I Give You to River by Linda Rodriguez

I GIVE YOU TO RIVER, a poem for National Poetry Month (reprinted from Linda Rodriguez Writes - April 25, 2019)

Like my ancestors before me, I love rivers. The peace of running water always calms me, watching it ripple past slowly, hearing the murmur of the water over rocks and
branches and the swish of it against the banks, spying the many lives that live along the river--fish, turtles, snakes, muskrats, beavers,   hawks, and eagles. For millennia, my people have always chosen to settle near rivers.

When I was growing up, I was taught to go to water when troubled or ill. Running water is strong medicine, good medicine. We pray next to it, and then use it to wash away whatever is troubling our hearts, minds, or bodies. Sometimes a creek or brook will work for me, but if I'm truly heartsick, I seek out a river.

This poem is another in a series of poems that I have posted to celebrate National Poetry Month. It is an exploration of this practice of going to water when troubled. In the worst kind of pain and grief, sometimes only a river can provide any release. For a healing ceremony, one needs to build a fire, say the right prayers, make an offering, but sometimes in the worst straits, it can be simply you and the river.

I GIVE YOU TO RIVER

Turning to the water for release

from my troubles, from you,

I write your name in my palm with my finger,

then brush off the invisible letters

into the river currents passing at my feet.

I ask River to carry them out of my heart and mind,

carry them away from my life, remove all that darkness

that is you infesting my mind against my will,

replaying memories that were nothing

but playacting on your part,

though my heart tries to find excuses,

for all the deliberate pain.

I have to face it finally—there are none.

Hard to believe, but even harder to find

I still long for you.

This stubborn heart won’t give up.

So I barricade it, keep it safe from its stupid fidelity,

while I wait for River to carry out magic,

carry your name and games far from me,

set me free finally with the power of moving water,

my own inborn element,

which carves memories of trauma from the earth itself

and leaves wondrous scars.

Published in Dark Sister (Mammoth Publications, 2018)

Moving from One Life to Another

by Linda Rodriguez

I am currently in the final, panic-driven stages of downsizing before our final walk-through with the buyers of our house. I feel guilty even taking time to write this blog post because I know I don't have enough time left, and we'll be pulling all-nighters to make it. Those are a lot harder when you're in your late fifties and sixties than they were in your teens and twenties, believe me.

I have packed up boxes of books to give to my sister and my friends, and that's not too hard. It doesn't hurt so much to give them away to people I care about. It's the other boxes, packed to sell, that hurt my heart.

The same thing goes for the fabric for my art quilting. It's all beautiful, and though I cannily bought much of it on sale, it's expensive, high-quality fabric and will cost a bundle to replace. But I have reached the limit I set myself for taking to the new house, which is slightly less than half the square footage of our current home but without its copious storage (attics, basement, two-car garage, many built-in cupboards). It was agonizing to choose which to keep and which to let go. I know I should have sold it, but I feel so much better about the bags and bags of gorgeous fabric going to my friends and to an organization I'm deeply involved with.

I've already done this hard work with the glassware and china and silver--and with clothes and linens. I've been fighting the papers-and-books battle all along, and I suspect they'll go on to the end. There's just so much of both categories. I've finally finished the fabric and sewing supplies and am now in the midst of the knitting-and-weaving-yarns-and-needles stash, another heartbreaker. Fortunately, a lot of it will go to my daughter and son, and that will make letting go of half of it so much easier. I don't even want to think about the spinning fibers yet. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

I'm a quadruple Scorpio, and one of the symbols for Scorpio is the phoenix, mythical creature that rebirths itself out of destruction over and over. I've always felt that I lived many lives in this lifetime. There was the life that I call Queen of the PTA while I raised my oldest two kids and a foster son. Then there was the life of the divorce years where I went back for degrees and frantically worked multiple jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. Then there was the life of university administrator, running a women's center and teaching. Etc., etc. I feel now that I'm coming out of the life of cancer patient and getting ready to move into another with this move from my home of 42 years, so here's a poem for that process.

