Just so overwhelmed by paidwork and motherwork at the moment that I barely have time to log in. Also, I’m putting the finishing touches on a short memoir piece that will likely be published soon (details as it develops).
I’m hoping to squeeze in poetry updates tomorrow… meanwhile, thanks for all the very kind comments!
Jane Cra-whatever
wears four different
earrings. She always
wears a jacket, and her socks
today are very loud.
Her newspaper picture
looks fat,
but she is much skinnier
in person.
The pin on her jacket
is delicately pretty.
Her socks
really aren’t loud,
just bright.
She’s very sharp-eyed
and notices everything.
She’s not afraid
to let her real self show.
by Tria Wood
I’ve been away from the laptop again, and am starting to catch up on getting these poems transcribed onto the site. Sorry for the lapse!
Today’s poem is a found poem from a journal entry I wrote when I was 13 12 (oops–memory math error). The subject is Jane Creighton, a writer who worked with my 7th grade English class.
This draft seems to have struck a chord with lots of people–it’s the poem with the most comments here, and now Robert Lee Brewer has featured it on the Day 7 Highlights of Poetic Asides. Thanks once again, Robert! And thanks again, commentors!
Late Autumn in Pangboche
No snow today
though I longed to read
the sweetly curved beds
of your footsteps
in its expanse.
I waited. Listened
for your ragged breath,
the hush of the wind
in your hair.
Memory traced
the halfpipe turn
of your spine,
shoulders hunched
against the cold.
I sat and waited.
Listened.
Yeti, you never came.
No snow today.
by Tria Wood
I usually don’t pan my own drafts, but I have to say that I’m not fond of this one. I was working with today’s challenge at Poetic Asides to write a poem “with a twist at the end” a la Alfred Hitchcock’s movies. This is the least cheesy draft I came up with. I do like the idea of someone being obsessed with cryptids to the point of feeling an almost romantic connection, though.
Every time I see the stats for this blog, I think “Wow! I can’t believe tha
t people are actually reading this!” I started The Thousand Insect Nations just fifteen days ago as a way to share the rough drafts of poetry I intended to write in April — and, to be honest, as a way of holding myself accountable for the daily poem drafts. I didn’t realize that I’d soon be part of a community of bloggers and readers. In honor of Reader Appreciation Day, I want to offer my thanks to this community. Thank you, readers who have put up with strange drafts and bad drafts with great understanding. Thank you, readers who have let me know what they’ve enjoyed about these drafts. Thank you, Robert Lee Brewer for featuring one of my poems in your blog. Thank you, readers who keep coming back to see what’s next. Thank you, readers who are also friends who may come here (I know I would) hoping to find a poem about themselves, don’t find it, but keep reading anyway. Thank you to my youngest reader, Eliot, who now asks me every night, “Mama, can you tell me the poem you wrote today?”
Finally, in great appreciation of the many readers who also keep poetry blogs, I’d like to begin a blogroll of personal poetry sites in addition to the prompt sites you now see to the right. Please leave a comment if you’d like your poetry blog included.
PS: If you’d like to participate in Reader Appreciation Day, just snag the graphic and play along!
Insulting Sylvia Plath
We teenage girls all loved
a good suicide story. Belt noose,
waterlogged lungs, gas ovens,
The Bell Jar was our how-to
if we should want to push through
and blast a grand exit, though we never
did. We didn’t have to. What counted
was knowing we could have, if we dared,
this one small bit
of self-defeating agency.
But Plath was a poetic copout,
my teacher insisted, playing cheap, the tired
old trope of the lovely girl longing
for daddylove. Enough
with the depression, the pitymongering,
he said, look at Diane Wakowski
who showed us that at least
the world still has oranges in it.
But what teenage girl doesn’t feel
she’s got too little, or worse, too much
from Daddy? He’s an unreachable
shore, and we’re swimming till we drown,
either way. I like oranges, too, but
their sweetness is immaterial
when what you really want is not
daddy’s love so much as his power,
to grasp your tender life in your own hands.
by Tria Wood
How My Drunken Brain Behaves
reel to real, yes’m, you’re a bit
off, s’okay, round you reel
on high heels, face to focus
queue the focus on
the face bobbing, lips unlocking
whassee saying, close in
on lips no eyes, up
they tip top tipple grin,
whassee saying again dunno
just smile lady yes’m nod
and reel bob and weave
snag a kiss fill the mouth
on that hungry empty glass
by Tria Wood
I’m up against my magazine’s deadline and still need to transfer yesterday’s poem from notebook to blog (not to mention that I still need to write today’s poem).
But for now, I wanted to mention that Robert Lee Brewer selected my draft of “Toddler Science” as one of the Day 6 Highlights for his Writer’s Digest blog, Poetic Asides. Thanks for the honor, Robert!
I also realized that I need to create a blogroll for all the excellent individual poetry bloggers I’m now (virtually) meeting. If you’d like to be included, please leave a comment!
handscrawl taped to the drivethru window
had apologized for the caterpillar invasion
tufted stowaway crawlers foisted upon gardens
where Rubber Soul then Green River pour over
the fence, frowning I poke Dianthus bedders down
unconscious glimmerings pushed from my throat
waver billow dive and glide over celadon up to blue
until windowpane sunlight sends my reflection back
to ground me dirtcaked sweaty lump of earth
by Tria Wood
Just A Friendly Reminder
I am sorry
if you think your mother works here,
because she doesn’t, and obviously she
didn’t teach you any manners, either.
If she did, if she had, you would know
that it takes approximately thirty seconds
to put in a new filter pack and press the button
to wipe down the counter with a paper towel
to replace the empty roll
to clean up after yourself, you slob.
I am sorry
if you think I am being passive
aggressive about this. But I am not.
I will not play childish games.
I’m the mature one here. Your filth
and inconsideration disgust me,
and if you do not take immediate
action, I will get the proper authorities
involved and you don’t want that,
believe me. Because I know
that you stole my last HotPocket
that your skeezeball boyfriend stays over
that you pee in the gym shower
that you took the ramekins and brulee
torch I purchased in Petaluma
and that angers me.
I am sorry
that you are too ignorant to understand
that happiness is a clean environment
where we can all get along. So please
think of others for a change
take those extra few seconds from your life
and make a stinking effort.
Isn’t this enough for me
to put up with, to endure?
Nothing personal, OK?
Thanks, and have a nice day.
by Tria Wood
Today’s poem was inspired by this hilarious site.
