Collaborative Poetry, Marital Bliss*

This is the kind of wonderfulness that comes about when two poets poem together:

what happens at the altar stays at the altar

by Blythe and Dana

I press the flesh of my palm
into your inexplicably chubby face
while the hiccupy rent-a-priest
folds at his midsection like a closing book

and crashes to the ground with a
papery thud. Of course, the rice thingies,
bagged and bowed in a frenzy last night,
will soon be swallowed by all the unsuspecting attendants,

who are half-mad with hunger and heat.
But I digress. Which brings me to your dress:
When I agreed to the chartreuse bride
spied in my mail-order catalog,

I assumed you came with the filmy white dress
worn by lucky Barbies ’round the world
(and even some confused Kens).
So when they shipped you in coveralls,

and musty ones at that, I felt the
slippery eel of panic slither ’round my chest.
And my balls (I must be honest) maneuvered
their way into a chamber deep within my body

whose existence I was, until that moment,
entirely unaware of. But after the requisite
ten-hour charge your instruction manual mentioned,
relief flooded through and engorged me — like Mom’s

Thanksgiving dinner filling and warming my alimentary canal —
when your eyes fluttered open, your lips parted, and you
began to emit a whoooooooo sound not unlike dank air
winding through a French horn’s valve tube.

We locked eyes, you smiled a bit, and said,
whoooooooo, whoooooooo, whoooooooo,
which of course I interpreted as I. Love. You.
And I, dear, whoooooooo, whoooooooo, whoooooooo, you too.

.

To help celebrate our wedding, Dana and I ask that you 1) come party it up on twitter with us, now and forevermore, 2) leave us a comment here about our collaborative piece, 3) get us something off our registry (simply comment here or on Dana’s blog letting us know what you’ve purchased for us), but preferably, all of the above. Easy as 1, 2, 3!

Also, if you’re interested in seeing how this whole thing progressed, check out the comments section on this post, where Dana and I wrote the poem.

*I originally wrote “Martial Bliss” here, but that is not the case.

A love letter to my Facebook wife

Dearest Dana,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways… I love thee with the speed and click and hum of my PC…

This is how it all started (on a blog), and so it seems appropriate that we tie the knot here on the web, incorporating as many applications as possible. I remember the day (back in 2006) when I acted on the strong but sublimated desire to write poetry by googling something along the lines of “help hopeless beginners become poets.” And I found a poetry site that seemed all about that—it was welcoming to poets at all stages of development, it was inspiring, and it was led by this super-cool chick with an awesome blog.

I fell for your writing first. It was (and is) fresh. It was honest and alive and different. It made me want to write. It made me need to read; I would get thirsty for your work when there wasn’t something new posted. I was hooked. I read and re-read everything you’d written on your blog. I e-stalked you, but without being too creepy about it.

Something magical happened around that time: I began writing poetry. The things I had inside that had always felt like poems began to surface, and because of the work you had done (on that site and on the subsequent ones) I had a place to share it.

Things between us really got exciting when you started talking about collaborative poetry, and (I believe this is how it happened) asked for volunteers to co-po with you, and I jumped on the opportunity. The things we’ve written together are some of my favorites, and the process of writing together always changes me, opens me up to new ideas, gets me excited about writing.

I’ve learned through all this how spectacular you are as a person. You get big ideas and you follow through on them. You are smart as a whip and fun as a firecracker. You make me laugh until I pee my pants, and then you tease me about it later. You are also vulnerable and kind and somehow still strong as steel. It all comes out in your writing—whether it’s poems, nonfiction, or blog babble. You’ve articulated things that have helped me understand poetry, love, suffering, grief, relationships, and life better than ever before. (Poetry is prayer. Poetry is bread. Poetry is better made between two friends than all alone.)

In the middle of me being in awe of you is the fact that you were the first person to ever call me a poet. You, the one I watched and learned from, called me a poet. And it’s not just that you validated that part of myself before I even realized how much I wanted it. You have been a listening ear when I needed it. You are always up for an adventure. You are just as goofy and fun as you are deep and introspective. My internal life is 1,000x richer, having known you.

So come on, babe, let’s make some poetry!

Love & limericks,

Mrs. Blythe Funnelcake

p.s. How did I write this whole letter, and not mention you are a total fox? You are smart, lovely, wonderful, brilliant, funny, *and* hot. I’m sorry for getting caught up in all that deep, interpersonal, emotional stuff, and making it sound like this is just icing on the cake… because we both know we threw out the cake a long time ago, and this is icing within all the other icing. Scrumdiddlyumptious.

be there or be left out from the most exciting virtual social event of the summer

ETA: The ceremony will take place this evening on twitter, at 9pm PST.  That’s 11pm CST, which is past my bedtime, but Dana’s worth it.

Have I mentioned yet that I’m getting married??

Yep, I’m getting married.  On Monday. Make that tomorrow.  Apparently Dana can’t wait to get her hands on me.  She even made us a web site! For me, for our wedding!  (And for our collaborative poetry, which will outlast the weeks of facebook matrimonial bliss.)  I have been wooed.  I am swooning.

I would sit and chat some more, but there are, like, a billion things to do to get ready for tomorrow: pedicure, bows to tie, souvenir gifts to make by hand for all of our wonderful guests…

balm of choice

Graham crackers and a cold glass of milk are my balm of choice tonight.  I feel PMSy even though I am not.  I let my feelings get hurt at the drop of a hat today; a co-worker commented that I was “actually wearing make-up” (I wear it every day), my mother gave me some news about unexpected house guests and then she seemed to get mad when the news stressed me out (I think she was at least not nearly as mad as I estimated her to be), and one of the house guests went to bed without saying goodnight.

