Again, my apologies for falling off the face of the planet this month. I have finished the school year and started a new job. Unfortunately, this will leave me even less time for outside activities, and I am going to take a break from commenting on the NAMI blog this summer. That doesn't mean that you all have to stop posting, however. If its helpful to you, please keep posting and commenting for each other. If anyone is interested in the fall, please send me an e-mail at akeener@iastate.edu and we can start up again with weekly posts (as long as you are willing to be patient with my sporadic responses). I want to thank you for sharing your work with me. It has been a privilege to read it and I am grateful that you trusted me to do so. I hope that you were able to progress as writers, and I want to stress again how meaningful it was to me to read your work. I wish you happy writing and a wonderful summer!
Sincerely,
Anna Keener
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Mandy's Story Part 1
 Brenda came home from getting her nails done. As her 2011 Mercedes pulled into the drive, she noticed the landscaper trimming the shrubs. The housekeeper, Marie, was there that day and opened the door for her to enter the large house set in a gated community. The aroma was wonderful and Brenda wondered what Marie had made for lunch. Her black high heels clicked with every step she took on the marble floor. As she ate, she and Marie discussed what would need to be packed for her trip to Italy next week. She needed to ask her husband to get the jewelry from the safe deposit box. Brenda had always lived a fast-paced, A type personality life. She worked hard and played hard too. She had come from a wealthy family, and had just retired from a lucrative real estate firm. She generally spent her afternoons by the pool, margarita in hand. Her husband was a successful civil engineer, so Brenda had her days to herself. John frequently worked until 8:00 PM, finishing his day with a business dinner. As Brenda started up the stairs to change, she stopped and looked at the portraits of her children, Thomas, twenty-tree, and Amy, twenty-one. They were both doing well at their respective universities. Thomas was in the drama club, frequently the lead male. Amy was an exceptional violin player. John and Brenda had a good relationship, and got along well with parents and in-laws. They generally attended a concert or theater performance together once a month, and often met for brunch after church on Sunday. Despite all of this, Brenda had never felt content. She had a persistent restless, empty feeling as though something was missing from her life. That afternoon, she was to play bridge with two of her friends, the third having recently moved out of state. Short a player, they had invited an acquaintance, Linda, to play with them that day. Linda lived down the street in the same gated community, but didn't move in the same social circle as Brenda and her friends. Brenda had heard that Linda spent her days volunteering at a homeless shelter in the city. During the game, Linda mentioned how short of help they were at the center. She had volunteered there for the past three years. The local churches were good at making financial contributions, but volunteers were hard to find. People were too busy, and the work not glamorous. Linda had been raised in the inner-city by a single mother. Scraping together enough money for the rent each month was difficult with her minimum wage job. They made frequent trips to the food bank in order to have enough to eat. Linda started waitressing at a little family cafe when she turned fourteen. She would study after getting home at night. She was able to maintain good grades as school had always come easy for her. She was quite interested in the social sciences. Working hard, she obtained a scholarship to college. Staying in the dorms was the first time she she was exposed to people coming from wealthier homes. Linda worked her way through college and sent any left over money home to her mother who continued to struggle financially. In her senior year, she met the man who would become her husband. He came from a wealthy family, and had a prosperous career ahead of him as an architect in his father's firm. After marriage, Linda worked part-time as a social worker, but her main interest was helping those in poverty. She had held a variety of volunteer jobs before landing at the homeless shelter where she immediately felt at home. The center was chronically short of staff, and with Easter weekend approaching, it probably would not get a lot better. Since Brenda was now retired, Linda asked her if she would give it a try. Brenda hesitantly agreed, but was uneasy about the type of people she would meet there. She had the common stereotypical view of the homeless as being lazy, drug addicts, criminals or mentally ill. Yes, there are some of those, but many more people just down on their luck. Linda asked if she could begin Easter weekend. They were seriously short of help and planned to serve an entire Easter