Poetic Reconstruction

Although this was published, it isn’t showing up in The Reader, so I’m trying reblogging it.

lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

Poetic Reconstruction

I’m going to the hospital. I’ve made a reservation,
for I am much in need of a creative restoration.

I need an operation to regain my way of seeing.
I’m going to regain my glow–the fiber of my being.

I suffer from prosaism. Triteness clogs each vein.
My poetic diagnosis? Derivative. Inane.

The abundance of my poems does not refute the fact
of the originality that lately they have lacked.

So, take me to the hospital. I’m ready to be cut.
I’m ready to be lifted from my creative rut.

Unveil my eyes, unblock my brain. Clear pathways to my heart,
but as you improve parts of it, please leave the broken part.

For all the pleasures of the world do not make up a whole.
It also takes some sorrows to feed a poet’s soul.

Prompt words today are abundance, hospital, fiber, prosaism and

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Poetic Reconstruction

Poetic Reconstruction

I’m going to the hospital. I’ve made a reservation,
for I am much in need of a creative restoration.

I need an operation to regain my way of seeing.
I’m going to regain my glow–the fiber of my being.

I suffer from prosaism. Triteness clogs each vein.
My poetic diagnosis? Derivative. Inane.

The abundance of my poems does not refute the fact
of the originality that lately they have lacked.

So, take me to the hospital. I’m ready to be cut.
I’m ready to be lifted from my creative rut.

Unveil my eyes, unblock my brain. Clear pathways to my heart,
but as you improve parts of it, please leave the broken part.

For all the pleasures of the world do not make up a whole.
It also takes some sorrows to feed a poet’s soul.

 

Prompt words today are abundance, hospital, fiber, prosaism and glow.

A Skin of Me All the Way Down, For dVerse Poets, Jan 26, 2022

 

A Skin of Me All the Way Down

“There is a human wildness held beneath the skin.”- Arts, Jim Harrison

I leave a skin of me all the way down,
shedding my body 
like petals of a flower
as I go down
through hard edges
I scrape against,
leaving parts of me
against the walls
as I fall down
into the place
where blood runs together
into a bowl which breaks
and spills into earth
which sinks down
into space which is a hole that is
the middle of a world falling down.

My dust falls after me
as I fall
down
to the horizon
of my center­­—
that hard stone
whose discovery

 is our purpose
 for going down.

The edge of me
is almost gone
from falling down.

My center,
clean pip stone,
hangs from a stem
caught in the beak of a
mockingbird that’s cawing, “Up.”

Motes on the dust of its wings
pull me up
while I still want to be down.

The bird with my mother’s hands
pulls me up,
voice from a dream
of childhood,
calling,”Judy”
and pulling me up.

Up through the walls
of the world which
puts my skin back.
Away from the parts of me
left on the floor 
 that are not coming up.

Wings beat me up,
pulling my layers
back over and
around me,
pulling my life
back up to me—

the spelling bees
and the recipe
for rhubarb jam
and our secret
family pattern for
cutout May baskets
and car payments—

all the skin of of me coming up
along with accordion music
 and  geometry,

and I rise up
through the dust
of chalkboard erasers
beaten on the school fire escape
and broken tea sets
and mud pies
and the stillborn calf
and taxes.

Let me go back down,
I plead,
but still, I rise.

Wings pull me up
and the bird holds
my invisible wrappings
in its beak
by the string
that ties me to the up,

and though I chew at it
and rip it with the hands
I’ve grown back rising up,

and though I cry out
for my release,
the sun rises,
and
I rise up
with it,
a part of me
still pleading,
“Let me fall down.”

 

For dVerse poets, we were to write a poem based on a line from  Jim Harrison. Go HERE to read more poems written to this prompt.

Ode to a Grackle

(Click on images to enlarge.)

Ode to a Grackle

A variation of the crow,
you strut wherever you may go
unless you’re flying post to tree
to get a better look at me.

You stick your chest out, spread your tail
horizontal, you haughty male,
then fold it neatly, like a fan,
to vertical, because you can!

Three toes in front and one behind,
a songbird of the perching kind,
at a moment’s notice, you’re on the wing,
soaring above everything.

No cat that ever stalked a grackle
succeeded in his stealthy tackle.
No quagmire brings about your fall,
for you just glide above them all.

Every grackle that comes along
sings an ever-changing song.
He chirps, he purrs, he clucks, he whirrs,
whistles, squeegees, chatters, chirrs.

No bird save you, my coal-black grackle,
has such variety of cackle.
And when you deign to land en masse,
your music sounds like broken glass.

Though Mexico was your first home,
both south and north you chose to roam.
Like me, you dared to spread your wings
to see what that adventure brings.

And when you perch upon my tree
to share your company with me,
such varied music swells from your chest,
of all loud neighbors, I love you best.

 

*Grackle feathers were used ceremonially by the Aztecs, who it is speculated, brought them northwards for this purpose. Zanate is the Aztec name for what in the north we call mynah birds or grackles.

Prompts today are save, variation, grackle, quagmire and chest.

Picky Eater

Picky Eater

I can’t stand mushrooms, abhor liver.
To dine on brains just makes me shiver.

Drinking milk’s against my wishes.
Fish is simply for the fishes.

Raw tomatoes? I’d rather die.
And one more mouthful I won’t try?
I have no taste for humble pie!

For the dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Shiver

Pierced Dove

Click on photos to enlarge.

Pierced Dove

Art historians aver
and modern artists would concur
her paintings are a visual feast
inspired by the dreadful beast
that consumed her from within.
She painted it time and again.
Her sketches were a handbook of
pain of body and of love.
The thorn, the arrow, the pierced heart—
the years together and apart—
her happiness oft on the wing
prompts the cash register’s cha-ching
more than sixty years since she
finally set her spirit free,
leaving part of her unfurled
in paint, on canvas, for the world.

This is the piece I did for an exhibition in Mexico City honoring the 100th year since Frida’s birth. Its title is “Painterminable” (Pain, Painter Interminable.) I was very honored to be one of two non-Mexicans invited to exhibit. It coincided with a retrospective of her work. Sorry that my piece is so much larger than two of hers. I wanted to exhibit all three of her works as a gallery. Click on them to enlarge them. 

Prompt words today are cha-ching, handbook, sketches, aver and feast.

San Juan Cosala Women’s Art Invitational

Here are the eleven ladies and girls who participated in the Women’s Art Invitational in San Juan Cosala, along with the retablos they constructed. The show may be viewed for two more weeks, through February 5,  Tuesday through Saturday from 10-2 and 4-8 at Isidro Xilonsochitl’s Gallery, Porfirio Diaz #120 in San Juan Cosalá, 1/2 block west of Viva Mexico.

Click on photos to enlarge.

All of the work was original and well-executed and it was a difficult job choosing, but below are the three winning entries.

Existencia by Goretti Chavira

Azul Marina by Cristina G. Sanchez

 

Intratervenos by Nora Rios