The Pregnant Tree

The Pregnant Tree we called her
belly bloated, bark stretched across a hallow womb.
Lifelessly pregnant
she still stands, through the decades,
refusing to bend to the ground
rooted to dirt by a spine of rotted wood.
Does she feel the hallow, wide open hole?
Does she know she is empty, a pitiful tree
by a road no one drives and no one will cut down
since she matters nothing?
Does she feel the sorrow of her existence?
Does she choose to live out of ignorance
or of womanly determination?








I don't normally share poems until I've performed a full autopsy on them but today you get a sneak peak - a raw poem, one too prosaic for me to love, fresh out of the box, with too many adjectives, one I'll hate in a few hours for its mawkishness and didacticism. But I'm feeling mawkish and didactic today. You're welcome.

Bathos, Stolen Corpses and Rock n' Roll

One of the coolest, most interesting classes I took in college, the kind of class that colleges should offer more of, the kind of class that is quintessentially “college”, was Folk and Pop Music Traditions. It was in the English curriculum, since we studied the lyrics as much as the history and the music itself, and was taught by a really hipster older guy professor, Dr Bob Cochran.  

Dr Cochran introduced us to all kinds of music I'd never have listened to myself, from the Carter Family to Merle Haggard to Gram Parsons. It is Gram Parsons though who's music and story has stuck with me all these years. 

He introduced us to Parsons by playing "Love Hurts" for us in class. His intent was to differentiate for us the difference between pathos and bathos.  (Pathos is the quality of evoking sympathy and sadness in someone. Bathos is when the attempt at pathos goes overboard into ludicrousy or gross sentimentalism.)  The class silently took in this song, a duet between Parsons and Emmylou Harris, whose voices blend together more beautifully than any two voices I've ever heard. When the song was over, the class sat silently, reverently. Dr Cochran laughed.

"I see you guys were taken in by that song. I was trying to show you bathos, but you all bought right in to the sentiment."

He may have forgotten that while he had all the wisdom of his 50 plus years, we were all still children living and breathing the raw truth that love hurts. 

The story of Gram Parsons is just as enticing as his music. Or maybe just the story of his death. His life was that of a typical 1960s rock star - nudie suits, tours, drugs. But his death - what a story!

He was found dead in his hotel room during a tour; the official report was drug overdose. Not uncommon. But his step-father, who had very little to do with him, requested that his body be returned to Louisiana, allegedly due to a family estate issue, and arranged a small funeral for him, excluding all of Gram's actual friends in the music industry. Gram had recently expressed wishes to be cremated when he died and have his ashes spread in Joshua Tree National Park, his favorite place on earth. So what did his loyal friends do?

They stole his dead body from the airport, of course, borrowed a hearse and drove Gram's coffin to Joshua Tree.  Unsure of how to actually cremate a body, they just poured gallons of gasoline on the coffin and lit a match, while drinking beer and sharing stories of their deceased friend. It didn't result in the small, funereal fire they expected, however, and the raging fireball resulted in a police chase. Gram's friends couldn't be arrested though, because there was no law on the books against stealing a dead body. They were fined for stealing a coffin, and that's about as much the law could muster against them. Gram's wishes were - sort of - granted.

That's friendship. That's rock n' roll. That's - bathos?

Yesterday in a coffee shop, I heard "Brass Buttons" playing in the background, another Parsons' tune that tows the line between pathos and bathos. It reminded me it's been too long since I listened to Grievous Angel, my favorite Gram Parsons album. That would be due to my CD snapping a few years ago in our move from Scotland to Arkansas. But Amazon Prime Music came to the rescue, and I was able to download Grievous Angel and listen to it three times in a row back to back. Honestly, could Emmlylou and Gram's voices weave any better?

(Apparently, Emmylou hated touring with Gram. Apparently, he was a bit of an asshole.)

Anyway, thank you, Starbucks, for reminding me of the fantastic rock fairy tale that is Gram Parsons, of the most interesting college class I've ever taken, and that love doesn't really hurt so bad in the end, once you find the good kind.

The Four Gift Rule

There's a meme going around about buying only four presents for your kids at Christmas: Something to wear, something to read, something they want and something they need.

My first response to this meme was, "Great. Another source of mompetition." I could imagine moms boasting about how little they spend on their kids at Christmas, how unmaterialistic their families are, how their kids don't EXPECT tons of presents like all the other spoiled brats in the Western Hemisphere.

I also recognized how this could be a great system for families on a budget or for families who genuinely and un-boastfully do practice simplicity and minimalism.

But it still annoyed me.

