Middle of Nowhere

Did you forget how you got here?  

You were encircled by strong winds from the east,  

Dropped miles from where life makes sense.  

You have been surviving since then - 

If you can call it that - 

Waiting until it's safe

To emerge from the shelter.

Inspired by the CD Middle Cyclone by Neko Case

Rug Burn

He asks about the dark mark on my back
As if this was the first time he had entered me from behind
As if this was the first time he had ever noticed me
He touches the mark, "It looks like a burn"
I hesitate to answer

I drove him home from the airport
He welcomed me inside with kisses
I stood up against the wall
His mouth visited the places he missed
I don't remember sliding to the floor
I do remember losing myself in green eyes
I felt the sting after we wore out our welcome

After a pause I say, "It was a burn"
I don't say it hasn't quite healed

Snow Drift

Miles plays an offering to the gods
My thoughts drift to him
While I wait for snow

Last time our bodies curled together
Arm hung over waist
Back pressed against chest

He read Anne Sexton over my shoulder
I listened to her words on his breath
With eyes closed

I imagine him at the small desk
Curled over in concentration
More edits to chapter one

I sit at the dining room table
Surrounded by stacks and stacks
Bills to be paid, papers to be filed

He sends a message
Once he reaches a good place
The precise moment my life feels in order

I want him to come over
But Miles has already begun
To work his magic

Suitcase

Revised based on input from the Poet's Workshop
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He watched as she took her suitcase down the stairs
It bulged with her last-minute possessions,
But she didn't seem to struggle with it.
She continued down the flight of stairs
Her left hand on the handle on the top
Her right hand on the side;
She bore the weight against her right hip
Using the railing to maintain balance and control.

She looked up at him
From his perch, he could see her tears.
He couldn't understand why was she crying now.
She had gotten everything she wanted -
The movers packed up all the things that were hers,
Most of the things that were theirs and his bed;
Only the computer and his clothes remained.
She had it easy
She got to move on
He had to start over.

She wheeled her suitcase to her car
He watched from the balcony of the empty apartment
She willed herself not to turn around
He didn't see her lose that battle
He had already gone back inside.

Why I Love "The Sun"

There was a point in time where my mailbox was littered with magazines - weeklies, monthlies, bimonthlies, special issues - more than my two eyes (even with the aid of contact lenses) could read before the next batch arrived. So I made a conscious effort to cut back. I opted out of the killing of trees to support my information junkie habit by allowing subscriptions to come to their natural end and turning a blind eye to renewal notices. I whittled my subscriptions down to the four I thought most supported who I was - or at least the person I was trying to be: 1) The New Yorker, 2) Poet’s & Writers, 3) Yoga Journal, and 4) Black Enterprise. Alas, even these four magazines were too much. I replaced the hard copies of the last three with their electronic newsletters, and struggled to find time to read more than just the weekly fiction piece in the New Yorker. So when the idea to subscribe to The Sun came to me last May, I had to seriously question my motives.

I learned about the magazine in my weekly writing group (our fearless leader works there) where we wrote a few times on the "Reader's Write" topics, but really had no clue on what was in it. I took a leap of literary faith when I signed up for a year's subscription - and am so glad I did because each month I get to read things like this:

“The train shuttles past 125th Street and into a dark tunnel. There is just the feeling of forward momentum, the train car jostling on the tracks, and the sound of mechanical squealing. Then suddenly there is light again, the yellow surge of Grand Central ahead.” (from Boston to New York by Christina Fitzpatrick - March 2009 issue p. 25)

I read this passage about five times on the bus yesterday. Reading this paragraph brought me back to the countless number of times I have ridden the subway, LIRR, Metro North, and Amtrak in my lifetime. I felt like I was on the train - right there with the main character, which is what great writing should do - deposit the reader in the moment. Just about everything I've read this past year has done that for me - even the photo essays. And that's why I love the Sun!

