Why I Write

I contributed to Persephone Speaks, the online blog of Kore Press. The piece was for an application for a fellowship that I did not receive (boo). But it was an important exercise--to really think about and articulate why I write. Every writer should write an essay like that. Multiple times.

See the entry here (www.korepress.blogspot.com). It's the October 2008 listing.

Bear Meadows Bog

6-23-08
Mountain laurel in bloom and the bog!
Near State College, PA

Rib Fish

Some people get punched
knuckle slap, bonecrack
richochets form bloodlakes
behind organs

A viscous waterfall, red,
makes eddies at its landing
I wait for fish to wiggle out
from underneath

A dazzling one would be nice
yellow, yes, and wandering
the kind that feeds, oblivious,
on painweed

The yellow happy rib fish
leaving joy wakes
pinballing the edges
of heartbeat

(5-21-08)

St. Ambrose

St. Ambrose

crawl into my mouth
sting my tongue
this is the origin of language
this is the origin of desire
this is original
before the apple was the flower
before the flower was the bee
taste this
land here
swell here
leave here
honey

(5-15-08)

Streams

They come and hold out their fingers
nearly begging for sting
they bathe and drink
feel fluttered and purified, chosen
Meanwhile there are no special acts
the bees simply wake with dew
with uncelebrated purpose
to collect and deposit,
to protect and churn
These transformations so inscrutable
while we develop theorems for resurrection
try to explain the thick golden initiations
inside our peculiar biochemistries,
and theirs

But yes
here are my fingers
Who does not want the pouring over?
the lively murmuring?
the puncture of possibility?
Who does not want streams meandering
heartside?

(5-17-08)

Colony Collapse

let x equal e
doubled and long, extending
lightless swarms heaped
wide pools of limp wings
this skyline of loss
how bloomless
how hoverless
how goldless
barely a tickle of breeze
through the fallen flowers
and silence

bitter bitter silence

(5-17-09)

toforwith (the bees)

(for Bz, looking up...)

to the yellow cling and the drip, the waiting
for hexagons, pinnacles, an overflow
with want of rising

to lift, then replace "t" with silent "e," longing
for early May
with its plumpness and sting (sometimes without "t")

to reach in
for evidence: life slides easily
with bridges and breaths

to break is to gain something
for now a substance, substantial and sweet
with glow

(5-9-08)

Hum

Hum

This is the way
inside
this beating and this hum
these 6-sided chambers
these hands on wood
these hands on ache
this knife to cut
this scraper to clean
this city inside
here, an infancy
this infant inside
this brood comb
this lifting
this pouring
this bare hand
these netted eyes
this hovering
that lifts us over
this is the way
these bodies and these wings
this wet edge of knife
this dripping
this coming home yellow
this poppy pollen
this dipping
these tongue-fulls
this being birthed
this linger between sweet
this sting risk
this squeezing
this smoke
here, hold here
these gifts and recompenses
this heart swarm
this hum and this beating
this hovering
is the way
in

(5-9-08)

FREE happiness

Feb. 6, 2008
Today the grrls gathered for their public literary action. Carrie made delicious cookies from the heart, Miki passed out free valentines, Morgen did a few stencil sprays, Hannah videotaped, and Ashley recruited passersby to the table with "free hugs." Some City High friends helped out with the act. A fine success! Congrats, grrls.

















Hannah advertises the goods.


















The cookies and the valentines!
















Random acts of kindness....

















Happy women with cookies!

Writing on the Body

On Jan. 9, henna artist Lila Sideras visited the Grrls class. We wrote on our bodies with this magical paste...

Body Language

the stories on the skin and hair
the organs shifting and beating within
who says what?

Kimi Shimmy, A Heroine

She can hover above the ground. She's light. She laughs. But she doesn't look the other way. You can hear her coming. The slight buzz of her wings...and then her whisper, building, the crescendo, the clarity of a song. There's inspiration here. This isn't a sermon. She holds up mirrors--hundreds and thousands of them. Twinkling. "Look at yourselves." Arrows on the mirrors point to the heart. All the hearts. Your heart. "Do no harm." There are dogs on chains. She frees them and lays a soft hand behind their ears. They roll to their backs, full of tongues. There are men staggering between the rows of traffic. She leads them to shelter, waits while they clean up, helps them fill out job applications. Those mirrors. She stops traffic. She pushes out the bicycles. Soon the whole city is riding, the air is grateful, the skies go to blue. She stands in front of the shopping malls, dancing. People watch, fall in love with the mirrors, which show them at home, around the table, making food, conversing, communing, reading, singing, making. The people spin on their heels, forget about shopping, and go home to replicate the scenes they viewed in the mirrors. She does the same. She makes clothing from recycled fabrics, tends her garden, sips tea, writes letters, walks the dogs, reads poetry, makes and takes the love. She throws parties. She leaves love notes. She pushes wheelchairs. She remembers and reminds. She smiles. She's light. She laughs.