I was diagnosed a year ago. All was clear yesterday at my appointment with my doctor. On the chest x-ray, I could see the wire that runs from my port to my heart .
I have been given two more months of freedom.
I am grateful, and humble, filled with hopes for a summer that includes sand and water, gardens, weeds, inchworms, bike-rides, tadpole chasing, and other appropriate summer past-times with my boys.
Variations in White
Variations in White
by Amy Unsworth
After the surgeon pulled back the white sheet, noted
the absence of stars on the night globe of the mammogram,
I had forgotten. I had stopped thinking of nudging aside
the shuffling generations ahead of me, pressed
at the station’s velvet ropes, queued for the sleeper.
When the cottonmouth rose from the creek’s mud
as my son waded bare limbed, I thought of only
the long length of days without him, of wearing
the lightning strike of his body’s passage on my skin.
When the shell of fever broke and he slept,
a newly hatched bantam, his hair a shock of wet feathers,
I laundered the soiled sheets by hand. The wash water —
tinged with soap and worry— sluiced, forgetful, through the pipes.
But now, the woman— whose wartime photograph
as a bride could pass as mine— unlatches the carriage door,
and settles down there on the satin with a bouquet of callas.
I am the brunette at rail side raising a handkerchief
and the woman who sits white headed, my fingers
pressed to the windowpane frosting over with stars.
-from the Hogtown Creek Review
by Amy Unsworth
After the surgeon pulled back the white sheet, noted
the absence of stars on the night globe of the mammogram,
I had forgotten. I had stopped thinking of nudging aside
the shuffling generations ahead of me, pressed
at the station’s velvet ropes, queued for the sleeper.
When the cottonmouth rose from the creek’s mud
as my son waded bare limbed, I thought of only
the long length of days without him, of wearing
the lightning strike of his body’s passage on my skin.
When the shell of fever broke and he slept,
a newly hatched bantam, his hair a shock of wet feathers,
I laundered the soiled sheets by hand. The wash water —
tinged with soap and worry— sluiced, forgetful, through the pipes.
But now, the woman— whose wartime photograph
as a bride could pass as mine— unlatches the carriage door,
and settles down there on the satin with a bouquet of callas.
I am the brunette at rail side raising a handkerchief
and the woman who sits white headed, my fingers
pressed to the windowpane frosting over with stars.
-from the Hogtown Creek Review
Welcome & Farewell
WELCOME:
Nate to the Three Candles Staff!
You can visit his blog here!
and
FAREWELL:
to my students and fellow graduate students! The semester is coming to a close very soon and my class met today as a whole for the last time. There are less than two weeks to go until final grades must be reported. I've had a great class of students this semester which made my transition back to the classroom that much easier. Two years really does pass quickly. It's a bittersweet time.
Nate to the Three Candles Staff!
You can visit his blog here!
and
FAREWELL:
to my students and fellow graduate students! The semester is coming to a close very soon and my class met today as a whole for the last time. There are less than two weeks to go until final grades must be reported. I've had a great class of students this semester which made my transition back to the classroom that much easier. Two years really does pass quickly. It's a bittersweet time.
Brown Paper Covers
Well, if you get something in the mail wrapped in brown paper, this week it just might be a poetry magazine. Hey it worked for Fence, so the Mass. Review thought they'd try too.
I guess good writing isn't enough these days to sell copies, so we "need" to show a nude woman on the cover.
With the Publisher's Weekly article and now this, it's just a little much for one week. Is my calendar wrong? Is it really 2006?
(Or is this the New-New Feminism and we're really "celebrating" the beauty of the female body?)
Why folks? Why?
I guess good writing isn't enough these days to sell copies, so we "need" to show a nude woman on the cover.
With the Publisher's Weekly article and now this, it's just a little much for one week. Is my calendar wrong? Is it really 2006?
(Or is this the New-New Feminism and we're really "celebrating" the beauty of the female body?)
Why folks? Why?
You Can See God Going to the Islands
You Can See God Going to the Islands
by Amy Unsworth
Where else but walking on sand and water
the last splinter of perfection, the crescent
edge of Bunut Bay, flip-flops in hand?
Or in Bolivia waiting patiently on the boardwalk
at Calacala, to see the paintings on the rising rocks,
one white llama surrounded by the red herds?
Further South the next week, among chinstrap penguins,
stepping gingerly over the clutches tucked in the rocks.
He smiles as they dive, bodies suddenly lissome, into the sea.
A day or two in Turkey visiting the springs at Pamukkale,
resting his feet in the thermal pools, touring the ruins and
recollecting the pillared architecture of Rome.
