April 2015
I enjoy time at our river cabin up in the woods, long walks, campfires, movies on The Big Screen, live plays and concerts, hot/cheesy/spicy-food, playing cards with friends, etc. Poetry—both reading and writing it—reminds me to slow down, to breathe, to be here, now. And I need reminding. An avid reader and writer, I’ve published hundreds of poems, essays, and articles, and three poetry books—Wishboats (2000), The Secret Language of Women (2006) and The Light You Find (Blue Begonia Press, 2014). I’ve also edited journals, books, and anthologies. I teach English at Central Washington University, and live with my spouse in Yakima, Washington--The Fruit Bowl of the Nation.
Awake at 2:00 A.M.
Bobbing again on dark water,
pen in hand, I float
between night and dawn.
There is no moon.
Unmoored, rudderless,
I drift in silence, waiting.
Behind the sleeping door
my lover hugs her distant dream.
A small animal scurries inside
the length of our living room wall.
I scribble and scratch lines.
Words have saved lives,
helped prepare us for that time
when nothing will save us.
Tonight there is no moon.
White paper in front of me,
I send up my flimsy prayer,
ink rising off the page.
This is Where I Get to Thank You for Showing Me
How to move toward my tears.
Because breaking down
can mean breaking through.
How the poet's practice
matters more than the poem.
How to look up from my texts
and learn to read
the world.
And the open notebook
becomes a rudder.
What I’m talking about is
how to quiet my cleverness,
then listen.
What I’m talking about is
how to hear the call,
and respond.
And if there are those who snicker,
doubt, hint at self-serving—
they know nothing.
I’m talking about duende.
Desolation and desire.
Dark, floating, edgeless, deep.
Towards the bottom
are things
you have to believe
to see.
Bobbing again on dark water,
pen in hand, I float
between night and dawn.
There is no moon.
Unmoored, rudderless,
I drift in silence, waiting.
Behind the sleeping door
my lover hugs her distant dream.
A small animal scurries inside
the length of our living room wall.
I scribble and scratch lines.
Words have saved lives,
helped prepare us for that time
when nothing will save us.
Tonight there is no moon.
White paper in front of me,
I send up my flimsy prayer,
ink rising off the page.
This is Where I Get to Thank You for Showing Me
How to move toward my tears.
Because breaking down
can mean breaking through.
How the poet's practice
matters more than the poem.
How to look up from my texts
and learn to read
the world.
And the open notebook
becomes a rudder.
What I’m talking about is
how to quiet my cleverness,
then listen.
What I’m talking about is
how to hear the call,
and respond.
And if there are those who snicker,
doubt, hint at self-serving—
they know nothing.
I’m talking about duende.
Desolation and desire.
Dark, floating, edgeless, deep.
Towards the bottom
are things
you have to believe
to see.
©2015 Terry Martin