staff’s contributions

the moo of boo hoo

 

Dawn by Nan Lundeen
Dawn by Nan Lundeen

Silly title of this entry aside, I want to blog today about writing when you feel blue, when you’re down. It’s “when I’m weary of considerations;” it’s when “one eye is weeping/From a twig’s having lashed across it open,” as Robert Frost so brilliantly writes in his poem, “Birches.”

Last week, I wrote that when you free your creative process you will delight in the debut of stories you’ll find hidden inside.

Your stories will delight, but they may not all be happy. At times, pain or grief will surface. When that happens, should you cast those stories out because they risk bringing somebody down with you? I think not. I can’t tell you how many times Frost’s poem has brought me comfort. Frost balances the poem with the fun and risk of swinging on birches and with his choice to live. But it’s his five lines expressing the down-and-out feelings we’ve all had that I remember the best.

Consider the tenderness in Theodore Roethke’s “Elegy for Jane,” a student of his who was killed by a fall from her horse. He speaks of her: “the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;/ and her quick look, the sidelong pickerel smile.”

Contemporary poet J. Stephen Rhodes shares inspired work in his book of poems, The Time I Didn’t Know What To Do Next. Some of his poems address his daughter’s suicide. I was honored to share a podium with him at a reading in Greenville, South Carolina. His work expressed the hard edge of grief tempered by grace.

I grappled for words when we laid to rest a grandbaby who never had a chance at life. It was a bitter winter’s day, and our hearts felt as cold as the sleet stinging the open grave. Some time later words came to me in the form of a poem I wrote, “Digging for Mercy,” published by The Petigru Review. I share the last stanza of that poem with you here:

 

Grace, grant us wisdom

to wrench open our hearts

lest mercy meet a closed door.

 

Brenda Ueland, a 20th-century writing guru, said, “Writing is not a performance but a generosity.”

I agree. When you include grief or pain in what you share with others, you may be giving expression to something that another person cannot. You may be giving voice to pain. And that can be healing.

What are your thoughts? We welcome your comments. Please register and share your ideas. We promise we won’t share your email address.

 

the mu of moo

grazing laying down cowThe creative process has long bragged of a tint of magic, and indeed, it sometimes does feel that way. A eureka sentence or two appears on the page or a new character shimmies into your writing space and voila! Magic, right?

Maybe, sort of. And if you want to believe that, go for it! But although wise folk have suspected as much for a long time, neuroscientists are reaffirming one of the paths to creativity—relaxation. When brain waves slow to an alpha state as opposed to a busy, busy, busy, firing-away beta state, wonderful associations emerge from our subconscious.

Like the cow, the writer ruminates. The writer takes in the fodder of life and digests it in the subconscious. There it lies waiting for release. When the writer relaxes, words flow.

Here’s something I was delighted to discover: Cows are Zen masters. They’ve been known to utter the sound that is spelled mu rather than moo.

Mu is a Zen koan. A koan is a paradox that Buddhist monks meditate on. They hope the process will lead to intuitive enlightenment. When writing, you can choose to relax and produce. Mu (or Moo) is about stepping aside so that your creative spark has a free connection to the page. It’s about staying out of your way and finding your way. Free your creativity, and you will delight in the debut of stories you’ll discover hidden inside.

Happy writing!

Nan

www.nanlundeen.com

from a column first published at femalefirst.co.uk.

 

 

do i have to wear pantyhose?

Click to watch Nan read this poem.

by: Nan Lundeen

They look down their noses and ask if I will
sit on the committee,
make a presentation,
take a job with the corporation.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

They ask if I will teach a class,
speak to the congregation,
accept a most officious task,
and sit on yet another committee.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

They ask if I will host the symposium,
teach the workshop,
sing for disadvantaged tots,
and sit on yet another committee.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

They ask if I will witness the execution,
provide them with locution,
marry the candlestick maker in the finest clothes,
listen while the many unburden their woes.

And I want to know—
do I have to wear pantyhose?

Oh, give me your bare legged,
your grandmother in tennis shoes,
your gardener in old boots
your hikers
your wanderers
your dreamers
the barefooted—
grass and chicken shit
between their toes—
but do not,
oh, do not
give me pantyhose!

 
Buy Nan Lundeen’s powerful collection of poems about strong women who rip off their pantyhose, celebrate the “tao of me dancing round the poplar tree,” and find redemption in a little red bra at Amazon.com.

 

on mooing and running

I often wonder what other runners think about while they run. Ruminating while running is a common occurrence for me.  Lots of times, as I get into the cadence of running, my mind also gets into the rhythm of providing creative ideas.

I run with my husband, Don, and because we both keep a slightly different pace, the longer the run, the more time I spend training alone.  Most runners these days use IPods to keep their mind occupied.  My playlist usually helps, in my case, it helps keep my mind from concentrating on something other than the pain I feel or how tired I am by the distance.

On race day, because of our pace differences, even though I run surrounded by others, I’m always in my own world.  It is inspiring when someone passes by and tells me “good job” or “keep it up, you’re doing great,” especially when I’m trailing behind the average runner.  And although inspiring, most runner’s pet peeve is the dreaded “you are almost there!” or “you are half way there!” especially when one is struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

This is when inspiration sets in for me!  Sometimes, I wish I could stop to write what floods through my mind, however I have to keep in mind the task at hand.  My priority is to complete the training or, most important, finish the race.  Once past the finish line, I can worry about putting pen to paper and jot down the ideas that visited along the way.