A PHOENIX, SHE MOVES FROM LIFE TO LIFE

and leaves only the ashes of her old self

behind. She plunges into the dark

future from the glare of her funeral pyre

that brightens the sky of her past

for miles and years and leaves a legend

told to generations of children

of a vast golden one whose gleaming

body rose from the burning corpse,

blotting out the moon

with huge wings beating against

the burning air to lift the dead

ground to the living night sky

and fly through the moon

to a new place with new people

where she could be new herself—

until the destroyer strikes again.

Like a hunting eagle,

she lands, claws outstretched,

golden crest and feathers lost

in transit, her wings already disappearing.

She grows backward, smaller.

Now she can only crawl

into and out of shallow holes

in the ground of this new life.

Still, the wise avoid trampling her

for they know

she drags death behind her.

Published in Heart's Migration (Tia Chucha, 2009)

Linda Rodriguez's Plotting the Character-Driven Novel, based on her popular workshop, and

The World Is One Place: Native American Poets Visit the Middle East, an anthology she co-edited, are her newest books. Every Family Doubt, her fourth mystery novel featuring Cherokee campus police chief, Skeet Bannion, will appear December 19, 2017. Her three earlier Skeet novels—Every Hidden Fear, Every Broken Trust, and Every Last Secret—and her books of poetry—Skin Hunger and Heart's Migration—have received critical recognition and awards, such as St. Martin's Press/Malice Domestic Best First Novel, International Latino Book Award, Latina Book Club Best Book of 2014, Midwest Voices & Visions, Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award, Thorpe Menn Award, and Ragdale and Macondo fellowships. Her short story, “The Good Neighbor,” published in the anthology, Kansas City Noir, has been optioned for film.

Rodriguez is past chair of the AWP Indigenous Writer’s Caucus, past president of Border Crimes chapter of Sisters in Crime, founding board member of Latino Writers Collective and The Writers Place, and a member of International Thriller Writers, Wordcraft Circle of Native American Writers and Storytellers, and Kansas City Cherokee Community. Visit her at http://lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com

A Poem for Mother's Day

by Linda Rodriguez

Paffi Flood was unable to post today, so Linda Rodriguez is substituting for her.

As we approach Mother's Day, the airwaves are filled with commercials for gifts for mothers and suggestions for special ways to "spoil Mom" and celebrate this May holiday. You can't escape them. So, this poem is for all those who, like me, have lost their mothers and find the day's celebrations bittersweet. 

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)

Reading vs. Writing

by Bethany Maines

On Monday night fellow Stiletto author J.M. Phillippe (visiting from Brooklyn) and I attended the local open mic night from Creative Colloquy.  The evening celebrated Creative Colloquy’s third anniversary and featured the Washington State poet laureate Dr. Tod Marshall. Creative Colloquy’s mission is to connect writers with their community and celebrate their works. And in keeping with that mission, Dr. Marshall reminded us in the audience to both battle for the arts and to rejoice in our creative communities. 

As with every time I go to a reading event I'm struck by what different skills reading and writing are. It's difficult to differentiate the presentation from the work being presented. For every rushed reading, there’s one that gives space for the audience to savor the moment. For every mumbled poem, there’s one that echoes from the rafters.  For every awkward and misplaced laugh in the middle of a story, there's one that ought to be a comedy special.  Delivery, timing, and pronunciation, all take a reading from blah to amazing.  Or at least important enough to make people stop talking to their friends at the table.  Are the amazing readings better?  Or just benefitting from better delivery?

It makes me wonder: what could I be doing to present my own work better in live readings? Should we authors all be forced to take public speaking classes? Improv classes? Should we be forced to listen to recordings of ourselves (God nooooooooooo!!!)?  Is there a secret trick that I could be using?  What if I just I hire an actor to read for me?  In all probability I shall simply have to rely on the very exclusive, top secret trick of practice and repetition.  As long as no one makes me watch a recording of it, that will probably be fine.

***

Bethany Maines is the author of the Carrie Mae Mysteries, Wild Waters, Tales from the City of Destiny and An Unseen Current.  You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Hot, Hot Summer

by Linda Rodriguez

It's the first of September, but it still feels like August, and that's gone on so long that my eyes are permanently raw from sun and heat and truly excessive humidity. This photo is me at sixteen in my senior play, Li'l Abner, playing Moonbeam McSwine, a sultry woman whose way of dealing with the heat of summer was just to give in to it--and to every man who came along. So it seemed like a good choice for this post all about summer heat and how it makes us feel lazy and... decadent.

