Leavin' On a Jet Plane

My deployment has been moved up, so I'm now leaving the US and headed for Chile, Palmer Station, and the Research Icebreaker Laurence M. Gould on Sunday, April 2. The same day that Marc has to go to Chile for 10 days. Claire will be spoiled rotten by her Grammy and Grandad until Marc gets back, and a great friend is house/dog sitting. While I know this is all good and Claire will be fine, if I think about it too much, I start grinding my teeth with anxiety about leaving her for 22 days.

But it will be a very productive deployment, with more scheduled that we might be able to accomplish, and many, many poems to work on. Keep an eye here; I'll send blog posts via email, and pictures to my flickr account, when I go.

Dos pisco sours, por favor.

AWP Aftermath

I love going to AWP. I love it because:
1. I see all of my greatest writer friends and the greatest writers I admire.
2. I buy lots and lots of poetry books (thank goodness they're skinny)
3. I almost always get a jump-start on my own writing.
4. I love cooking at home after eating out for 5 days.
5. I get very big smiles from a happy baby upon my return.

I have now drafted many many poems, and some will live, and others will fade
away.

Claire Learns

sitting on my own in my crib
Originally uploaded by squeedunk.

It's truly amazing how fast kids learn. Claire now wakes up from nap/nighttime and kicks this aquarium toy on. she uses her feet to scoot around in the crib so she's facing it (she doesn't sit up on her own yet), and kicks the spinny things to make noise and the shell to turn on the music and moving fishies. I am amazed by her, and love listening to her play over the monitor. She must get her brains from her daddy.

successful failures

Read at your own risk: I do think this poem is a successful failure in that I think the form didn't work (perhaps because of the repeated phrase) but the subject, and some of the language, is extractable for another poem sometime.

Bed Rest Ghazal

I see all the gray skies from here in bed.
Clouds are no more than eyes and fear in bed.

When belly moves on its own wise accord,
nothing stops the lightness of cares in bed.

A small consolation, hiccups from inside
a uterus tied together in bed,

tied to keep a baby safe. To keep
a baby unborn and quiet. In bed,

I am told I am a soldier made
for fighting by staying in bed.

I am told this is the only way.
I try to ignore the voices in bed.

A bed is prickly pears covered in down
or an ice sheet cracking to water the bed,

an island with trees of pillows
where sleep is like grains of sandy beach in bed.

Birds eat the grass seed in the backyard, and
lilacs match the beauty of an ear in bed.

I quiet everything with my fingertips
and pray we both survive the bed.

In bed, all senses are by extension.
In bed, we breathe and breathe. In bed.