I am so happy for those of you who have commented here. I am getting the hang of it all; I intend to comment on your comments as time goes on. I want this to be the space where you can try on writing styles and forms as you respond to the prompts I will offer. I am hoping I am not in competition with myself! My thought is that we will be so inspired that we will want to keep up a conversation from the Saturdays that will take us all the way to next! I encourage you to try various styles of writing as you express yourself. I encourage you to use Grammar B as you poetize your words. I also encourage you to read poetry as you go through your daily lives. There are so many wonderful poets who speak in our language and the languages of old. Hafiz is my favorite Persian poet, although I'm sure I haven't read them all. The book called The Gift is truly an exceptional piece of work translated by Daniel Ladinsky. I corresponded w/ Daniel Ladinsky on several occasions. It was more than fab! You know I'd love to tell that story! Yes, I probably will on Saturday - for those of you who haven't already heard it!
So here is how I want this to work - I'm going to write a poem here (or another kind of prompt) ; read the poem, read it again; answer the questions like what does it mean to me? or what in the heck is she trying to say? (just answer the questions for yourself!); allow yourself to reflect upon the piece ...and then..and then ...take a deep breath and write. Something. Anything. Remember this not a conversation with others at this point, this is a response to a prompt. When the responses are in, then we will talk about them if you wish, always responding in love. Ready? Let's go!
humanness
so this incredible sunny day and freezing
one of those where even the brightest sun
couldn’t warm the bitter cold
my cheeks were chapped
stinging salt water
spilling from tear ducts
streaming as feelings could not
be saved for a rainy day
eroding make-up and moisturizer
my nose red raw
no sorrow hiding out
salient pain for anyone to pick up
and he did
about 35 or so
maybe 50
too street torn
to tell his age for sure
brown and gray smudged
any other day
my defenses would have prevented an interaction
any other day
this wrinkled dirty bum would have
stayed in his place
this day
the universe presented him to me
a gift
he offered me bus fare
on 14th street and 2nd avenue in
nyc
january 1974
and I didn’t accept his money
i continued to cry
to sob really to shake to weep
hardly coming up for air
he stood there with me in a silence
that held us separate and still on the busy morning
city street
a moment from a movie screen where all else
fades away or is
frozen or
black and white and
we were color and action
a damsel in distress
a bum
an angel
protecting me
asking me to trust
bloodshot eyes
locking our souls
he told me
all pain goes away
he offered me his brown bagged bottle
i declined
i did understand his humanity
our humanity
all humanity
something inside me gave way
he put his arm around me
and held me
until the bus came
when he released me
to go into the
cold world of
my life
© 2001 Petrina McGowen
first printed in This Old Human Woman 1998
Always LOVE,
Petee
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38 comments:
Okay I will be the first to go for it. I read it several times and the title spoke to me. humanness-sympathetic - humane. Just reading the title I knew it was going to be a good samaritan piece.
What does it mean to me?
The Universe is wise. Even in hour darkest hour there is a speck of light, goodness, a pearl, an angel, a gift, a hand, a penny, a sock, a pillow, or space to just be. She was able to trust and allow simple comfort.
I read this piece...re-read it...In my mind's eye, I could see the scene so clearly that I felt like I was inside the woman, looking out of her eyes. I could feel the raw red skin under her nose and feel the sort of desolation that would lead one to cry in the freezing cold brightness in the company of a questionable stranger.
I have lived frozen bright NYC days, and in that city so many percieve as heartless, I too have experienced acts of kindness from unlikely strangers. It always makes me want to shoput to the world, "See? New Yorkers are not cold. They are some of the world's best folks. They simply keep to themselves until thay're needed."
What could she have been weeping for, I wonder...and who was the man before he fell on desperate times? What was his story?
The sorrow was the great equalizer here, and the compassion of the human spirit, and the humanity.
She refused the bus money and the bottle, but she accepted his touch.
Beautiful word painting.
What is Grammar B?
Thanks Peetee.
OH, so NOW I think we are supposed to WRITE something INSPIRED by something in the poem! (smacking myself on the forehead). OK...
Tea time
There she'd be, every afternoon at four,
With her silver plated tray set up all pretty
With Ritz crackers and bits of cheese,
And her rotgut wine in a china cup,
Sitting all dressed up in her ragged, layered finery,
face bright with make-up
applied apparently without the aid of a mirror
Having a tea party with herself,
Happily conversing with people in her mind's eye,
Sitting legs splayed around her feast
On the damp, gray pavement
In the doorway of the Asia De China Restaurant
On Eighth Avenue and Thirtieth Street.
