both of us.

I wanted something more.




(...and that's copyright, fools.)

Your Big Big Heart

'Underdeveloped organs'
is the phrase that stuck
as your mum recounted
the story of your miraculous birth.

If Only - A Poem a Day in November

Hello, there. I've missed you.

It's been three months, maybe more. I've gotten married--twice. Gotten a promotion and a raise. Been in three different countries. And the writing, well, the writing has gone by the wayside for a bit.

And that's OK. Sometimes the creative outlets go by the wayside, life gets in the way. But, well, November seems the perfect month to re-kindle it.

At least that sort of appears to be the idea behind 'A Novel in November'--a national project to write a novel in a month. But I don't write novels. I write poems. And, thankfully, I was inspired by a poet friend who is joining her husband in writing a novel in November by writing a poem a day in November. So, with the clocks 'fallen back' now and the skies dark before I leave my office at 5:15 in the evening I, too, will be writing a poem a day and publishing a stanza--or two, or three--of it here, as my record. These are first drafts, like the novel. No more than the editing that happens in the instance of writing, set down to be reviewed later, but first endeavored to be written.

Thus, without further ado, 'If Only:'

I'd be your knight in shining amour;
your handsome, pro-bono lawyer; your short-skirted Girl Friday. If only.

Only then you'd be the helpless princess, the thrice-tried convict,
the lecherous boss who grabbed my ass and called me Billy Jean.


I think I'd rather just be me, and you be you, thanks. If only.

Friday Night

On the tube home this evening after a dinner/fro yo/drinks out with a good friend, Alex started to fall asleep on the tube. When we got to the station before ours, I started singing 'Wake up, Little Susy, wake up.' She smiled and then kissed me.

Sometimes I Forget

Sometimes I forget that for some people my loving a woman presents a reality which they have trouble comprehending. Not that they disagree necessarily, or wish ill of me and my love, it's just that, for whatever reason, the synapses that would connect me to Alex haven't ever formed (or been exercised) recently in their brains and they're slow to adapt. I find people like this the most difficult; sometimes it would almost be easier if just outright thought I was an abomination (as long as they didn't want to throw me in jail, keep me from getting married, or kill me). I guess, it's more about my reaction really. More that I have trouble understanding how someone can really like who I am, be happy to be in my company and then suddenly...its the facial expression that changes, without words being said. The disapproval, confusion, something. It's the something I can't read. That's the hardest.

Highways & Anchors

On this day when I have turned in the final assessment + dissertation for my MA degree (and drunk a few glasses of cava), I find myself reflecting on the url I've chosen for this blog. Now titled 'One a Day,' the blog reflects my continued commitment to my writing practice and constant observance of my own life and surroundings. When I first started this blog, however, I was interested in what grounded me, and where I was going.

For me, the highways were my pathways through the unknown paths of my life in California. I-5 connecting my home to my future in Los Angeles, the coastal highways connecting to my university life in Santa Cruz as well. The anchors were people: my family, my friends, my lover. I knew which roads I would be travelling by but I was unsure of my destinations.

A year and a half later, I no longer travel by highway, but by bus route and underground train lines. The pathways that connect my homestate and my home-sweet-homes are most easily navigable by airways. My destinations thus far have been largely unseen, unknown--and at the same time, completely expected and make so much sense. My anchors have been, well, anchors: a community of people who unflinchly support and love me.

Highways & Anchors. One a Day. Where I've come from, where I'm going. And who's coming with me on the journey, I am ever-grateful.

School Girl Crush

As I've been researching over the last months into all things queer with regards to picturebooks, how love is constructed has resonated with me the most. And, like my community theatre director said during a rehearsal, once you start thinking of something that has real creative potential life starts bringing you all sorts of examples to play with, study, and relate. Tonight, this thread inspired me to Google the term 'school girl crush.' I know why I did: I've been using Urban Dictionary a lot lately in my papers and I was wondering if there was a definition for it. The answer is, well, I love the internet.

Firstly, a website called everything2.com defines 'School Girl Crush' as:

A crush is defined informally in the dictionary as:

• a. usually temporary infatuation.
• b. The object of such an infatuation.

I think that there are a variety of crushes that one might have over the course of their lives, but they all kind of boil down to being a school girl crush. One that makes you feel juvenile and powerless under the one that you adore. One that makes you feel silly and hopeful for all the wrong reasons.

