A Poem for Mother's Day--at The Stiletto Gang

Today, you'll find me blogging at The Stiletto Gang with a bittersweet poem for all who have lost their mothers in one way or another and have difficulties during the big commercial lead-up to Mother's Day.

http://thestilettogang.blogspot.com/2017/05/a-poem-for-mothers-day.html

Final Poem for Native American Heritage Month and Standing Rock

We are ending Native American Heritage Month in a few days, and throughout the entire month, militarized police have been violently attacking the Water Protectors at Standing Rock, leaving hundreds with hypothermia and injuries, especially one elder in cardiac arrest, one young woman with a torn retina, and one young woman with an arm that she may lose, even after several surgeries. This poem is one I wrote about rivers and the concept of river, and perhaps it will offer a different way of looking at these great entities of creation beyond the concept of commodity or barrier to profit. Too often we forget that water is truly life.

WHAT RIVER SAYS

The Cherokee call me Long Man,

yun wi gun hi ta,

because my body stretches and unravels

with my head in the mountains

and my feet resting in the ocean.

I constantly speak words of wisdom

to those who can understand me—

fewer every day.

It takes a quality of attention

fit for magicians or poets.

I have much to tell those

who expend the time and energy to listen.

I have seen so many things.

I know the history of rain

intimately, leaning on the world

to feel it on my skin

and take it inside me

to swell my body. Maybe,

they should have called me Long Woman.

I remember when

the mountains were home only to gods.

I knew your ancestors,

now tangled in the ground.

I swallowed my share and more.

I have seen innumerable generations

living into their deaths.

I am acquainted with the bones of earth,

ancient as the word of God

and stronger by far.

Men have tried forever

to change me and chain me,

but I still wander where I will

when I grow tired of being tame.

I remain the promise of tomorrow,

the hope of new growth

that haunts the night with hypnotic murmurs

and softens the edge between act and dream.

When all hope has fled,

come to me.

Published in TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism, 2015

Dreaming Fox--A Poem for Native American Heritage Month

I wanted to put another poem up for Native American Heritage Month, and I decided to post this one.

I’ve always taken for granted that I could see more of the natural world’s plants and animals, even in the city, than most other people I know here, who seem totally oblivious to a pair of golden eagles stunt-flying on the thermals overhead or the waddle of a beaver across a grassy knoll to his creek home. I know I owe this gift to my grandmother and aunt and uncle who taught me when I was young to pay attention to the land around me and its plant and animal inhabitants—and thus vastly enriched the rest of my life.

When the rest of my family erupted in chaos and violence, focusing on the natural world of which I was a part saw me through the pain and desperation. Nothing pulls me out of despair like going to water to see the dawn in and watch the dance of the real world behind the shabby drapery of made-up, pretend, commodified daily existence. 