dinner on Sunday noon. Brenda consented, but was still nervous about the types of people she would meet there. But as promised, she left with Linda for the homeless shelter on Saturday AM. She shunned her dress clothes and managed to find a sweatshirt, jeans and tennis shoes. When she arrived at the shelter she was given a burgundy apron to wear. That is apparently how they tell the difference between clients and volunteers, as they really aren't that much different, other than which side of the serving line they are standing on. There was row after row of bunk beds, one wall was lined with toilets and bathing facilities, a second wall was partially lockers in case the clients had possessions worth spending 25 cents to lock up. There were also racks of donated clothes for the truly needy. The third wall was lined with card tables and chairs, and a few donated children's toys. The last wall was the meal service line, separating the kitchen from the rest of the facility. As Brenda met the other volunteers and got busy with her tasks, she began to relax. There was ham to slice, rolls to bake, fruited jello, sweet potatoes and pies, Brenda had never seen so many pies. It was estimated they would serve 300 people rather than the usual 150. The meal tables had been donated from a local school after a remodeling project. They weren't attractive, but they were clean and functional. Brenda was asked to help with the serving line at lunch while most of the others worked on preparing for tomorrow's Easter dinner. Each person received one sandwich, a handful of chips and a cookie. There was some sort of purple koolaid to drink. Milk was reserved for those eight and under. Most of the food was donated by local stores and a few of the local churches. As the clients started through, Brenda looked more at ease. She noted there were a lot of men going though, but also some women and children. She would glance at their faces, noting many were fairly young. They appeared clean for the most part other than unkempt hair, worn clothes. Many carried backpacks, which she assumed contained a good share of what they owned. Looking up into the sea of sad faces, she saw Mandy who had grown up down the street and played with Brenda's children. She looked as if she had aged an additional ten years beyond Brenda's children. Mandy politely introduced herself, her husband Seth and their two small children with a toddler in tow. Brenda wondered what had happened, but she knew the line needed to keep moving. She vowed to herself to catch up with Mandy and her family later and find out what had happened. To be continued as Mandy's story:
|
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Ruth, April 3
I have some questions about this, but I don't want to bias anyone's view, so I'll ask after you've read this and tell me if it makes any sense, lacks subtlety, is too morbid, whatever. (Hey, those are my questions!)
...............................................................................
'Til Death Do Us Part/Bone of My Bone(s)
Conceived in darkness,
you were born on a stunning
June day. We honored
you with champagne
and a three-tiered cake.
You wore a halo of golden rings.
For a few giddy months you
glowed with your own light.
We wrapped you in a silk quilt
and couldn't take our eyes off you.
We wanted to learn everything
you were. Your breath
whispered to us all night and we
listened to your limbs rustle
under the bedclothes.
Then the curtains fluttered open
and we breathed the sweet lure
of earth's aura. We looked out
the window to the open arms of the oaks
and knew it was the season to wean you.
At times we forgot to feed you
or cover you at night. We let
you sleep in dirty denims,
your thin fingers catching
in holes frayed by wear.
We blamed each other into
silence and didn't teach you
the words you needed, to grow.
You learned to talk listening
to the jays quarrel in the brush.
In the dim light of our home
your sight grew weak. Your
watery blue eyes followed
us out of the house as we
went our separate ways.
You sat behind closed
doors in stale gray air
and your strength faded
pale as the midday moon
against a smoky sky.
One stormy day we watched your slender
veins stop pulsing, until you lay flaccid/limp
in the tempest. The wind blew until
the trees bowed and the soil rose to swallow
you into darkness, where you began.
Monday, March 28, 2011
A Good Life
|
Be sure to go online at FanStory.com to comment on this.
| © 2011 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement |
When Our Souls Dance
|
Be sure to go online at FanStory.com to comment on this.
| © 2011 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement |
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Ruth, March 22
Here is the only one left of the NAMI booklet poems that I need criticism for. There is another, but it's not ready to post. There's also another, "Son," which I might use for a workshop. There's a deadline to submit a 20 or fewer line poem soon.
As usual, the italics are phrases I'm not sure about, the slashes are choices, one or the other.