Good Hair Days - Two Versions

I wrote this poem as a homework assignment for the Poet's Workshop I've been taking at Duke. The assignment was to tell your life story in three or more incidents involving hair. My first thought was "A sistah can tell a thousand stories about hair!", but I tried to restrain myself. Duke's classes have been cancelled due to the snow in Durham, so I will have to wait another week to get this poem workshopped. In the meantime, I am posting two versions here: the sort of stream of consciousness version the poem came to me as and the chronological version of the events. It would be great to get feedback on which one I should present to the poet's group next week. Also, any suggestions on what to change/cut would be helpful. Let me know what you think!
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Good Hair Days – Stream of Consciousness

I Can’t Remember Exactly When: I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on a good hair day.

Summer 1980s: My father finds a woman near my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn who cornrows my hair into Princess Leah designs.

Late 1970s: After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that is tender.

November 2007: I get my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

October 14, 2003: Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day, but I’ll never forget the gesture.

June 2008: I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.

December 1972: A photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby, drooling infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Fall or Winter Early 1980s: A photo of me at taking church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth. Every now and then I still see myself as that little girl.

Summer 1985: Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

April 5, 2006: I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

Fall 1994: I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

Every Morning Since April 2006: I look into a mirror and see my father’s face staring back at me. Some days I find it comforting; other days I am startled by the ghost’s reflection.

October 2006: I start looking for good hairdresser as soon as I move to Durham. I don’t want to go home for Christmas looking like Ben Wallace.

December 2006: I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

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Good Hair Days - Chronological

I Can’t Remember Exactly When: I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on good hair days.

December 1972: A photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby, drooling infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Late 1970s: After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that is tender.

Fall or Winter Early 1980s: A photo of me at taking church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth. Every now and then I still see myself as that little girl.

Summer 1980s: My father finds a woman near my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn who cornrows my hair into Princess Leah designs.

Summer 1985: Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

Fall 1994: I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

October 14, 2003: Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day, but I’ll never forget the gesture.

April 5, 2006: I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

Every Morning Since April 2006: I look into a mirror and see my father’s face staring back at me. Some days I find it comforting; other days I am startled by the ghost’s reflection.

October 2006: I start looking for good hairdresser as soon as I move to Durham. I don’t want to go home for Christmas looking like Ben Wallace.

December 2006: I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

November 2007: I get my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

June 2008: I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.

Introducing. . .Pamela R.A.W.

This blog will host the two things that are on my mind the most - my writing and the great books I am reading. The poems have outgrown the NOTES section on Facebook and there are never enough characters to say everything I want to say about the books on my Virtual Bookshelf. Hopefully, Blogger/Blogspot will be the perfect space for this.

To kick us off, I will say a little about the books that are in arms reach:

1) The Good Parents by Joan London - I read the NYT review a few weeks ago and immediately placed a hold on the book at the Durham Public Library (on a book diet - will definitely blog about this later). I picked it up on 2/23 but haven't started it yet.

2) A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose by Eckhart Tolle - I started this book in early January, with the intention of reading a chapter a week. At that pace I should have been finished by now; I read/listened to Chapter 5 earlier today (I read along to the audiobook - it has really helped in remembering the messages). A few of my favorite quotes from this chapter are:

Thinking is no more than a tiny aspect of the totality of consciousness, the totality of who you are." (p. 130)

To see one's predicament clearly is a first step toward going beyond it. (p. 131)

An emotion that does harm to the body also infects the people you come into contact with and indirectly, through a process of chain reaction, countless others you never meet. There is a generic term for all negative emotions: unhappiness." (p. 136)

3) The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton - I was introduced to Love Poems by a writer friend and found the book of Anne Sexton's complete poems at my friendly neighborhood library. I'm skipping around this one - finished all the poems in Love Poems and have read the sections I, II and half of III of Mercy Street, a book of poems published after her death. I'll have to devote an entire blog on Anne Sexton. Her work is just that powerful.

4) The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho - This was one of the last books I bought before I went on the book diet. Paulo Coelho's books simply resonate with something deep inside me. This book tells the life story of Athena through the eyes of the people who knew her - an interesting premise. I'll have to put this book on the back burner so I can start The Good Parents. In the meantime, here is the page 56 quote:

When we free ourselves, we are freeing all humanity.