DREAMING FOX

Early on a Sunday walking

past a bank drive-through on a hill

above a creek running through the city

surrounded by a narrow band of wild growth

I see him and freeze

big dog fox stopped at the sight of me

one foot still in the air

tail of fire just brushing the uphill

shrubbery from which he came

we stand and stare

unable to move or breathe

his eyes staring into mine

against a background

murmur of morning traffic

neither of us supposed to be here

not me at this just-after-dawn-in-summer hour

not him in the middle of the city

curiosity more than fear

behind his big eyes I had always

thought foxes had small close-together eyes

from cartoons or wildlife films or something

like that but his are set attractively

distant from each other

an intelligent face staring

me down wanting me to turn

and run from the predator

he must have a den nearby

with mate and kits so he will stand

against me forever

if need be he must be afraid

he knows humans are dangerous

to his kind especially

if he lives here in the heart of the city he must

dread the moment he will have to take

me on so many times his size

and probably with noisy metal weapons

against his needle teeth and claws

feeble in the world of cars motorcycles sirens

thrown rocks gunshots in this neighborhood he will

do it nonetheless I watch him set down his foot

lightly the muscles of his haunches tense

to spring in one final hopeless suicidal

attack to damage and drive me off

away from the den down among the brush

on the banks of the urban creek

hidden deep among the willows

I wish I could follow him down there

to see his mate and babies

he is right to fear me and attack

that human curiosity impulse to know

to somehow own experience fatal

to him if someone less harmless sees

and follows he hunkers down on his tail

silent no warning growl prepared

to launch himself through the air at my throat

only he will not be able to leap

that high from the lower ground

where he stands he will have to settle

for chewing my waist and legs

taking pity on us both

I back away slowly still

holding his vulpine gaze he turns back

to the shelter of the woods with only

one long look back

to make sure I don’t follow

to make sure I was real

one flash of movement and all trace

of red gone only undergrowth he might

never have stood and stared into my human eyes

so early on a Sunday morning

in the heart of the city

leaving us both to wonder

if we dreamed he of a human

who did no harm me of a fox

who did not run improbable dreams

intertwined

© Linda Rodriguez 2016

Native American Heritage Month--A Poem for Standing Rock and #NoDAPL

I've been so frigging mad about the news coverage of the Standing Rock protests. The media, for the most part, can't be bothered to go out and actually investigate what's actually going on. No lattes out on the prairie. So they just take the word of the lying sheriff and governor. After NPR's recently, I just blew, and my poor husband had to listen. Finally, I decided to try to tame the anger in form. So, a sestina for Standing Rock.

NO MORE (SESTINA FOR STANDING ROCK)

I have run out of time

and patience with news coverage so

lazy and biased with a bow

always to

the company owners, powerful and rich,

and to what they want said.

It never matters what my people have said

again and again. Every time

government or corporate forces, so

violent and powerful, require us to bow

in submission, and we won't, the rich

dictate what's broadcast—and written, too.

When I try to explain to

well-meaning white friends, they've said,

“But disorder!” to which I reply each time,

“But oppression!” and sow

seeds of doubt in their comfort. The bough

must break some time and dump the rich

into the mud with the rest of us. The rich

tapestry of cultures that we are can't be reduced to

only WASP—Native, Black, Latino said

to be lesser, negligible, inferior. Each time

I hear this, the fire of anger grows within, so

hot and fierce. It's time for the ruling class's farewell bow.

So long we've stayed peaceful. Soon, it may be time for bow

and lance and rifle, if the rich

can't be compelled to lift the boot, too

sure of their own power to listen to what we've said.

They don't realize it, but they're running out of time.

In arrogance, they rip the fabric of the nation we sew

back together in new, shiny shapes, so

colorful, strange, stronger, tied with the bright bow

of human dignity and rich

gleam of equality and justice. To

those who've always had power and said

to the rest of us, “Give us time

to dole out bits of freedom,” we say, “No,” so...

You've run out of time. Now, reap what you sow.

We'll no longer bow in submission to

the demands of the white and rich. Hear what we've said.

© Linda Rodriguez 2016

A Poem for National Breast Cancer Month--TO THE NURSE WHO TOLD ME TO GRIEVE FOR MY BREAST

Yesterday was my birthday, a time for reflection. I realized that National Breast Cancer Month had almost passed without me posting anything for it. In a way, that's a very good sign, a sign that my life is getting back to normal. After a battle with breast cancer that made me focus on that disease, I'm now too busy to pay it a lot of attention, except when I go in for my periodic appointments with my oncologist and my semi-yearly visit to the chemo clinic. 

Yet, I don't want to forget or ignore this month. It's important to recognize the struggle I've made and that countless other women are making every day. This year, as a way of giving back to the cancer clinic that gave me such excellent care, I'm giving a writing workshop for breast cancer survivors later this week. As usual, writing helped me through the ordeal, and I hope to give these women tools to help them make it through, as well.

To all the survivors out there, I salute you. To all the nurses and doctors and therapists who work with breast cancer patients, I thank you. And to all the caregivers out there, those spouses, lovers, parents, siblings, children, friends, who've cooked and cleaned and driven to radiation and chemo treatments and held us while we cried after diagnoses, surgeries, and pathology reports, I am in awe of your strength, courage, and love, and I know a lot fewer of us would make it through if it weren't for you.

TO THE NURSE WHO TOLD ME TO GRIEVE FOR MY BREAST

I sit here unable to understand.

My breasts have been good to me,

I’ll admit to that—

lots of sexual pleasure

through the years,

large cup size when it mattered

to the world around me,

never any problem with infection,

mastitis, fibrosis, cysts.

When I had babies,

my breasts overflowed.

No problem nursing—

I pumped breast milk

for La Leche to deliver

to neonatal preemies.

Men and women who were born too soon

and struggled to live

may be alive today

in part because of my breasts.

It’s not like we’re talking

a hand, an eye, a leg.

It’s just a breast,

mostly a big inconvenience,

always in the way and vulnerable.

Not something I can’t do without.

Losing it won’t cripple me.

And the son of a bitch tried to kill me.

(Published in Black Renaissance Noire, 2015)

WHAT RIVER SAYS: A Poem for Native American Heritage Month

This poem is from a suite of poems I've written called "First Cousins Speak."