Here's a poem I wrote about summer heat and how it can turn good girls (and women) bad--at least in their minds and imaginations.

BLAME IT ON SUMMER

that I smile too widely,

grinning really, and laugh

too loud and often; that I walk

with spring and sensual sway;

that I stretch myself and twist

like a cat

baking in the backyard

brightness; that my brain is sun-bleached,

all rule and thought boiled away, leaving

only sensory steam;

that my feverish eyes see strange dancing

flames in afternoon shadows

along the sides of streets and Bedouin oases, fragrant

with dates and goats and acrid desert waters,

in every suburban garden we pass

while you argue and drive

and I stare, heavy-brained with heat

and too aware of my own body

and every other;

that I take a lover,

brazenly, crazily,

too sun-stupid to be careful,

in my dreams.

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

A Re-Awakening

by Marjorie Brody

The New Year arrived for me in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. A live band, champagne and chocolate covered strawberries accompanied a balloon drop at midnight. The cruise allowed me to escape telephone calls and the demands of emails, meetings, and deadlines. I took a speed boat ride

through the rain forest, climbed Mayan ruins, and swam in gorgeous blue, calm water. I relaxed and gained a fresh perspective on my goals for the coming year. As a guest on a cruise ship, I was treated like royalty.

The vacation reminded me of how fortunate I am—purely by accident of my birth—to belong to the privileged of this world. Even though I have at times experienced religious prejudice, my life is blessed. I live in a country where, even as a female, I can receive an education, earn a living, marry the person of my choice, and raise the number of children I choose. My cruise experience, and the countries I visited, reinforced my awareness of the difference between the haves and the have nots. Years ago I wrote a poem about the divide between the privileged and underprivileged classes in our country. I pulled it out to reread and I'm sharing it with you below.

The New Year and its tradition of making resolutions coincided for me on this cruise and I decided that this year, my commitment wouldn't be to write more regularly or submit more often. My resolution wouldn’t be to lose weight or exercise three times a week. My resolution would push me to think outside of my own little world and do something to make the world a better place for those less fortunate than I.

May the New Year be good to you.


SIDE-BY-SIDE IN AMERICA: THE PLAYGROUND


Twisted gray weeds wrap around
rusted spikes
                                                      Manicured grass, plush, green
                                                      and well styled
where once the swings stood
                                                       under brilliant colored poles
Rats and roaches scuffle
among bottles, cans, and paper
finding their way to
                                                      Children laughing,
                                                      singing rhymes and shouting,
                                                      playing tag and statues
Termites on an endless feast
gorging themselves on
                                                      “See-saw Margery Daw”
Mosquitoes and flies hovering
around excrement and vomit
                                                      Uniformed nannies strolling flowered paths
                                                      pushing their carriages,
                                                      and gossiping sweetly
                                                      And the friendly policeman
                                                      tips his cap as they pass
a drunk beaten and robbed
lying under the bushes
blood inching down his mouth
and ear—his temple pulsing
                                                       the heavy thunder of roller skates
                                                       on cement
its redness turned brown by
an equal part dirt
                                                       “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
                                                       Humpty Dumpty had a great . . .”
“Help me,” faintly come
                                                        babies cooing as they have their
                                                        tummies satisfied with
                                                        bottles full of warm white
clouds turning black
as the chill of night sets in
                                                        And as the sun seeks the horizon
                                                        the nannies call the children
                                                        home
                                                        to an unappreciated dinner
                                                        and lush, warm beds
                                                        And the children laugh, and
                                                        run
                                                        “ . . . all the way, all the way home”
with the faint voice calling
                                                        “three, six, nine, I resign.”


Marjorie Brody is an award-winning author and Pushcart Prize Nominee. Her short stories appear in literary magazines and the Short Stories by Texas Authors Anthology and four volumes of the Short Story America Anthology. Her debut psychological suspense novel, TWISTED, was awarded an Honorable Mention at the Great Midwest Book Festival and won the Texas Association of Authors Best Young Adult Fiction Book Award. TWISTED is available in digital and print at http://tinyurl.com/cv15why or http://tinyurl.com/bqcgywl. Marjorie invites you to visit her at www.marjoriespages.com.