Never Gets It Right

Serving as we have,

it was never our intention
to run our community.
Students will continue to exist
only if the writers experience hope.
Join us.
Come to the experience in writing.
Learn and develop with the criticism.
Know that we are no journalism department.
For every issue, feedback is provided.
Access and bring forth ideas.
Is it impossible, the reality of focusing on students?
The work is for anyone who
dirtied their hands, found a book,
or shared our community:
this community of students.

Words for this poem were found here:
Meredith College's student-run newspaper, The Herald
Issue 28.5; Date 11.2.11
"The Herald Never Gets It Right: A Letter from the Editors"
Ashleigh Phillips and Emily Gamiel, Editors

Death of a Twin

Today's prompt/form idea came from dVerse: Craft prose to poetry There are three steps.
1. Find a prose passage that seems poetic. You know you read some stuff that just sounds cool.
2. Break it up into more poetic lines and stanzas. Reformat it, basically.
3. Alter it to better fit your definition of poetry. A few options: even out rhyme, meter; more flowery words; clearer images.

I used a passage from Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, which I copied below the poem. I loved reading that book. It's about a pair of twins born in Ethiopia, Shiva and Marion. Their parents were an Indian nun (who died in labor) and an English surgeon (who fled shortly after their birth). They were raised by two Indian doctors at a mission hospital. Very interesting story about love, medicine and family both chosen and natural.


Death of a Twin

His body was warm. 

He never took a breath 

after. 

His expression never changed. 

I felt his pulse,

regular for a full minute.

Then it paused,

as if the heart had just realized 

the lungs had quit. 

With a final throb, he was gone. 

Of all the pulse types, 

this was both the rarest 

and the most common.

Every pulse possesses

the potential to be absent. 

I closed my eyes and cradled him, 

his skull buttressed against mine.

I felt physically vulnerable

lying here next to him

in a way I hadn't known

when we were a continent apart.

With his death 

my biology was altered.

The heat was rapidly leaving his body. 

I lay there, my head against Shiva's, a finger resting on his carotid pulse. His body was warm. He never took a breath after the tube came out. His facial expression never changed. His pulse stayed regular for almost a minute, then it paused, as if it had just realized its lifelong partner-the lungs-had quit. His heart sped up, became faint, and then, with a final throb under my fingers, it was gone. I thought of Ghosh. Of all the pulse types, this was both the rarest and the most common, a Janus quality that every pulse possesses: the potential to be absent.
I closed my eyes and clung to Shiva. I cradled him, his skull buttressed against mine and now wet with my tears. I felt physically vulnerable in a way I'd never felt when we were a continent apart, as if with his death my own biology was now altered. The heat was rapidly leaving his body.
Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Carlos

The goal was to use the letter C for inspiration (via ABC Wednesday). While listing C words, a migrant's story started to form. I've been reading Sonia Novario's book Enrique's Journey. It details the struggles of a boy from Honduras attempting to reach his mother in North Carolina and what happens after.

I survived Chiapas, the beast.

An unlucky comrade was

cut off from the group.

Border police have corralled him

in confinement with other migrants.

I am crazy to attempt this

journey from central america

crossing Mexico

to the United States.

But, it is the only cure

for missing my mother,

who used to coddle

and cuddle me

when I was cute and small.

I hop on and off moving trains.

Churning wheels threaten to cut off

a foot, a leg, a life.

Men chase me.

I hide in a clump of bushes.

A church!

I burst in and

careen into a corner.

Churches often provide sanctuary.

It's cool in here.

A clergyman appears.

"Breathe easy.

I care for children of the train."

I notice others. 

For dinner, we consume

cucumbers and chimichangas.

I even get a cookie!

We console one other.

We cajole one other.

We cheer up for the safety

of resting in the church.

I cover up for sleep,

and dream of mami.

Thousands of children travel along the tops and sides of freight trains through Mexico. Children as young as seven jump on and off of the moving trains, trying to avoid immigration agents. Some states are generally friendly and the people are helpful to the migrants, like in Veracruz. Chiapas, the southern most state, is notoriously difficult to cross without deportation, and the people despise migrants. These children are typically trying to reach a parent in the US, most often a mother. Single-parent households appear more and more in Central America, and parents who cannot make enough at home leave for the US. They plan to stay 1, 2, or 3 years, but many end up staying for 10 years or more. Children who can barely remember their mother, or have only an idealized version of her, undertake deportation, gangs, rape, physical mutilation, starvation, and dehydration for days and sometimes months hopping trains in order to find mom and love.

Aug 7: Included in Poetry Pantry #61

The Book Club

Exchanging parts of lives
Sharing shared experiences
Divulging differing experiences

We know we are all different.
We know we are all the same.
We know both statements are true.

Bridging gaps in time,
in space,
in thought.

Bridging lives.

National Library Week Haikus

It is National Library Week. I've always thought the library was a magical, wonderful, special place, sacred in its own way. As a kid, I cataloged all my books at home on note-cards in order to make my own little library. Good books should be shared, after all.

I believe libraries are very important and provide many valuable services. If nothing else, there's no way I'd have room or money to be able to keep all the books I want to read. Thank you, dear library, for providing me with the space to grow, explore, and learn.

AtYourLibrary.org (twitter: @atyourlibrary) is encouraging twaikus (haikus posted on twitter) about the library. In that spirit, here is my tribute to libraries and reading.


Wonder and knowledge
found between stacks and pages.
Library is home.


Travel other worlds
and explore throughout our own.
Books will get you there.


Want to learn something?
Do you need some adventure?
See the library.


Browsing the titles,
holding and touching the words,
nothing beats a book.


Imagination
enriched by books, flourishes.
Let's all fantasize!


The librarian:
researcher, book-shelver, and
all readers' helper.


Resume advice,
discovering your career:
library can help.


You have a question:
look at your library's shelves.
So many answers.


Can't seem to find it?
Just ask a librarian.
They are there to help.


Budgeting lessons,
internet, meetings, and more,
for free? Library.


Especially for Uncle Shane:
Need quiet study
free from all home's distractions?
Libary's for you.

Day 2 of NaPoWriMo 2011 - Human v Universe

"Write a poem that incorporates the titles of three books you have in your house."


Human vs Universe
Technology and capitalism are our current American Gods.
Try remembering the magic of the universe.
Look to the night sky and practice Seeing in the Dark.
If you forget how fragile, small, and short-lived we are,
you'll forget how much the large, rich, city is really a City of Glass,
waiting to be shattered by nature and time.



American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Seeing in the Dark - Timothy Ferris
City of Glass - Cassandra Clare