Laurels to a Friend

In two weeks, I will be signing copies of my first book of poetry, Red Bird Woman, at the Ada Public Library. The book, the book signing, and my foray into becoming a published author is due to a friend's faith in me and his dogged persistence that I should not hide my light under a bushel.

I met Stephen over 30 years ago when I attended his poetry writing class sponsored by ECU's continuing education program. After the first class, I enrolled in every one he taught. What I learned from him was priceless. Here are a few tidbits:

• Make every word count
• Seldom, if ever, use "be" verbs
• Count syllables
• Be concise; don't ramble
• Always write with your audience in mind
• Read the poem out loud and listen to its music
• Read other poets

I will be forever grateful to Stephen for the times he insisted that I rewrite a poem to make it stronger. He did not realize how he got inside my head and guided my writing.

After the series of classes ended, I did not see Stephen often, but when I did, he always asked if I was writing. There were times I had to say no, and I felt I had disappointed him. And myself.

Two years ago, we reconnected and our friendship is stronger than ever. I never ceased to be amazed at his depth of knowledge and his wisdom. He makes me laugh and he pushes me to use the little talent I have. Best of all, he makes me feel special. Nothing tops that.

Thankful

There were times during my life in which I was not thankful for much of anything, especially being alive. Waking up in the morning was a disappointment. Each day was like a landscape painted in monotonous grey. Some of this was due to my circumstances and some to a legacy of depression left to me by my father. They were never depressions of great width and depth like my baby sister experienced; nevertheless, they made me less than thankful for being alive.

I still experience depression occasionally, and although it doesn't feel like it at the time, I know it will pass. The real problem is how it affects the people I love. To cope with a few days of depression, I shift into neutral. My behavior goes flat. I don't talk much. I tend not to look at people. My heart is just not in being alive. My significant other wants to fix it, since that's how most men approach problems:  "Tell me what's wrong, and I'll fix it." First, nothing is wrong except the chemicals in my brain. Second, it is temporary. Third, it is no one's problem to fix except my own. It drives him crazy, and I hate that for him. He is a good man and he doesn't like to see me unhappy. I assure him I am not unhappy. I am just not anything. He is visibly relieved when the gloom passes.

One of the worst things about my depression is that I can't write. I sit down at the computer and stare at a blank screen. My mind is even blanker than the screen. During my "normal" times, I often don't write because I am so busy being alive that I don't have time to write about it. When a few dark days descend on me, my mind feels dry and hollow. Where I usually see poems, I see nothing, as though my mind has gone blind. It's a lousy feeling.

So what I am most thankful for at this time in my life is the brevity of my depression episodes. They are not pleasant, but they are short-lived. If they weren't, if I did not know they would pass in a day or two, I'm not sure I could endure them. My life is too good to spend it looking for a way out.

The Important Thing

I am learning about the marketing side of publishing a book. Mainly, what I am learning is that if you don't push your book under people's noses, they are not going to know it exists, much less buy it, and if they don't buy it, it doesn't get read. That's the most important part - getting people to read it.

Not everyone will like my poems. The audience for poetry is small and for the type of poetry I write, probably smaller still. But there are a few people out there who will "get" my poems. Those are the ones I'm aiming for, the ones who will feel what I felt while I was writing or will even feel something new. A poem should evoke a memory or an emotion, move the reader in some way, but there is no chance of that happening if it isn't read.

I don't like a lot of the poetry out there, especially "urban" poetry. I just don't get it. My experiences don't allow me to identify with city life with any depth. Some poems have some great lines but are too long for my taste. Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" is one. I tend to like short poems that pack a punch or squeeze my heart.

One long poem that makes a profound emotional impact on me every time I read it is Amy Lowell's "Patterns." I cannot read it aloud without breaking down. It has so many levels to it and each one is more wrenching than the last. It has influenced many of my own poems. If you would like to read it, you can find it here:  http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171725.

As for my own book of poetry, be assured that the poems are short and each word was carefully chosen. If you would like to find out if you are one of those people my poems can touch, you can buy the book here:  http://www.lulu.com/shop/gail-wood/red-bird-woman/paperback/product-21290374.html.

If you do read it, let me know what you think whether you like the poems or not. The important thing is that you read it.

Poem

Here is the poem that is on the back of my book Red Bird Woman. I think a lot of people feel this way when they fall in love.

        Meteorite        

I could not resist

your gravity.

I slammed against your love

like a molten rock

falling from the sky

and disappearing

into the crust

of your masculinity.

I disintegrated,

leaving only bits

of my heart scattered

across your terrain. 

You hardly winced.



 

Boston

Recently, I made a trip to Boston. It is one of my favorite cities. It has a historical depth not found in any other city I have visited. Old buildings are scattered throughout, snuggling up to modern skyscrapers as though to say, “You may aspire to the heavens, but my foundation reaches back in time. I am rock solid.” From the 28^th floor of my hotel room, I could count five churches built before the 1800’s. They seemed to pin the city to the ground, keeping it firmly in place.

