Thinking About the New Year

Okay, this will be short and sweet. I am struggling to balance everything in my life and recently it has felt like I am failing. But I am trying, and I am still writing-- every single chance I get. I refuse to give up on my art.

I have found myself intrigued by the flight of birds recently. There is something completely mesmerizing about the way they move together, in concert almost. I have fallen in love with starlings. At least I think they are starlings.

Today I offer you a poem about birds in flight and a picture I snapped early one morning.

Yeah, I know the birds aren't starlings. They are geese, but look at that sky.

New Year: Blue Sky or Grey

I've been thinking about this new year

How it rolled round before I'd finished with this last

How I've spent much of it watching birds

fly across desolate, 

yet beautiful skies

And how I've written so much

and yet so little

So much truth,

or at least truth to me,

because I am tired of 

ambiguity

of pretending happily-ever-after

is real;

But I am happy

despite all the 

upside down moments

Happy when the birds fly in concert

because then I understand how everything

all life

rises and falls,

dips and wavers,

until the end,

but that thought I save for next year

because this year the starlings

continue to rise up

higher

higher

blue sky or grey 

Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

Dog Days

It is still November and I am still attempting to write a poem a day (so far, so good, knock on wood), so I am once again sharing one of my poems. My muse came in the form of a small four-legged critter with very large ears. The poem is lighthearted and simple, but I think it speaks to the joy our animals bring to our lives.

Two wonderful puppies abide in our home, our handsome Jim the Dachshund and our sweet Chloe, a Rat Terrier/ Chihuahua mix.

Jimsy

Chlo-Chlo

She just joined our family a couple of months ago. She's a jumper and loves to play ball. When walking or playing she appears much bigger than her petite ten pounds, but when she curls up to sleep she looks  like the tiniest pile of fur, ears, and legs. Needless to say, we all love her, even Jim.

Suspicious Jim

And now, on to the poem, which is solely about Chloe. So read, enjoy, or whatever makes you happy.

All Ears

Chloe Sleeps Small

Awake

she is all

ears, eyes,

legs—

bouncing ball

Asleep

she becomes

soft, warm

fur—

small, round ball

                        Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

Chloe Sleeping

Erasing Poetry

It is National Novel Writing Month.

I have problems following rules.

So, of course, I am writing a poem a day.

Earlier in the week I decided to tackle an erasure poem. It is a pretty simple concept; pick a page or entry from something already written and work through it, erasing all the extraneous stuff until you have formed a poem. While it is quite a bit of fun, it is also harder than it sounds, but the results are often surprising and rather delightful.

I collect old text books. Well, at least I did collect them. I haven't picked up a new one in years. I am drawn to their colorful covers and quirky, almost always antiquated, verbage. I have one with the title The Care and Feeding of Children. It is hysterical, although it is certainly not meant to be.

I chose one of these old texts as the basis of my erasure poem. I chose the page by letting the book fall open to whatever page it would naturally go to. The title of the text, which was part of The International Scientific Series, and my poem is The Forms of Water.

And here are the results of this poetic experiment.

 The Forms of Water

You have not forgotten

the notion of polar force,

with this fresh in your memory

you understand expansion,

the act of crystallization.

I place before you

    —matter—

affected by gravity

Not only matter,

but magnetic matter.

They act upon each other

by the force of gravity,

the polar force of magnetism.

          Imagine them

       —perfectly free—

Gravity felt draws them together.

The force is insensible;

but when certain nearness

comes into play, the points close up,

retreat, require more room.

Suppose them surrounded;

it is easy to press, to burst

if the forces be sufficiently strong.

Here then, a conception of water,

like magnets; two distinct forces

approach each other

—attractive, repulsive—

emanating from special points.

The attracted close up, retreat,

turn and rearrange themselves,

demanding more space—

Overcoming all 

                                 Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

 

Autumn Motorcycle Ride

Last Friday we took the day off and went for a motorcycle ride. The weather was near perfect, with a cool bite to the air, but also a gentle warmth from the autumn sun.

While riding I often compose poetry or bits of a story. If I find a thought particularly compelling, I usually end up chanting lines to myself in my helmet, or better yet singing them over and over to some familiar melody.

I imagine I am a rather funny sight, but thankfully no one can really see me behind my tinted visor, right?

The feel of this particular day, with its warm autumnal light, sharp scents of wild onion softened by the sweet smell of woodsmoke, leaves brightening with the colors of fall, and empty roads, was a bit magical.

We stopped at a park and played on the playground equipment, taking silly photos, forgetting for a moment we were adults facing middle age.

This day also piqued my poetic bent and I put together an American: Haiku in the style of Jack Kerouac, who said in Reading Notes, 1965:

 "Then I'll invent
the American Haiku type:
The Simple rhyming triolet:--
Seventeen syllables?
No, as I say,
American Pops:--
Simple 3-line poems." 

 

So please, don't look for the traditional 3 lines with a 5-7-5 syllabic beat.

Instead look for the feeling of an Autumn day, of the transient, yet beautiful nature of life, and experience a fading moment wrapped in a golden haze.