Back in February during a 15-mile training run, while listening to my IPod, a song came up that stirred memories from the past.  Lucky for me, I was able to remember the poem that came to me during the run.  “The Best of Times” is the product of that run.

To complete the journey for this poem, later on, I was able to find a picture taken during a visit to my hometown.  I believe that my memory of our walking that trail says it all!  And it is also another example of “The Best of Times” shared not only with family, but especially with friends!

best of times

by Adamy D. Diaz

Feb. 3, 2013
Dedicated to: “Mi Gente”

The wind howls in my ears
As “The Best of Times” plays in my tunes
Memories flooding with the beat
And the rhythm of the song.

Step by step by step,
The cadence of the song
Matches the beat of my run.

Images from a distant past
Replayed with every step,
A spark of joy with every verse
Of this familiar song.

“The best of Times” always bring memories
Of friends in times long gone
And friendships that remain
Preserved through time and space.

“The best of Times” brings back memories
But the best has not yet come.

howie’s adventures

Back in 2006, during a visit to my home town, we decided to take with us a green ducky which we called Howie.  In 10 days, Howie discovered how many fabulous places can be found in the island of Puerto Rico.

Journey is the first tale in a series of photo-illustrations incorporating poetry and photography and featuring Howie the green ducky.

Hope you enjoy its journey!

crate

Robert’s Dairy
Omaha, Nebraska
Misuse Punishable by Law

 
What’s the deal here?
An old, red plastic crate
announces it will not be misused
or the misuser shall go straight to
jail.
 
Maybe pay a fine, I think.
 
What is misuse of a red, plastic crate?
 
Does jurisprudence have
an opinion on red plastic crates?
What is the crate canon?
 
Let us apply reason:
the crate was meant only for milk
and other use constitutes misuse.
 
Now I’m worried and confused—
what about cream and cottage cheese?
My God, what about yogurt?
Does feta step over the line?
 
I strongly suspect
my scribbled poems
and ideas smudged on the backs of napkins
are violations.
 
That sets me to worrying
about the crate police.
Will they knock on my door
in the middle of the night armed with a warrant?
  
Do they have a right to search?
What constitutes probable cause?
I suspect being a poet
is cause enough.
 
But surely this is paranoia
and what counts
is that I have always been
kind to the crate
although once I made it carry a cactus.
 
……….Nan Lundeen
 
The poet is grateful to SCWW’s Horizons 2002 where “Crate” was named best of issue for poetry.

 

birches

Not big on religion
I’m resting in poetry.
 
When D.’s dad lay dying
she read Robert
Frost to him
 
and grand white wings answered
swinging from their
own birches.
 
……………..Nan Lundeen
 
The Poet is grateful to Yemassee where “Birches” first appeared.
 

 

companion

My little dog
keeps me company
while I brush my teeth.
Nobody else I know
will do that.
 
…….Nan Lundeen
 
The poet is grateful to Iowa Writes where “Companion” first appeared.

 

last mother

Anasazi Mother,
 
at home among
prickly pear
sagebrush
lizard
 
did you sing to Moon?
 
Anasazi Mother,
 
boulder jumble
sandy canyon
coyote yip
burr of wasp
 
did snake speak to you?
 
Anasazi Mother,
 
spires spearing dry sky
pockmarked rock
cruel sun
red rock nest
 
did you dream of cool caves?
 
Anasazi Mother,
 
some say when a new shaman’s hand
rests in a petroglyph handprint,
the shamans gone before
fill her with their spirits
 
what rock-locked wisdom do we need?
 
Anasazi Mother,
 
what knowledge lies buried
with your ancestors
under your kitchen floor?
 
Anasazi Mother,
 
when your hands failed
did you still yearn
to imprint sun-seared boulders?
when your lips burned
and your tongue swelled
did you keen at the water hole?
 
when your hearing failed
did you mourn
buzz of bee, wind stirring ricegrass?
 
when your heart failed
did you still struggle to ask Moon
why the rains no longer blessed the land
and all your children died?
 
……..Nan Lundeen
Valley of Fire, Nevada
 
The poet is grateful to The Petigru Review where “Last Mother” first appeared.

 

falling into night

day wanes
slowly in Saluda
sunlight sifts air
feathers whisper
under pale lit sky
hammock becalmed
swims butterflies
 
river over rock
river over rock
 
there
 
light fades
 
tin roof glinting
trilling chameleon tail
now you see it
now you don’t
 
river over rock
river over rock
 
woods full under half moon
sliced cleaver straight
like gram cut her pumpkin pie
this world
 
the other world
 
glimpsed like fairy feet
moon cool dips frog pond
whippoorwill song
light falling into tomorrow
 
river over rock
river over rock
 
they read the tarot
that afternoon
at Betsy’s kitchen table
two friends
 
listen
 
hear that
 
baby birds
those are baby birds
 
river over rock
river over rock
 
white half moon
pale in the gloaming
 
wings flapping
owl over road
swooping low
 
river over rock
river over rock
 
cottage side yard
meadowlike
cupped in woods
 
there
 
it falls
 
the dark
 
and the lawn
fills with fireflies
fat bright fireflies
 
blink
 
blink
 
blink
and over there
 
more
 
river over rock
river over rock
 
moon bright now against black
 
owl
moon
alone
 
but for the black bear
napping in day lilies
 
river over rock
river over rock
river over rock
river over rock
 
………………Nan Lundeen
 
The poet is grateful to the College of Charleston’s Illuminations where “falling into night” first appeared.