WHAT RIVER SAYS

The Cherokee call me Long Man,

yun wi gun hi ta,

because my body stretches and unravels

with my head in the mountains

and my feet resting in the ocean.

I constantly speak words of wisdom

to those who can understand me—

fewer every day.

It takes a quality of attention

fit for magicians or poets.

I have much to tell those

who expend the time and energy to listen.

I have seen so many things.

I know the history of rain

intimately, leaning on the world

to feel it on my skin

and take it inside me

to swell my body. Maybe,

they should have called me Long Woman.

I remember when

the mountains were home only to gods.

I knew your ancestors,

now tangled in the ground.

I swallowed my share and more.

I have seen innumerable generations

driving toward their deaths.

I am acquainted with the bones of earth,

ancient as the word of God

and stronger by far.

Men have tried forever

to change me and chain me,

but I still wander where I will

when I grow tired of being tame.

I remain the promise of tomorrow,

the hope of new growth

that haunts the night with hypnotic murmurs

and softens the edge between act and dream.

When all hope has fled,

come to me.

(Published in TRIVIA: Voices of Feminism)

A Poem for Banned Books Week

It's that time again, time to celebrate banned books and to defy those elements of our society who always try over and over to censor books in an effort to control what the rest of us can read or think about.

I have seen repeated attempts to censor the books of writers I admire, writers who have been role models to me, and in some recent cases, writers who are my friends. I keep hoping that, as I grow older, this week will have shorter and shorter lists of banned books. Unfortunately, the lists still grow longer each year.

Here is a poem I wrote years ago about this whole situation of censorship--and unfortunately it's still as relevant today as it was when I first wrote it for Banned Books Week years ago.

SPELL FOR BANNING A BOOK

First, find a censor.

This will be hard—

not that censors are rare,

but they are adept mimics.

Do not be fooled. No matter

how benevolent its disguise,

a frightened censor is dangerous.

Approach with caution.

To safely capture it

for your spell, you must circle

the censor chanting soothing

nonsense syllables.

It is meaning that terrifies

censors.

Surround the stupefied censor

with charms made from advertising

photographs of a mythical golden age—

smiling mothers

in high heels and aprons, silent fathers

keeping sentinel on horseback, sexless

children never asking

questions. Sacred to the censor,

such charms have power

to blind it.

Select the book

you want banned.

Set it outside the circle

of charms, and carefully

remove the charm nearest

so the censor can detect

the presence of an attempt

at meaning.

Protect yourself.

Enraged censors have been known

not only to ban books

but to burn them

and then press on to people.

For Dad on Father’s Day

My birth father was a violent, unpredictable man. After he and my mother finally divorced, the last thing any of us kids wanted was another man around. So when Mother remarried, we weren’t the most welcoming to our stepfather. But he won us over with his quiet steady caring, his reliable responsibility, and his willingness to take on all five of us, to become Little League coach and Scout leader. Eventually we were calling him “Dad.”

Mother died first. Years later, when Dad was facing a protracted end due to cancer and had to be in a nursing home in a town where none of us kids lived any longer, my sister and I divided the week between us to go stay in that town and spend each day with him, our brothers pitching in when they could. When Dad’s end was near, my sister called, and I packed my kids in the car and drove like a drag racer to make it to that town in time. We all did. Dad died in my arms and my sister’s while the boys all stood around him as close as they could get. Afterward, one of the nursing-home aides said to me, “Surely, that man was loved!”

This poem is for Dad on Father's Day.

CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER’S PICTURE

You and Dad were entirely happy here—

you in purple miniskirt, white vest and tights

(you always wore what was already too young

for me), Dad in purple striped pants,

a Kansas State newsboy’s cap

made for a bigger man’s head.

You both held Wildcat flags and megaphones

to cheer the football team who,

like the rest of the college, despised you

middle-aged townies, arranging for their penicillin

and pregnancy tests and selling them

cameras and stereos at deep discount.

But you were happy

in this picture, before they found

oat-cells in your lungs.

After the verdict, he took you to Disneyland,

this man who married you and your five children

when I was fifteen. He took you cross-country

to visit your family, unseen

since your messy divorce.

He took you to St. Louis

and Six Flags Over Texas and to Topeka

for radiation treatments.

I don’t think he ever believed

you could die. Now he’s going

the same way. And none of us

live in that Wildcat town with the man

who earned his “Dad” the hard way

from suspicious kids and nursed

your last days. For me, this new dying

brings back yours, leaving me only this image

of you both cheering for lucky winners.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)