Maybe then, a few stops to admire the streaked and spotted
gazelle, giraffe, hyena and the scrawny cattle of the savanna;
to wade the Nile winding its way across the continent.
No place but then to return to the hillside gardens,
to inhale the once familiar scent of night air in Jerusalem,
the first almonds hastening to bloom.
from The New Pantagruel
by Amy Unsworth
Where else but walking on sand and water
the last splinter of perfection, the crescent
edge of Bunut Bay, flip-flops in hand?
Or in Bolivia waiting patiently on the boardwalk
at Calacala, to see the paintings on the rising rocks,
one white llama surrounded by the red herds?
Further South the next week, among chinstrap penguins,
stepping gingerly over the clutches tucked in the rocks.
He smiles as they dive, bodies suddenly lissome, into the sea.
A day or two in Turkey visiting the springs at Pamukkale,
resting his feet in the thermal pools, touring the ruins and
recollecting the pillared architecture of Rome.
Maybe then, a few stops to admire the streaked and spotted
gazelle, giraffe, hyena and the scrawny cattle of the savanna;
to wade the Nile winding its way across the continent.
No place but then to return to the hillside gardens,
to inhale the once familiar scent of night air in Jerusalem,
the first almonds hastening to bloom.
from The New Pantagruel
A Bridge is a Better Metaphor
Interesting conversation going on, I'm trying to catch up. I did note that there's a bit of talk here about the role of the internet in women's lives and she's talking about Niederngasse which I've been working for off and on for some time now.
For me the 'net has been a bridge over a chasm which I thought for many years was impassible. I remember the smell of peanut butter and a sense that something essential was missing from my life. I had not been writing; I had been nursing babies and cleaning up spilled juice from sippy cups. I had not been reading other than "Good Night Moon" and "Hop on Pop."
Then one night, I found the 'net. I found conversation about poetry, I found people posting drafts of poetry, I found people willing to comment on my own poetry, I found places to submit. I had no idea of "po-biz" or book contests, or publication stats; I don't know that anyone was blogging yet.
It was the time of the on-line workshop. I workshopped, I critiqued, I grew less hurt by criticism, I learned to take what was important and leave what wasn't. I met a few poets, many of whom you can find on my blog-roll. My writing improved, my understanding of craft improved, my desire to read skyrocketed.
Much of my poetry life, still is here in the virtual world. But I'm finishing graduate school this year,and this is a step I'd probably never taken if it had not been for the support and encouragement of the writers I've met on the web. We move so often that I've never been able to build a group of writers to work with "off-line" but my friends are still here on-line, still accessible with a few keystrokes. Workshop takes dedication and time to spend thinking other poems in progress. Since I'm in school, it's a luxury I don't currently have. I started my blog to have a place to talk about poetry and poetics. Sometimes others join the conversation. Mostly I put my words on the screen and readers visit like ghosts.
I wish the PW article would have talked about how important the web can be for women; how the web has been the bridge between a world of toddlers and a world of letters; how women have been able to participate in the conversation that we might have otherwise missed. Maybe that's the article we should write.
For me the 'net has been a bridge over a chasm which I thought for many years was impassible. I remember the smell of peanut butter and a sense that something essential was missing from my life. I had not been writing; I had been nursing babies and cleaning up spilled juice from sippy cups. I had not been reading other than "Good Night Moon" and "Hop on Pop."
Then one night, I found the 'net. I found conversation about poetry, I found people posting drafts of poetry, I found people willing to comment on my own poetry, I found places to submit. I had no idea of "po-biz" or book contests, or publication stats; I don't know that anyone was blogging yet.
It was the time of the on-line workshop. I workshopped, I critiqued, I grew less hurt by criticism, I learned to take what was important and leave what wasn't. I met a few poets, many of whom you can find on my blog-roll. My writing improved, my understanding of craft improved, my desire to read skyrocketed.
Much of my poetry life, still is here in the virtual world. But I'm finishing graduate school this year,and this is a step I'd probably never taken if it had not been for the support and encouragement of the writers I've met on the web. We move so often that I've never been able to build a group of writers to work with "off-line" but my friends are still here on-line, still accessible with a few keystrokes. Workshop takes dedication and time to spend thinking other poems in progress. Since I'm in school, it's a luxury I don't currently have. I started my blog to have a place to talk about poetry and poetics. Sometimes others join the conversation. Mostly I put my words on the screen and readers visit like ghosts.
I wish the PW article would have talked about how important the web can be for women; how the web has been the bridge between a world of toddlers and a world of letters; how women have been able to participate in the conversation that we might have otherwise missed. Maybe that's the article we should write.
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