January 16, 2008 9:15 PM
Grammar B is not paying attention to the standard rules of the Evglish Language - Grammar, vocab and punctuation; creating your own. The deal is that you know you are doing it!
Yes, dear ones, write your own poem or prose from the prompt. We'll discuss as they post.
Wonderful poem Joellen. Still in New York. Still w/ the less than (as some may perceive.) I can see it...and feel it!
Joellen, that's an image my mind's eye will never forget.
I feel as if I have been challenged to write this, to overcome some kind of writing phobia. Who is this person in me who will suddenly write? Who in me is so rebelious as to go against her own self doubts, her own self government? I forgot I can break my own laws. I forgot who put them there. I realize it doesn't matter. She is the person in me who wants to be heard.
Well, I am so visual, Petee's poem painted this in my mind...
An Illustration
I can see the paint,
sharp air,
as if air could be seen.
Triangles
lots of triangles
And busy streets full of loneliness, just feet,
walking shoes
legs that stretch far beyond the barriers
I can see red knees next to building tops.
Trees brushing their shins.
And a girl in black, dripping,
so close to the ground.
Ripples form footsteps that lead to her past,
something,
or nothing happened there.
Street signs
are the only people to stand next to her.
And an angel.
Scratches, patchwork, collage of a man,
he breaks the triangles around her,
he lets her, frozen,
melt in still air.
The soul of a woman. The soul of a man. The truth comes out connects beyond the physical realm. What do they hear? What do they see? In a world where emotions don't lie, where emotions connect us to the physical universe. All those people on the street with unshed tears, those homeless souls who have the greatest gifts unknown. They hear the most. They see so close. I want to know about the street torn man. Where are his tears? Are they shed or are they given to the other voices in his head. All those on the street who cannot distinquish who, what, where. See me! Tell me where I am. They may usually be away but is it to a gray dark dreary place? He is teaching her in the giving. He sees above those aimless strollers, someone who knows. A Shaman in the making maybe. Hearing above the aimless chatter, seeing beyond the tall hovering buildings blocking the view of father sky, feeling below the dark cold footsteps on the hard concrete that separates us from mother earth. I think of the so named "mentally ill". Where are they? What do they see? Perhaps their souls are among those other souls we can't see, not on the streets in shadow form but way above father sky, grounded in light yet so far from sight.
Thank you Sam and Tara. I enjoyed your pieces. They were each beautiful in their own way.
I'm going to delete Tristan & Isolde.
Hope you had a great session today at Soul Writing.
Joellen, please I ask you not to remove your posts, your wonderful word creations. I was able to read one of your deleted pieces, and I loved it... no matter the subject and what other people may think of it, I am not here to judge it. In fact, your story of the bum in NYC was the perfect example of humanness, and I don't judge that man either. So please, allow yourself to keep your words in sight of others and shared; I too have trouble not deleting my post. Also I have chosen not to reply to other's pieces right away because I do not expect or necessarily want a replied comment about mine. But right now I just can't not say something. Please just keep writing Joellen, I do enjoy your truth. I love you very much. I love all the soul writers here.
Hi Sam,
Thank you for your encouraging words and your sweet wisdom. I love you too, and I loved your piece and it would be sad to have it go "Poof." AND I know what you mean about not commenting because you don't want comments.
Putting creative writing out in public feels really risky to me. It's different from regular blogging, because it's art.
I just got the feeling that people might have found that particular piece offensive; Like the way Mapplethorpe's photography had NYC in a tizzy because of the darkness of the subject matter, not that I'd compare myself to Mapplethorpe in skill, but you know.
I felt that it would lower people's opinion of me.
But it was real; it really happened and it really affected me, Mike as well, and since we were on the subject of street people...
Anyway, I saved a copy in my e-mail, and because you make sense with what you wrote, and so you'll leave your posts up too, and because you took the time to write that to me, and because I love you, and for a lot of other reasons, here it is, and no more deleting. (The other things I deleted were just inane questions and justifications. No loss there).
(Sorry, Peetee; I know we're not supposed to be conversing here. AND I'm purposely breaking the rule as an extension of Grammar B called ignoring the instructions.)