I made a brief visit to the Boston Library in Copley Square. It was opened in 1895 and considered “a palace for the people.” The front entrance was indeed like the entrance to a palace – a two story ceiling, lots of marble, and curved staircases. It felt safe – not just for me, but for all the books it held, a grand repository for the immense knowledge within those books.

Aside from its historical value, Boston is a place for good food. I ate at an Italian restaurant with a Zagat rating of 28. Thirty is the highest rating a restaurant can get. I had butternut squash soup and a pasta dish with mushrooms and garlic – lots of garlic. Unbelievable. What I would have given to go back to the kitchen and watch! And that was just the first night!

On the second day, my dear friend Michele took me to Penzeys Spice Store in Arlington just outside Boston. You can’t even imagine how much better the spices are than those off the shelf in the local grocery. I bought the standbys I love – Vietnamese cinnamon, ground chipotle, smoked paprika, and sweet paprika – and a few new ones just because they smelled so good – rogan josh, vindaloo, garam masala, and a little jar of raspberry essence. Now my kitchen has a little bit of Boston in it.

One night I was privileged to eat at McCormick and Schmick’s. (Yes, I realize it is not a very appetizing name.) I had a salad with lettuce, shredded red and yellow beets and candied bacon. It was interesting, but the best was the halibut. The waiter assured me that it was fresh, had never been frozen. Believe me when say I was not disappointed. It melted in my mouth. It hard-wired a to-die-for gustatory memory in my brain.

Besides buildings and food, the most striking thing about Boston is the people. There are so many of them! I grew up in a home surrounded by 620 acres with no other houses visible. Some days the only people I saw were the four other members of my family. In Boston, sidewalks are like yards. If you live in an apartment, the only outside you have is covered in concrete, and you share it with a million other people. I had a hard time grasping how many people there were in that city during the work day. I rode the MTA, which was always crowded. I walked down sidewalks, which epitomized the term “bustling.” I could not walk three feet without passing another person, coming or going.

Needless to say, I have a much better appreciation for living in the “little” town of Edmond. It may not be historical or be filled with Zagat-rated restaurants, although it does have some good ones, it has an openness that is typical of Oklahoma. People are not stacked on top of one another. I will always miss the country, but at least I don’t live in Boston.

Red Bird Woman on sale now!

Available now!

Buy at Lulu.com here!

To Do or Not to Do

Soon, with the help of an amazing friend, my first book of poetry will be published. My friend is excited for me. He has pushed me to do this for several years. It’s not that I have actively resisted; it’s just that I was easily distracted from writing and rewriting. He didn’t give up. For that I thank him, but I must admit that I am nervous about putting my work, my babies, out there for target practice.

In my mind, I know artists create because they are driven to translate the world onto paper, canvas, film, or whatever medium suits them. In my heart, that makes me doubt my own artist status. I don’t feel driven to write. At least not on a regular basis. If an idea slaps me in the face, and I can get to pencil and paper before I forget it, I will capture it and play with it like a cat with a mouse. I can go for days without thinking of anything worth writing down. It feels luxurious, almost decadent. I can excuse myself with “I’m retired. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”

Fortunately, there are people around me who nudge, cajole, even nag when I don’t produce enough “art.” I enjoy the process of writing poetry, but when one is attempting to produce a book of poetry, it is hard to know which generates the most fear:  failure or success. Still, in the end, what I fear most is doing nothing.

Dirt

In the heat of an Oklahoma summer, as a child, I would squat with my knees under my chin and sift the fine dirt in the ruts in front of our garage. My fingers delighted in the silky feel of the dust created by rain and sun and the tires on my mother’s green Chevy. I had seldom felt the smoothness of real satin, but I knew what it should feel like. I felt the satin of the Earth, a gift of Nature, not a store-bought version encumbered with status and ego.

This dirt marked the seasons for me. First, spring rains created puddles of soupy mud. Then, as the mud dried in the summer sun, it would turn into puzzle pieces with curled edges, each piece shrinking away from its neighbor. These pieces could be lifted and crumbled through the fingers, transforming their hard brittleness into silky dust. This process was speeded up on the rare occasions when my mother would park her car in the garage. In an instant the tires would pulverize the crusty dirt into a tiny sensuous playground for my fingers.

That memory of summer has stayed with me throughout my life, and I still love to play in the dirt.

Monikers

Daddy called me “Stinkum.” Imagine how I felt when a boy came to pick me up for a date! At sixteen, I was still a little girl to my dad, and the appellation was one of affection. On one level, I understood that. On another, I was mortified! I had spent hours preparing myself for a date with someone I found attractive – although for the life of me I can’t remember who he was. I wanted to be appealing, maybe even sexy. Hmmm . . . dear old Dad knew exactly what he was doing!

My older sister was, appropriately enough, called “Sissy.” Even to this day, some sixty plus years later, I have a hard time calling her anything else. It was a shock to me when a few years ago she said she had never liked being called “Sissy.” Ever since, I have tried to call her by her given name, but it feels really weird, like calling my teachers by their first name.