These are the kind of crushes that create pipe dreams that, never fulfilled, will be mourned over for weeks if not months. School girl crushes are wishes never granted that consistantly give the promise of a broken heart.

Nice. Hopeful. Tidy. Yeah, right.

The second link to pop up is wikihow.com. But it's a variation of my question: "How to Tell if a Girl Likes You in School." And, it's a 30 step process PLUS a huge list of tips. All I can say is 'Thank goodness I'm not in school still.' (Cause this definitely only applies to school...right? Yeah, anyway.)

The third link, the THIRD, is an even more specific situation on a question forum: "I don't think it is just another schoolgirl crush, so what can I do about my feelings for my teacher?"

My first reaction: I laughed, 'Yeah, hello, of course it's a schoolgirl crush.' Like I instantly, culturally new how wrong (read: dumb) she was for even think the question.

My second reaction: I laughed again. A) because who the hell am I to judge, I'm the one WRITING about school girl crushes, and B) I totally wasn't think about boys when I did my Google search. In my head, the word 'girl' simultaneously melted into one and became both me as the girl with the crush and the object of a crush.

End result from Google: school girl crushes are lame. Wouldn't it be nice to change that?

In other news, I've just finished the drafts of all my university papers. Erica Marie = MA'd OUT.

For Wednesday - Mistletoe

At the Christmas Fair, Margaret and Harriet walk along the stalls, eyeing food and trinkets for sale. A girl selling mistletoe tied with red ribbons speaks to them.

Girl: 'Need some mistletoe?'
Margaret: 'We have some already. Thank you.'

Harriet and Margaret walk on to another stall. Margaret begins to ponder.

Margaret: 'Can I have your change?'
Harriet: 'What for?'
Margaret: 'A suprise.'
Harriet: 'I'm paying for a suprise.'
Margaret: 'You'll see.'
Harriet: 'Ok.'
Margaret: 'Now don't turn around.'

Margaret scurries back to the girl, who has a lovely smile and dark hair.

Margaret: 'Excuse. How much is the mistletoe?'
Girl: '1 pound.'
Margaret: 'I'd like one please. I said we have some, but it's at home and we're not there for Christmas.'
Girl: 'Here you go.'

Girl hands mistletoe to Margaret. Margaret pays and smiles.

Margaret: 'Thank you... Happy Christmas!'

Margaret wiggles the mistletoe into her pocket so that her hands cover any trace of it. She spots Harriet on her own walking up ahead on the cobbled streets with her back turned. Margaret scurries up silently and taps Harriet on the shoulder. As Harriet turns around, Margaret pulls the mistletoe out of her pocket and holds it up just above their heads, off kilter a little.

Margaret: 'Happy Christmas.'

Harriet smiles, softly giggling once or twice. She looks up at Margaret and gives her little quick kisses in the cool December air.

The Story of Love

So, I have a friend. A friend I think a lot about, and I worry for. I have a friend I think about a lot and worry for a lot. I also have a lot of love for this friend that I think about and worry for. I like to believe that when I'm thinking about my friend, they know I'm thinking about them, and they can feel my love. You might think that sounds a bit silly, a bit like a song on the radio, that they can feel my love, but I really believe it. I believe that we can send and receive love, especially miles and miles and miles apart kind of love, without even trying to send it or knowing in our logical minds that we are receiving it. Believing that I can send such love, especially miles and miles and miles apart kind of love, comforts me and so I worry a little bit less, silently loving a little bit more. I have no idea if it is working--OK, maybe the 'odd' instance now and again when simultaneous 'thinking of you' happens--and I wonder what would happen if the whole world believed that you could go on sending love to someone, without being with them or near them or spending any money or communicating directly via all our technologies. What if the whole population of the world sat down or carried on working or went for a walk, thinking of people they knew, believing the other people could feel their love? What if you did, too?

Friday the 11th of December

I love you because you love every part of me, even the ones I think no one should love.

One day, I hope I'll love me like that, too.

My Mind

At 10:40 PM, I published "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." to my blog. At 10:41 PM, I was chastising myself for only writing "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." That's not the point of this blog, my mind says. That's not the point of this assignment, my mind echoes.

What is the point of this assignment then? To write something, one a day, and have it have a time-stamp so I can't cheat or fib or forget? It is to get me to write. I think maybe the moderns' would have quite liked my "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." It kinda reminds me of e.e.cummings (was he a modern?). It also reminds me of Holes. The sound effects in that book are great. (Yes, I do believe books have sound effects.)