Love, J
An Alternate Human Condition:
"Less Than"
The air whips icily through the columns of the bulidings down the long blocks as we briskly walk the streets to the subway. We hurry down the steps, hoping to catch an express train; we have tickets to Tristan and Isolde somewhere down in the East Village in a little theatre I'd never heard of..It is 1984, but it could be any time. We emerge from the warmth of the subway and the streets are smaller here, the buildings less imposing; a warehouse here, a few apartment buildings, a parking lot... My earlobes are freezing to the point of pain from the metal of my earrings, and I pull into myself, hunching into my scarf.
And as we cross the street, we see him. On a small island of pavement in front of a corrugated metal door, lit by the streetlight in a spotlit vignette that almost appears to be a still life, lies a man in fetal position...passed out? Asleep? Alive? His clothing is dark with grime, his skin is black. His trousers are down around his thighs, his buttocks exposed, but apparently cleftless; and emerging from the middle like an odd, smooth appendage is a huge frozen log of excrement, blending into his seamless bottom, which has been plastered closed with the remnants of its predecessors.
Mike and I look at each other, and there is nothing to say, our eyes say it all...so we keep on walking to our theatre, and the performers perform, and superimposed over the entire production, burned into our brains for all time, forever tied in with Tristan and Isolde is the image of that lost soul.
Her Cry
Why is it I reject life so?
Why do I have to feel this pain of separation?
as adulthood comes.
I am torn farther and farther
away.
Is it childhood?
innocence
play
Is it mother?
her touch
love
womb?
Was it before,
is it regret?
I want to remember how it is
I want to be there,
away.
When can I go?
When am I done?
Give me an exit forever.
My insides twist in so much sorrow
I want to see you Daddy,
please can I stay?
A dream is not enough for I am not always awake
It slips away too fast.
Will I someday ever be able to stay?
In the painting.
can I live there
until then?
Live breathing
waiting
automatic
moving earthly time,
Until
Now?
When?
Why did I say yes?
It makes me ache,
shiver to the core.
I'm so mad!
Can I beat away this existence?
Scream, "let me go!"
I can't see or feel what holds me.
Is it contract,
a commitment?
stronger than I am.
I don't want to come back.
I'm not.
I know.
Hello you lovers of the language...you lovers of the soul...you lovers of the self...
I am so excited about the writing that I am reading. I want to say so much about each piece to each writer and I want to say it all so that everyone can benefit. First, I think I want an agreement from all of you who are writing. It seems to me (actually a little bird told me) that there are those who want to respond and yet feel impeded by the great writing that we are experiencing. It does take guts to go public with a piece... at least the first time or two. It's like you are really putting out a piece of yourself. Writing it down and publishing, even on a blog, could have an effect that can feel overwhelming and scary. And then you read someone'else's piece and you say, I'm not as good...I'll never be as good. And so you delete or never post. And then after you post, you have buyer's remorse....what will THEY think?
I want to try a new way of posting. What if each of you sent your pieces to me via email and I post them all on the same day. So that way, everyone gets posted at the same time. I'll give three days after I post the prompt for you to write and email. Once each piece is posted, then we comment. And we always remember to comment with LOVE. This way we stay with the prompt all the way through, each person has the same opportunity to write and then we can all comment on each other's and then the next prompt...and we repeat that process. What do you all think?
Thus far,the writing and the expression is fantastic... stupendous. I hear words and thoughts I've never heard from some of you. I know you are feeling the prompt and connecting to your own stories, which again remember, may have nothing to do with my prompt.
Sam, your voice as a poet is as pure as your painting. Continue to write and to express your feelings through these words!
Joellen, you poetry and prose is so full of imagry and reality and life. You create quite an important impact - my wish is that you allow the fear of what others may think of you to release from you... or else know that what others may think of you is infused with awe.
Tara, thank you for your deep thought and wonderings. Have you answered any of those questions? Hmmmm.
And the rest of you... your comments are valuable and I wish for you to send in your own writing from the prompts to share and feel. It's kind of like improv ... just jump in the water... allow the epsom salts of the prompt draw the writing out of you and run down the drain of posting!
Always LOVE,
Petee
Oh and...new prompt on Thursday. Let me know between now and then what you think of my idea of sending to my eamil!
LOVE LOVE,
P
Sweet Peet...
