Yesterday was International Poetry Day. I was reminded by a dear friend’s text this morning. I typically write my blogs on Sundays but, as anyone who is reading this series knows, I am not “on schedule” these days thanks to the extended visit of my fabulous son. So, let’s pretend it’s yesterday and dedicate this space to poetry today. Because any day is a good day for a poem!
One thing I inadvertently did do in homage to Poetry Day yesterday was have dinner with my daughter, one of the most gifted poets you’ll read. Here’s one of her many:
8th Grade Layer Cake
by Kayla Ephros
the horny 8th graders in my art class
are all taller than me and it is
horrible
their performance of coupledom
under the table
all the shaved knees knocking
gobstopper manicures and remember
ink poisoning?
the other day Iʼm looking for
money from the old me
and feeling guilty for it too,
feeling like a flimsy
piece of trash
digging in the pockets of
my misfits jacket with
the visitor sticker
visiting the 5th graders
who are still kind
I am meant to teach them science
but itʼs easy, we talk about
mind/body or landscape
but imaginary…
cross-section layers
shapes
biodegradable dolls
clothing
mind/body wigs
chair
body extensions
cake
exquisite corpse
pillows
doll burial
digestion
safety costumes
shapes
when I was in 8th grade,
I was told that wearing a sweatshirt
all winter
would create the effect of
bigger boobs come spring
I think of the Jubilee
the renewal of the land
my haftarah and its
transliteration
always cheating all the time freeze-ing
that sweatshirt with the cat pee
the other night I was working
at a brothel and this guy
in a Spiderman thong asked me
If I actually had boobs
I was about to show him but then
just said yes
and walked down the long
hallway identical to the one
in my apartment
Iʼm certain itʼs only a veil
certain I woke up with
those wages
sleeping beside the spell book
and the almanac, ever a keepsake
waking up to my naked neighbor
amidst the bamboo, having
come straight down the mountain
speaking with Joanna of inky
art projects, shooing Spiderman
because he found me there too
turning over into a new kind
of sleep, a version
that’s brighter
like if sleep were a job
I’d be paid better
all of the brothel rooms have
windows on the doors
big cracks, leaks
for looking on
deja-vu and movies, party girl
and the other party girl
up and down and open
and shut and up and down
and in and out until the
mirror shatters
I reverse this omen
into a time capsule
while the early chapters at the brothel
lie beneath the scalloped
edge of each day,
an ant farm
we used to treat our science teacher
like an ant, of course because
we all felt like ants ourselves
punished, low
I imagine sometimes getting high
before class, but now
Iʼm the teacher
haha
body extensions
cake
exquisite corpse
pillows
LOL
at work I never know
what anyone is talking about
when he says how quiet it is
I say
I guess we are now used to
the drum of rain?
I cry a tear with all this
information but itʼs just
from the sunscreen
the watercolor
the early morning
what have I learned today?
the origins of chrome yellow,
Marigold, what have I forgotten
the teacher survey
the plaid skirts
what time of year is it here
I never know if we’ve just summited
winter or summer, which
dent of vacation on the soft egg
I learned that if youʼre eating
you should just eat, and if youʼre walking
you should just walk but if youʼre eating
and walking you should just eat and walk
And here’s one of my favorite poets – way ahead of HER time:
We never know how high we are (1176)
Emily Dickinson – 1830-1886
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—
Now, this man’s work I was only somewhat knowledgeable about. When he died, the West Coast papers schooled me!
“The world is a beautiful place”
Lawrence Ferlinghetti – 1919-2021
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don’t mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don’t mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don’t sing
all the time
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don’t mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn’t half so bad
if it isn’t you
Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don’t much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen
and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to
Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs of having
inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally
‘living it up’
Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling
mortician
And this one here pulled at my already frayed heart-strings
For the Sake of Strangers
No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waiting patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day it continues, each kindness
reaching toward another—a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them—
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.
And finally, here’s one I wrote in my journal in January. (This is straight from the journal, not a crafted piece).
It’s cloudy-
notable in LA
in LA where the sun shines hard and bright
Mountains, my mountain, shows shadows today
and I marvel at the ins and outs of darkness
Cars whiz down North Verdugo
often I don’t hear of them –
until there are none
and it is silent
And then I wonder if, perhaps,
I like noise these days more than peace.
Why not share your favorite poem — in the comments on my blog or on this platform.
May you give and receive love, health, and poetry in your life.
Katie Singer 