The Gods are throwing bowling balls,
cracking fissures in the sky.
Lucille’s mother was a gifted poet with only an elementary school education. Her poetry was offered publication but Lucille’s father wouldn’t allow it and forced her to burn the poems in the fireplace. It’s said Lucille never forgot it and I’m sure it shaped much of her own poetry. About the incident, she wrote a poem called “fury”:
“her hand is crying. / her hand is clutching / a sheaf of papers. / poems. / she gives them up. / they burn / jewels into jewels.”
She was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for two separate books in the same year: Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir (1987), and Next: New Poems (1987). She won the National Book Award for Blessing the Boats (2000); the 2007 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize; and the Frost Medal from the Poetry Society of America in 2010, just before her death.
When I discovered Lucille’s work I felt energized. Her messages of empowerment and self-love are lessons every one of us should take to heart and put into practice. How great it must have been to hear her read in person.
There’s a column in the weekend Wall Street Journal that I enjoy reading called “20 Odd Questions”. All sorts of people are quizzed, from actors to artists, athletes to writers, designers to scientists. It’s interesting to read the answers and, often, you learn something new or glean tips you can use yourself. I like to answer the questions from my pov so I thought it’d be fun to answer this week’s list and post it here. I eliminated some of the questions that didn’t apply and came up with 13 Odd Questions.
My dream dinner party would include guests like:
Patti Smith, Lucille Clifton, Joan Didion, Swoon, Helen Mirrin, Maria Popova, Toni Morrison, Amanda Palmer, Dianne Ackerman, James Corden, Idris Elba, Depak Chopra.
I never leave the house without:
lipstick on. Not even to walk the dog around the block. It’s because my face is so beige.
The place I’d love to return to is:
New York City. Let’s go.
The album from my childhood that I still listen to is:
Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors
The oldest piece of clothing in my closet is:
a tee shirt with Micky and Minnie on it from the early ’70’s. I slept in it for years but now it’s ripped and holey. I just can’t throw it away.
I love to collect:
I don’t collect much anymore but I save a lot of stuff on Pinterest. I do like kitschy garden art. My husband would say I collect handbags and shoes but he has no idea what a real collection looks like.
The book I love to read again and again is:
Dorianne Laux‘s Smoke. I love her poetry. It’s so honest, human, and accessible.
My favorite cuisine is:
Anything cooked by Ree Drummond. I love her cooking show, never miss an episode. Every recipe of hers I’ve tried has turned out great. But Italian cuisine is a close second.
My day isn’t complete until:
I’ve read some poetry.
The most used app on my phone is:
The most stylish fictional character is:
Carrie Bradshaw, of course.
I unwind at the end of the day by:
I try to listen to a podcast when I go to bed. I enjoy The New Yorker’s “Modern Love” and “The Writers Voice”.
If money were no object I would buy:
it’s a tie between an apartment in Manhattan or a place in Italy, maybe near Lake Como.
And their voices rose
pushing foggy ignorance
into the atmosphere
toward the stratosphere
away past the stars
around white dwarfs
into the biggest
in the memory of everything
that ever was or will be.
That is the power of community.
Written from the dVerse prompt “signs”.
A plastic bag in the wind is trash
to some, beauty to others.
Who’s to say what’s right or wrong?
Desperate eyes see freedom in lift and airiness,
a thing not of nature riding on nature’s wings,
accepted without question, unencumbered
by expectations, allowed to be
its most spontaneous, creative self. A vessel
to hold other things, it’s true, but filled
with possibilities of what those things might be.
Poem inspired by the plastic bag scene in the film American Beauty which I find achingly sad yet hopeful.
There’s that damn watery moon again –
the same one that used to look in on us
in the tired-as-crap early morning hours
tangled in each other’s wild-ass wonder,
ribs on vertebrae, clavicle on cheekbone,
arms stretched to the breaking point as feet
beat a staccato on torn sheets. She won’t look
away, that moon, watching through the window,
inching silently across my strip of sky until
she disappears and I’m left with counting
the dawns until she and you return.
Image by Susan Clements. Thanks for inspiring this poem, Susan!