Thank you for your love, insights and encouragement, and also for the thought you put into finding a solution to the intimidation factor. Personally, posting directly is OK with me, and I promised Sam I would not delete any more posts, and so I won't. As for being afraid someone's work is better than mine, that makes me smile. I know that across the board in life, there is ALWAYS someone's work that's better, always someone's work that's not. Each of us in our own right has something to say, and each of us does her personal best, and that is what I want to do, my personal best. Someone whose work is "better" is to me simply an inspiration. So, I'm on the fence about the all write/all post at once e-mail thing, because I believe we inspire each other with our pieces, and we lose that with the "surprise attack" method.
That said I will happily go along with the consensus. I am just so glad to have a REASON to write creatively. I will do it no matter HOW you want to format it. So my vote is non-partisan.
AND e-mail is a good idea.
As for us commenting with LOVE...if you go to the blog site, you will see love expressed there always between the participants, and you can rest assured that is how it will be in this blog. This I KNOW.
I love you, and I THANK YOU.
LOVE LOVE right back,
J
Flood of Tears
Two score long years gone by,
Silence through the years,
Mistaken perceptions
and blind youth create
Separate paths.
Thoughts whisper through time,
(The tenderness, the very innocence, naivete' of youth recalled),
And drift away
As softly as they came.
Life happens, days unfold,
One by one,
On and On,
Pages turned, turned, turned,
Each with it's own small story.
Some form chapters,
Some, simply verses;
Life stories unfold.
Years in sheafs.
Picture in an album,
Picture in a box...
Letters in two bundles saved
movie ticket stubs...
They never forget.
Through unions and children
And heartache, and love's Disappointments,
Over miles and years
And joys and tears,
Searching souls for something lost,
But what is it?
And he finds her.
And he writes.
And she replies.
Lifetimes shared in neutral notes,
Always careful what they wrote
For years
They pretend
To be friends.
Understanding
Empathizing
Then with horror,
Realizing...
And she cracks.
And he sends Wordsworth in reply.
And so it starts,
The flood of tears.
"What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass,
Of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;"
William Wordsworth
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
His Humanness
Who was he?
Dirty Blonde hair
Blue eyes
Tall
Lanky
Athletic
Oldest Brother
Oldest Son
Oldest Grandson
Sad
Quiet
Angry
Druggie
Athlete
Worker
Molester
Abuser
Teacher
Thief
Construction Worker
What did he do?
Stole
Cheated
Lied
Worked
Played Pool
Drank
Did drugs
Hit
Touched
Tickled
Licked
Sucked
Raped
Fucked!
Beat
Shot!
Cut
Stabbed!
Tied down
Burned!
Hid my soul in the unknown
Hid my heart in the abyss
Hid my tears inside
Caused my body to freeze
Helped construct the walls
Took my innocence
Took my childhood
Hid my joy
Hid my trust
Taught me Fear
Taught me Shame
Died!
Because of his Humanness
Petee I am for emailing you the responses. Thanks for providing this space.
Thanks everyone for sharing.
I feel sucky today!!!!!
Is there anyway you can remove the word verification? It sucks!!!
Word for today Suck!
For the record...
- I don't like the word verification either.
- Terrie I hope you feel better.
- Email is OK with me. (It does give us an "opt out option as well).
Thanks, j
And Terrie, THANK YOU for posting your piece!!!!!!!!!
Petee, I'll try the email thing... however I have to say I like being able to post on my own, without a time restraint. I don't know if I will be participating in soulwriting all the time anyways...
love, sam
Peetee Cake Petee Cake
Baker's woman,
Write us a prompt as fast as you can!
Compose it, transpose it,
And mark it with a "P"
Put it on the blog
For the others and me. :)
Peetee, are you OK?
John Keats
Ode to Psyche
I read it for the first time today.
I like it. I wish to be Psyche!!!
I will leave my window open so love is able to come in........
Petee has been under the weather.
Aphrodite was jealous of Psyche!!!Eros pricked himself and fell in love with her.
Go Psyche - Go Psyche - Go Psyche!!
Psyche in Greek = Soul
Thanks Terrie. I'm sorry to hear abote Peetee not feeling well. :(
I want her always to feel good and be happy.
I used to love Greek Mythology & read it all the time (back in Junior High)but I don't remember most of the stories any more.Just the obvious ones, like the harpies, the minotaur, the grayei, medusa, the guy with his liver getting pecked out every day by eagles for giving man fire...
I'll have to get naked & read Keats now, Terrie, LOL!
OHHH NO!!!!!!
Yeah, brings to mind one of Sam's saggy old people...
Peteeeeee
Peek a boo - Where are you?
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