As usual, the italics are phrases I'm not sure about, the slashes are choices, one or the other.
Marking Mother
We walk beneath the hospital
in an endless corridor
lined with closed doors
and waiting patients,
a surreal dream.
Your frail form is so insubstantial
that when I hold your arm
I have to use all my weight
to keep you from floating away.
I tether you to me
as I was once to you.
There is a moment of silence
when the others,
solid and alive with hope,
suck in your spectral/ephemeral presence.
Then they return
to their hushed, nervous conversations.
Not here for levitation,
but radiation,
the doctor tattoos
your pale skin
with intricate hieroglyphics.
He ornaments your cheek and neck
like a magical incantation,
a comfort,
until he etches,
an X at the center of your forehead.
Son
Son
I pushed him head first into the light. He
squinted his eyes and moved forward, wore holes
in his overall knees, ran barefoot to the sandbox,
shoved through the weighty door of school.
He was a planet in orbit around me; I wanted
to shine on him like the sun. I sustained him
with whole milk, day camp, the World Book.
He grew so strong and fast I couldn't keep up.
He fueled his body with his own choices:
Pizza, beer, smoke. He wore baggy
jeans, his hair hung in dreads, girls' high
voices spiraled from his cell at two a.m.
One windy day, he spun away from me at light
speed, his childhood and my motherhood
crammed in his ragged backpack. Unfinished,
I meant to give him courage and spirituality.
Now he hurtles, directionless, away, away. As my
light dims I must trust he'll arrive in the shining
place he needs to be. If he travels far enough,
he'll see me, like a star, long after I'm gone.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Ruth, March 20
A rewrite of an older one. Italicized words with slashes are word choices. I like "tribal" and "blood" best but don't know if they fit, especially "tribal," and especially in the second choice for last stanza where they come before the "family tree" phrase, though I prefer this order for the last stanza. Any other comments also appreciated.
I just had another thought. For the last stanza I could add another line, being able to say a little more about the "trouble," then end with a one line stanza, "She shuts the door firmly behind her." What do you think?
Happy first day of spring
I just had another thought. For the last stanza I could add another line, being able to say a little more about the "trouble," then end with a one line stanza, "She shuts the door firmly behind her." What do you think?
Happy first day of spring
Granddaughter at Sixteen
A peal of laughter seeps through the wall, whirls
dust into a golden galaxy in the window's light.
Inside, her room is a kaleidoscope of crumpled
clothes and incense, an ever-present phone,
psychedelic sketches hanging askew, a patchwork
of red textbooks and pink paperbacks.
She pliés, plucks a bright rag from the floor,
slips it over her slender neck, and it falls,
polished silk, to sheath her lithe frame.
Her flexible backbone twists her upright,
she glissades to the kitchen, cell to her ear,
a rosy shell. She's all creamy-skinned ease.
She bows before the refrigerator and rises
with a bowl of chili and sharp cheddar,
spoons it through the perfect coil of her mouth,
and still her skin is scented with honey, her breath
a confection. I'm astonished this is the surly girl
who threw herself on the floor wailing at fourteen.
She moves to the den with grace, her arms sweep the air
as if pruning the past, praising what is yet to come.
She opens Pandora on the Dell, turns the volume
to a high, throbbing beat. One raised eyebrow
expresses her boredom with my company. Leaving
the music to pulse, she spin-steps back to her room.
She shuts the door firmly behind her. Tendrils
of my DNA spiral in her cells, filaments of ancestors
incandesce her flesh, and sometimes she half-laughs,
a gesture, her mother's and mine, that climbs down
the family tree into the future. I foresee challenges
for her, troubles that flow in our tribal/inherited/familial/genetic blood/veins.
or
She shuts the door firmly behind her. I foresee
challenges for her, troubles that flow in our tribal/inherited/familial/genetic
blood/veins. Tendrils of my DNA spiral in her cells, filaments
of ancestors incandesce her flesh, and sometimes
she half-laughs, a gesture, her mother's and mine,
that climbs down the family tree into the future.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)