You see, "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." it sounds in my brain right now. All the celebration and acheivement, the finality and question, the fatigue and countless tasks. You see, today I had my final class for my Master's programme. (Yes, programme, not program.) Today was the final class and, well, that is my final seminar/lecture class until an undefined moment, an unpredictable moment from which point I will return to the classroom. And to be honest, I hope it is when I am leading the class, not taking it.

Today I spoke with my dissertation advisor about continuing at my university to complete a PhD. A PhD. Never in my life, before 8 months ago, 12 months ago, 6 months ago, did I seriously consider that I, Erica Marie, would want/get/desire such a degree, programme, length of research. And yet, I do. I really do.

You see, I'm not done yet. I'm not done yet with this subject of books and words and love. I'm not finished reading about books and words and love. And, more to the point, I'm not fed up yet with writing about books and words and love. I may never be done. I may never want to be done. And this is a chance to continue that love, that investigation of the production, the creation, the telling of love. Of love, it's what I want to do.

For Friday - Trends

After a while, you start to notice trends about yourself, or other people start to point them out to you and make the connections. Or, rather, after a while, I've started to notice trends in my thinking and suddenly, as they're forming, other people are starting to point them out to me and make connections.

My reaction to other people feels a dichotomy of either/or: either it is an epiphany moment where "ah" I am making sense to myself again (through someone else's notice) or I reject their connections made as below me. Kind of a crappy either/or system.

What trends I have noticed, and others have pointed out to me, is that I am intensely interested in love. I am interested in love and I am interested in love relations to sexuality--and, as a subset, desire for as a result of that human sexuality. I am increasingly and intensely interested in love and sexuality. And it's seeping in, popping up, infiltrating all facets of my daily interactions.

It's fascinating. I love it. (See, it comes in everywhere.) Love, as a describable and indescribable being/feeling/thing, is something I wholeheartedly believe in, rally for, and consider and re-consider over and over. It is powerful and I don't ever want to stop thinking about it, feeling it, ruminating on it. Why would I?

Before Sleep

"And the angel said to her...
you shall call his name Jesus.
He will be great...
and of his kingdom there will be no end."
--from Luke 1

And my dream spoke to me...
you shall know her by her name "Love."
She will be great...
and of your love there will be no end.


----

another poem started...

Working on a Paper

"What I particularly love about the term 'graphic memoir' is that it not only refers to the coupling of pictures and words in the comic book form, but it also lends itself rather nicely as a double entendre for the graphic content of some graphic memoirs..."

I can't help but use the word "love" in my academic writing. I am also sensing a pattern.

Tonight

Tonight I was going to write about the children's novel I just read, Swallows and Amazons, that has me completely enthralled. I was going to write about the booby traps and forts my cousin and I made one warm autumn afternoon on the hillside down the ravine behind his house in the Sierra Nevadas. I was going to tell you about my adventures. But instead, I am going to turn off the computer and the desk lamp. Instead I am going to reach over and kiss my love's forehead as I shut off her side light. I am going to crawl in bed beside her and in turn put the room into darkness so that I can breathe deeply, feeling her warmth and knowing that right now that is more important.

Singing

I feel there are two times of each day when it is not only appropriate to sing to your lover, but actually perfect in the scheme of the day: in the morning as they wake and in the evening as their eyelids fall drowsily. This isn't to say you can't sing to your lover all day long, but that those times are particularly intimate and besides, the rest of the day you can actually sing together if you like.

My repertoire of songs, however, feels sorely lacking for such romantic occasions. The only lullaby I feel comfortable singing in my range is "Tell Me Why" and while it is lovely, it is more for the little ones. After that, my mind goes to "Good night, sweetheart, though I hate to go...ba da-da da bump..." or the song they sing in "It's a Wonderful Life" as they stand before the old house with broken windows. I'm obviously not doing so great on that last tune particularly since I even had to look up the name of the movie...

The morning, though, I think I've got it. The right pace, the right tune, the right range, the right sweetness:

Good morning, good morning,
the sun is shining bright for you
Good morning, good morning,
to you!

Sometimes I'll just sing it a few times over, long enough to get a little smile out of my lover and a little wiggle in my step. And that's all you really need I think in those moments. Well, and the sun shining maybe...