I even saw one comment that added to the mompetition wars that flaunted how incredibly goodly (and godly) she in particular is:  "We actually add one more category - something spiritual." I could practically hear the slot machine ding-ding-ding as she won that round of supermoming the rest of her opponents.

However.

After my initial annoyance, I started thinking about the basic concept of the meme, and I kind of have to admit - I didn't hate it. In a self-loathing kind of way, I actually sort of liked it. I started thinking a lot about it and dang it, it wasn't a bad idea at all.

And even more self-loathingly, I also didn't hate the concept, albeit fairly pretentious, of "something spiritual". In fact - as I control the gagging - I was a little inspired.

Ugh. I know.

But true.

Since losing all faith in a supreme being, I have definitely "shut down" any spirituality that might have been lurking. For me, religion and spirituality have always been all or nothing. As an evangelical Christian, I believed in One God, One Jesus, One Faith (One Baptism, etc). It was all or nothing. You either believe whole-heartedly that Jesus is the only way to salvation or you are lost. (Hellbound.) God isn't interested in lukewarm believers! He'd rather you be hot or cold.  (Revelation 3:16 - "So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth." ESV) Evangelicalism leaves no room for wishy-washy, fluffy-wuffy, when-it's-convenient faith. So when I went from being hot (a devout follower of Christ), I bypassed the lukewarm and went straight to cold. None of that "I'm spiritual but not religious" mumbo-jumbo could suffice for me.

You're either hot or cold. It's all or nothing. You're one or the other. That's how I was brought up. I became the other. The cold. The nothing.

And truth be told, I'm cool with that. ("Cold" with that, perhaps?) I don't really miss "spirituality". I don't really feel I need it. Right now anyway. I will concede that perhaps that may change in the future.  A belief in a god is unlikely, but a yearning for spirituality, I suppose is within the realm of possibility. Just not any time soon.

My friend Devon asked me about this. If instead of settling into a sort of "liberal" Christianity, one that perhaps doesn't believe in hell or who accepts gays, I retaliated against my faith and went as far to the other extreme as possible. In answer to that, yes. Probably. Christianity has always been all or nothing for me. If one takes the Scriptures literally, those two are the only options. To take Scripture non-literally seems to devalue and discredit the whole thing. (Where does the literal end and the metaphorical begin? At creation? At the virgin birth? At Christ's diety?)  Perhaps if I'd never been so hot about my faith, I might have settled for lukewarm. But that's not really a viable option. (And it hardly matters at this point when I have zero belief in any god anymore anyway.)

But back to Christmas presents. (I kind of chased after a rabbit there for a minute.)

While I personally do not feel a pressing need to reconnect with my spiritual side, that does not mean my kids should be deprived of it. Perhaps "something spiritual" isn't all that pretentious after all.

(No. It's still pretentious.)

The question then is, what is "spiritual"?

If you do a quick Google search for "spiritual", the first several pages gives you all kinds of Christian links. A search for "spiritual gifts", once you sort out the quizzes to find out if you are discerning or a peacemaker, brings up hundreds of Bible retailers, Precious Moments figurines, inspirational Bible verse calendars, Christian jewelry, and home decor crosses.

I just have a hard time understanding what decorative crosses and Precious Moments actually do to bolster one's spirituality.

Spirituality has been very much equated with Christianity in the West, and to buy someone a spiritual gift is basically synonymous with kitschy ornaments and wall hangings that have some sort of vague Biblical reference. Even when I was a Christian, I wanted to know exactly how a pack of Testamints was going to do anything to improve my life other than promise me fresher breath. (In fact, those sort of things deeply offended me, as they should any devout believer. Chocolate crosses at Easter? Seriously?!)

To me, spirituality is about connecting with ones deepest self or connecting with nature or the universe or even a supreme being. If I want to give my kids an opportunity to connect with their spirituality (whether I believe in such a thing or not), I need to first pinpoint what that even looks like.

Choosing something to wear, something to read, something they want and something they need is easy.  A new outfit, a new book (or several - I'm not committed to just four gifts), a glance at their letters to Santa, and new packs of underwear doesn't take a whole lot of contemplation. But something spiritual requires a lot more thought. A lot more introspection too.

What would I consider spiritual? Putting aside my own skepticism, I have to wonder what I think would allow them to connect with themselves or with nature or with the universe or with a supreme being.

Not being a super spiritual person now, that's hard.

But I can think of a few things that could open one up to spirituality.

Art (and the opportunity to create art)
Music (and the opportunity to create music)
Gardening
Nature walks and hikes
A telescope (for exploring the stars and planets)
Poetry
Meditation

Admittedly, packing "poetry" or "meditation" into a cardboard box and wrapping it in festive paper isn't really very practical. And trying to excite a six year old into spiritual rapture with a Mozart sonata or the works of John Donne would probably fail miserably.