My younger sister was always referred to as “Baby Girl.” I was green with jealousy. Not only had she usurped my role as the youngest, she had been given a sweet, loving nickname. It did not matter to me that she was the baby of the family and a girl. So, I did what any vengeful sibling would do, I came up with my own nickname for her:  Dummy Jo. It was a simple modification of her given name, Dama Jo, but it pleased me to no end. How clever I was! My satisfaction, however, was short-lived. She did not react to it as I had hoped. She did not run crying to Mother or try to whack me with a shoe. It was as though she had temporarily gone deaf. My hateful words had no power over her. Soon, I reverted to calling her DJ, and her hearing miraculously returned.

I’ve given up vengefulness. It doesn’t work for me.

Religion

There was a time when religion saturated my world. I was raised in a very rigid, uncreative church that did not nurture my need to question, discover, synthesize. It stifled. It pounded me into a box, taught me shame and guilt, which are very hard to shed. On the other hand, it taught me compassion and humility and a sense of responsibility for carrying my share of the burden that comes with being a member of the human community. Inadvertently, it taught me tolerance for the flaws of humans – except my own. It set impossible standards:  strive to be like Christ although you can never be like him.

Such cognitive dissonance did a number on my head and was the beginning of my doubt. I struggled with my mother’s god through my late teens and mid-twenties. I railed against him, turned my back on him, ignored him. Gradually, I discovered a kind of faith that religion eschews. I found god at my center, pervasive in my world. Not my mother’s god. Not the jealous, vengeful god of the Bible, rather a force of life that exists in everything, that says life is good simply because it does exist. No judgment. No guilt. No shame.

I am no longer uncomfortable when people speak to me about their faith, assuming that I am a “religious” person like they are. I don’t have to say to them that I don’t follow an organized religion. I understand what faith is, and I feel the impact of grace every day. I simply do not require a face to believe in something greater than myself.

One of my dearest friends is a very religious person. She has struggled with her own version of a vengeful god and, as a result, has found a god full of unconditional love and mercy. We both understand and accept the other’s position on religion, and when she talks about God’s love, I understand what she means, just as she understands when I speak about an abundant, life-loving Universe.

Words

I often wonder why I can't think of anything to write. It's not like my mind is empty. It is always churning away about something. I'm just never sure if it's anything anyone would be interested in, but then I realize that I write not because I need an audience. I just need to articulate my thoughts. Take them out of my head and put them on paper so I can get a better look at them. You can't see your own face without a mirror, and that's the way it is with thoughts. I need to see my thoughts - black words on white paper - in order to see who I am.

How I write is different. I try to write in a way that is appealing to an audience - should anyone be interested in what goes on in my head. There are authors that I love to read simply because they know how to use words in a way that appeals to me. That's the kind of writer I want to be. I don't care if you (my audience) agree with what I say, but I do want you to enjoy the way I put the words together.

Here is a little poem inspired by a friend's loss. I hope you enjoy the way I put the words together.

Last Rites

His hands,

searching for usefulness,

smoothed her tired pillow.

He matched his breath

to the ragged rhythm of hers.

Panic rose and filled his mouth,

threatened his face;

her words, shreds of mist

against his cheek,

“I have always loved you.”

Familiar words.

 “And I, you.”

 An intimate catechism.

In the corner, Death hung his head.

GRAND DOG

 

I dropped my daughter’s toy poodle off at the groomer’s this morning. When I left her, she looked at me as though to say, “You are leaving me here with these horrid barking dogs? Why?”

Holly is not just a dog. She is a family member, spoiled and manipulative just like any pampered child. She knows who will feed her tidbits of people food (me) and who will pick her up when she whines (my son-in-law), but the person she loves the most is my daughter, Rachael. Holly will pay equal attention to every family member – including me – until “Mama” comes home. The center of her world has arrived, and the rest of us could fall off the planet. She would never notice.

Oh, sure, when I show up at the door, Holly comes running, barking her greeting and begging to be picked up, but only long enough to sniff my face and find out what I ate last. Then it’s back to Rachael. Every move my daughter makes is monitored by this white ball of fluff. If Rachael sits down, Holly snoozes beside her. If Rachael moves, Holly pops awake, ready to follow her beloved mistress anywhere.

If someone knocks at the door, Holly charges through the living room, barking ferociously and ready to hurl her entire three pounds at any threat to her family. If visitors are admitted, she goes into airport security mode, thoroughly sniffing feet and legs to make sure no dangerous odors are sneaked into the house.

For a treat, Holly will roll over like a tiny barrel, then take the treat and hide it a closet or under an errant sock. Maddie’s closet is her favorite hiding place. Holly’s cache is seldom disturbed there among the shoes and toys and clothes. When the closet is cleared out during a cleaning frenzy, Holly just starts over, building her stash along with the disorder, preparing for the day when someone forgets to fill her dog dish.

Sometime today I will fetch Holly from the groomer’s. I am sure she will exhibit all the attributes of a newly crowned princess, then smell my face to see what I ate for lunch.