Or, you know, just read the poem, look at the photos, and smile.




 Autumn Motorcycle Ride

Patchwork hills, skittering

leaves in sandalwood smoke,

your apple sweet kiss

                                                                  
                          Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

Feeling Ekphrastic

So, yeah, no blog last week. Things have been a-changing at my house, and in all the upheaval I failed to write a blog. But hey, no worries, I'm back.

I attended the Nimrod Conference for Readers and Writers at the University of Tulsa last Saturday. It was an excellent experience. I learned a bit in the workshops, and felt encouraged by the editor who looked at three of my poems. I was also reminded how much I love being in an environment comprised of folks who love literature. And how much I enjoy being around people who are working hard to hone their craft. Folks who are trying their best to make good art. It's an enlivening vibe. It sparks creativity. Good stuff, truly.

While there I attended a workshop by Katie Kingston centered around writing poetry in response to art. This is called ekphrastic poetry. The term was new to me, although I have written several poems in response to art.

Kingston handed out postcards embellished with paintings by famous artists. The class participants then wrote poems (or at least thoughts and ideas that could potentially become poems) in response to those paintings.

My painting was Flowering Garden with Path, 1888 by Vincent Van Gogh. Oh, how I love Van Gogh. This painting surprised me. It conjured up memories for me; memories of my mother, her gardens, and how fleeting life really seems to be.

Here's the painting I was working from and my poem. The poem is in very raw form and still needs work, but there is something I like about it.

My Mother's Garden, Unexpected

Along a barren path, my mother's flowers
glowing golden, red, blue
A dream, once dreamed,
                                   then forgotten

My mother's hands, browned by sun and soil,
the heaviness of earth filling my nostrils,
the honeyed scent of lilacs,
the slow drone of bees, melding with
my mother's song
                             long, low, off-key

The acidic bite of tiny tomatoes
both yellow and red,
warm with the heat of August

         And light, green and gold, filling me,
my mother, the evening sky

But only a dream, dreamed, then forgotten

Spring and Summer —gone
Autumn has gathered her leaves, dusting them
across the graves of all my loves
I stand in Winter's garden
                                       remembering
the chicken's cluck and cackle when wading
through the light and life of yesterday's garden
the apple tree, heavy with hope

Up the  dusty path I walk, slowly dragging bare feet,
delaying my exit,
birds, quivering in tree branches, call my name,
urging me forward
                            ever forward

I glance back before leaving

My mother kneels,  surrounded by color,
her head down, humming
                             
                                               Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

Heading for the Hills

Please forgive me as there will be no blog, because today we ride.

But as an offering I give you a poem I wrote several years ago about riding. Enjoy.

Leaning Past Forty on Deadman’s Curve

On the back of the bike,

we give into gravity’s downward pull and

lean into the curve,

pass the warning signs then

fly by the crooked wooden cross,

avert our eyes –

give the finger to death and

ride on –

Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

Driving in a Car, Going Nowhere

Cleaning the '69 International

My recent forays into past memories ended with me writing a poem about some of the cars and trucks we have owned.

They were mostly junk because we were poor. And because they were junk, we struggled to keep them running. Sometimes we walked miles to buy parts. 

Yet these inanimate objects that caused so much trouble have a special place in my heart. Not because of their material worth, but because my memory of them is intricately tied to so many other wonderful memories.

'63 Buick

Blue Audi

The Red Truck and Other Autos 

For a hundred dollars we bought the first

car we could really call ‘ours’

A sweet blue Audi, the color of a Kansas sky,

With problems—But you made it run

Until we gave it up, or it gave up

I don’t remember.

Then a Volvo, a hazy sort of blue,

how you loved it, even when we

were forced to walk miles and miles for parts

for a car with springs for seats.

Then a '69 International

red pickup truck I could never really drive,

although maybe in an emergency,

but it took us halfway across the country

from Kansas to Washington, Washington to

Kansas, Kansas to Washington, and on

to Tennessee where we sold it, but never got paid.

We drove from Oklahoma to repossess it,

Baby three along for the ride. What a thrill, to

steal what was rightfully ours.

We kept her for years, rusting and rotting away.

I cried the day the backwoods boys bought her and

drove her croaking and groaning down the road—

A fading piece of our history, bound in

rubber and steel.

Then there was the ’63 Buick Wildcat

That floated over highways, a behemoth

carrying kids and groceries

though her engine begged for more.

A sexy beast, rolling with curves, but

no air conditioning, so the black vinyl seats became

sweaty and slick in the heat of summer,

just a tease before changing to sheets of ice for

winter rides.

I keep thinking of the red pickup, the ’69 International,

how we rode through California, over the desert mountains,

in the dead of night. It was so dark, the stars so numerous, our

first baby, a daughter, so small. The road so very lonely. We

spiraled up and up those mountains, ever up, ever higher,

so high and lost in the dark night, split only by starlight,

I wondered if we would ever come back down again.
                                                                        Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012

'69 International Pickup