But all children can start exploring spirituality with creation. Creating their own art, their own poetry, their own music, their own homegrown nature.

The tools for creation - paints, paper, an instrument - are things one can wrap up and put under the tree. These are a "something spiritual" that can be given to children as a holiday gift. And if choosing something that relates to a supreme being is important to you as well, encouraging your children to use these tools as a means of worship must be more spiritually satisfying to them than buying a white and pink Bible (that they are too young to read) or a gold cross necklace that is simply worn as an accessory.

I mean, if we're going to be so pretentious as to add a "something spiritual" to our list of Christmas presents, let's go all out then, shall we?

READERS: What do YOU consider spirituality to consist of, and what would a "something spiritual" look like under your Christmas tree?

For Paula For Robert

The Infinite Moment of Creation

Star collides with star
thrust from the infinite black hole
blasts explodes
swirls twists tumbles
confused
collects grows collects spins
collects

disperses

Sun gathers chaos
pulls bits into her orbit
swirls of stardust she sets in circles
keeps
heats cools heats cools

nurtures

Life sparks from within
long lost memories of life
spark within
the stardust
life erupts tumbles forms
evolves grows swims
crawls out of water

blinks

Learns to cry
walk sing love.


And the form made from stardust fell
in love with the most beautiful
form and they gave birth to
more
like the debris that formed and bore
them
and together they learned
laughter
fury
compromise
peace
how to smile.

And time ticked throughout the
universe
ticked swirled ticked tumbled
lulled quieted
ticked
and they learned
patience
and urgency
and how to love
infinitely.

Until the stardust flickered
whispered goodbye
quieted lulled stilled tick
tock

and the other
learns
pain
infinite black pain
an infinite black hole of pain
sadness emptiness
swirling twisting spiraling bleeding
in her heart
into
an impossibly
tiny
point
of
time-
skewing
void


lasting
eons


until


Out of the infinite black hole
a future universe bursts
swirls twists collides collects
spins collects

disperses

remembers life in its debris
long lost memories of life
nurtures evolves grows swims

crawls out of the water

blinks.






Dear Paula,
When I cannot be there with you, when I cannot take a single ounce of your broken heart away from you, when I cannot hug you while you cry or wash your growing piles of laundry or listen to you tell stories or talk through the pain, know that even from far away I am here for you, shedding tears for you, loving you, caring about you.
Your friend forever,
Lori

Limited Time Only!

For all my faithful readers, I have a little treat for you.

My eBook of poetry, Meatloaf and a Rosary, is now FREE on Smashwords for a limited time only!

To get everyone excited about my upcoming book, I'm offering this free gift to my loyal readers (and anyone else who stumbles across the book too, I guess). It's very different from my new book; I published this while I was still a Christian and many of the poems in this book have been rewritten (and some will feature in my new book as chapter headings in their rewritten form). It's also poetry, which makes it, of course, different from my memoir.

Now I know, I know. Poetry isn't everyone's cup of tea... However, I highly recommend taking advantage of this free offer; you never know, poetry may actually grab you in ways you never expected! Simply click on the link provided above (or the image below) and download to whatever you have - a Kindle, an iPhone or just your PC. Vote with your, erm, download, to show me you're looking forward to my new book!

Remember- this is a limited time offer only. So go now. Go, go, go!

Drummers Make Lousy Lovers

All my writing focus has been on my "project" as of late (and I've been writing like a ... a ... steam engine.) I hate to neglect my dear, faithful blog though, so I offer a sacrificial poem. An old one, but one of my favourites. Young love...


Photo Credit - Thor Muller - Flickr
Drummers Make Lousy Lovers

All the peanut butter, honey and banana sandwiches in the world
will not stop these tears from waterfalling,
and I’ll never take another entomology special study
without daydreaming of our favorite black putrefaction
that we love so dearly and know so well,
thanks to those morbid phone hours we wasted.
And next time I dance I won’t lead because you taught me how,
and I’ll choose white over wheat out of spite.
And when the daffodils die, Spring will too, and I hate that
but it happens, just like long wavy brown hairs that I find on my bed
that aren’t mine or yours happen, but I’m not assuming anything.
Good Records leaves a bad taste in my mouth and E.T.
might as well fly me across the moon
since you just let me fall half way.
Take my spare key and clip it to your belt loop and see if I call back.
I probably will, you know that’s my downfall,
but at least I haven’t driven by your duplex yet, wouldn’t that be psychotic?
And now pink toenails or French manicures seem ridiculous,
and why do I shave my legs after all? I never wondered before,
thanks, darling, for whitewashing my brain.
Power chords still play though we never wrote those songs,
and in church I won’t sit by you, and we’ll see who talks about it.
I’ll still read a book a month, even though I’m behind,
but all the upside down kisses in the world
and all the green tea can’t fix what you broke.