Now, to be fair, it’s totally possible she forgot.  And here’s the zinger: I did not forget.  (And I don’t even care that much about the tradition of yelling good night to each individual person we have here.)  I remembered, and I sat listening to her holler at every other person in every corner of the house, but not me.  And I could easily have hollered at her, but I kept my silence, holding my breath, hoping to hear my name.

What is wrong with me?

Now I’ve had some graham cracker and milk, and my eyes are very heavy, and life seems a bit better.  I’m going to find a kitty to curl up with and get at least a dozen forty winks.

Just a little sum-in sum-in

I was going to do Confession Tuesday a day late today (synopsis: I am a procrastinator, a braggart, and a hypocrite, not necessarily in that order), but I wound up napping and writing a wedding poem with Dana instead.  Such is life.

Also, heads up on the new RWP prompt by Carolee for next week… get set to write some hot ‘n’ nasty stuff!  (Wait, I’m not saying it right.  Read her post instead.)

Collaborative poetry stimulates the pleasure region of my brain.

Three Recent Dreams

1

I’ve taken a job at Bally’s. Our weight room is dimly lit and musky. A client comes in and talks to the manager while I stand nearby. The client, a petite blonde, explains that it’s her boyfriend’s fantasy to have sex in a public exercise area. She asks if we’d be OK with cleaning the place up (sanitizing it, I think she says) and securing the premises for a short while. My manager loves this idea. I try to warn her that it might not be the most responsible thing to do, but she shrugs off my advice. I loathe the idea of preparing the place of my work for a romantic rendezvous, and the idea of cleaning up after the event is even worse. Plus I know something no one else does: that this client isn’t planning a creepy but well-intentioned surprise for her boyfriend, but that she wants to bring him there to get his hopes up, but will save all her acrobatic, aerobic moves for someone waiting in the shadows.

2

I sink into the clawfoot tub and let its warm water hold my bones. My feet press against the white porcelain and my right elbow props up my hand holding the lit cigar against the old basin’s lip. I glance out the door of our rough-hewn bathroom. I see the quilt and the still form wrapped in it. I think of my mother’s hair inside the quilt, her hair and her blood. I soak and and I think of what will happen, how I will pull up some of the floorboards and leave her there, how I will flee the place of my birth, how the uniformed men will find her, and then probably me, how no matter what I tell them, they will never understand the things she did to me—things a mother should never do to a son.

3

I’m at work, and as the day plows into hot, humid afternoon, I grow faint with hunger, as is often the case. Hot sweat stings the back of my neck. I feel like I’m plummeting from a sugar high, but I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. I start to laugh at the absurdity of it, how hungry I feel, and how senseless it is. People realize there is something wrong. I’m dizzy. I start tipping backward, and there are hands below me, breaking my fall. I hear them saying something about getting me crackers from the break room, but i know I won’t eat them. I love this buzzing, burning, not-here feeling too much.

A favorite poem

I either A) have a friend who asked me about this poem, or, more likely B) had a dream where said friend asked me about this poem.  Either way, I realized I haven’t posted it here yet, and I always post this poem.  Makes current blog feel like home.  Here ya go.

.

Apology in Second Person

While dinner cooked, I watched the twilight play
Through the catalpa, turning leaf by leaf,
Finally to be trapped in the dark mass of
The maples, night’s secret. What little splayed
In fingers on the lawn fell over furrows,
Grassy striae, signatures, the hundred
contrails of the mower where I left them,
Still unraked and broken only by
My path home and some hummocks of clogged grass,
Formed where the mower coughed in thicker growth:
Burial grounds of guilt for things not done.

Anyhow, I stood thinking of something
I was reminded of about that calm,
And presently dinner was ready. Of course I knew
That later I would clean up, do the bills,
Read to the children, draw all those pages down
And work at them past midnight. Like mowing,
Some of this holds the whole tilled world shapely
A short while. Only a little, like striking
The children’s mystery sheltered in the maples,
Remakes the world; those chores one ought to do
Remain undone, change into waiting. I had
No time to do the raking. Nor do you.

– Anonymous

Drooling over the frozen pizza cooking in the oven and over Anthony Bourdain (again)

I ran off to the grocery store this afternoon and put together an I’m-way-too-crampy-to-enjoy-this-Sunday-afternoon care package for myself: Pom pomegranate blackberry tea, a book off the cheap “Bestseller” shelf near the magazine racks, and some freshly baked, dark chocolate, two-bite brownies. (OK, more than a few, but they came packaged that way.)

After lounging a bit this afternoon (and taking some Midol), I felt rejuvenated enough for a bike ride and walk with the dogs. The world was golden and smelled pretty sexy, too. I came home, showered, and was getting dressed for a dinner date with an old friend, when she called and canceled (due to anxiety issues, which meant as bummed as I was for me, I felt even worse for her).

But it’s all good; I’m watching Mr Bourdain on the Travel Channel, the kitty is asleep in my lap, and I’ve still got a lot of brownies left to munch on.

Things I want to write on soon: dreams, work/job/purpose-hunting, more on the aftermath of the same-sex crush, and (not to be written on, but simply written:) poetry!

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