Mamaw's Sonnet

Wondering where we've been the past week? (You're like, 'Uh, no...') Well, we've been away up north in the Cairngorm mountains enjoying a lovely wee holiday, just Scott, Jaguar and myself, while our sweet daughters are in Portugal with their wonderful grandparents.

While we had a great holiday, and I'll talk about that later, we had some sad news while we were there. My grandma, my 'Mamaw', passed away on Thursday early morning. We've been expecting it for a while, so it wasn't a shock, but it was still very sad for me. Being away from 'home' (even though Scotland is also 'home') is really hard in times like these.

My mom asked me to write a poem for the funeral. For me, poetry is such a visceral and peculiar thing; I write in a certain way, with the words seeming to bubble up out of my very guts, and I employ heavy imagery and abrupt line breaks and usually end up with pretty bleak unexpected outcomes. None of these were terribly appropriate for writing a poem for a funeral.

And considering I had only one afternoon in which to do it, and no computer with me, the task was an immense one.

I sat down with a pad of children's colouring paper, the only paper I could find in the house we were staying in, and a pencil with no eraser, and started jotting down ideas. I haven't handwritten anything longer than a message in a card in years, and besides that, I didn't know what to say or how to say it succinctly enough for its purpose.

I wanted to do Mamaw's memory justice. I wanted to do my relationship with her justice.

I also wanted it to have poetic merit. I am a writer and don't like to put my name to anything I'm not proud of.

Finally, after agonising for hours, after three front and back sheets of paper covered in one liners, quatrains, scribbles and glib phrases, I was ready to give up.

So I gave up. I gave up trying to be literary. I gave up trying to incorporate all Mamaw was into one little passage. I gave up trying to be poignant. I had a few lines I'd written in rhyme (not my usual style) which I suddenly realised could give me a framework in which to write: I would write a sonnet.

An English sonnet (or Shakespearean sonnet) is 14 lines, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet, with a rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg. Generally speaking, the first two quatrains will have one focus, then the focus shifts for the second half, with the couplet often 'summing up' the sonnet.

Here is Mamaw's Sonnet. It's not book-worthy or a competition winner; it's not lofty or mind-blowing; it's not even a perfect sonnet (some lines aren't exact iambic pentameter, many of the rhyming words are only slant rhymes). It's just about my mamaw, it's just a simple poem written in her memory.

Goodbye, Mamaw. I hope you were able to hear it in heaven.

Mamaw's Sonnet
When we parted last, it was with tears -
We both knew it would be our last goodbye.
So frail, so thin, worn out with many years,
She couldn't speak, but still she fought to try.
And yet when I remember her tomorrow
Fond memories of her will make me smile.
So rather than goodbyes and tearful sorrow--
The things I loved about her, as a child:
Mamaw making pickles and sewing drapes,
The nights of Lawrence Welk on PBS.
She made me learn to cook and how to bake
But I liked playing dominoes the best!
It's memories like these I wish to hold
For bodies age but love does not grow old.

A Little Graveyard in Damascus, Arkansas

I remember distinctly my Orientation Day at the University of Arkansas. I wore my red t-shirt with the words IT'S ME printed across the front - it seemed an appropriate way to introduce myself.

Those of us interested in majoring in English were given a tour of Kimpel Hall, and spoke to the guidance counselors (or whatever they were called) about the different emphases available to English majors.

When I saw that 'English with an emphasis in Creative Writing' was an option, I knew what my major would be in. And despite everyone insisting that all freshmen change their majors at some point, I did not.

Below is a wee poem excerpted from my book, Meatloaf and a Rosary (available as an eBook and readable on your Kindle, computer, phone, etc!) It's a memory that's been spending some quality time in my head lately, and it's also the inspiration for the cover photo of the book.

A Little Graveyard in Damascus, Arkansas

A little girl in a graveyard
tiptoes around gravestones,
holding with cautious hand her mother
and holding her breath as long as she can.
Her tiny green dress billows
in the wind she fears holds ghosts.
Her skinny pink legs prickle.
She carries carnations for her mother
who shows her coffee-can concrete grave
markers and speaks out loud, unmindful
of the dead people below.
She does not hear the stories
but bites her fingers and bends her sadness
around the scratches left in a tiny stone.





Hey! Support a girl and buy the eBook - it's only $2.99! You may think poetry isn't your thing... but then you may be pleasantly surprised to find it's actually quite enjoyable!

NaBloPoMo Just Around the Corner

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