shamash says...

After the Party

"AFTER THE PARTY"

You’d think there’d be remorse

or regret

or homesick longing

at least some evidence I was there

 

but really it’s just me, the nocturnal nessy,

leaving the continent

around my neck

a string of grandmother’s pearls

I never should have worn

 

try to spot me, pirate’s eye,

I’m not really there

I’m somewhere in my dreams

introducing the moon to sea monsters

 

wings, feet, scales: indestructible amphibian

part air, earth, water

prophetess neither leaving nor arriving,

unwelcome in her own country where she

once shook the dust off her sandals

of all the the towns

she left

 

and now she has no shoes

 

flying fish-friend, wing-ed fairies

who skim over the dark surface of things

come find me comforted in the weight of water

in the sea between homelands 

 

on this ocean floor

I stand breathing, listening,

practicing my underwater voice

 

©2022 Kat Shamash

 

Image credit:

Illustration from the book The Tuning Fork by Edward Gorey, titled “The Sea Monster - The simple creature was aghast” via.

 

"Alone is..."

Day 19 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet.

"Alone Is....."

broken-hearted in the school
cafeteria, feeling so
different from
every other kid with the mansion on the hill or

feverish on the
gurney, wheeled to the surgeon- or
hopping on a bus, solo, a walking stick
in hand or

jumping with parachute from the plane
knees scraped in the
landing, that single leap so worth the
mid-flight scream or

never jumping
on the bandwagon nor
pulling the same rope, just
quietly serving a dinner for one or

reeling at the sight of ink drying on divorce papers, or the
stand-alone witness, the whistle-blower, or
the only musician playing on stage, the spotlight dimming
until dark. At the

very least,
we come to earth as solitary creatures, not
xerox copies looking to congregate. Some of us are scouts,
yearning to see life beyond the company of others, outside the

zoo.

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image "Sea Lantern, Candlelight at Dusk" ©2019 Kat Shamash

"On Knowing That She Is a Witch"

Day 13 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem about something mysterious and spooky.

 

On Knowing That She Is a Witch

She was 13
the moon was full
and it was midnight:
cornstalk coven
firefly magic

night gown cool on skin
the solitary dance
twirling, twirling, twirling
whirling, whirling, whirling
long before she knew there
was such a thing as
a dervish

dizzy-giddy
falling down on the green
fingers of grass glowing in the moonlight

satan had nothing to do with it,
preacher,
but the stars did
and the moon did
and her feet grew roots
that went down to a place
of molten rock
her arms raised, high branches
of the tallest tree
to the night sky
and beyond

oh, the way we spin, spin, spin
around the sun
she could feel it all,
the gravity of it all,
and hold it all,
and she was
not
afraid

even at 15,
when the dowsing rod
pulled itself down in her hands
in her father's yard
and his face turned white with knowing
even at 16,
when they drilled
at that spot
and water came bubbling up

even when she dreamt of things
to come
and prayed for the warts
on her hands to go away
and they did

even the way the bats always
followed her no matter where she lived,
swooping in at night through
her bedroom, scaring the
cats

no one believes her
when she speaks the god-awful truth
of the bombs that soon will drop on her homeland

all this even though she knows
the fate of
Cassandra

all this and
she dreams still
she prays still
with sage and hope
and her eyes are wide open

all this and
she is not afraid

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image via "Landscape Night Lake Tree Nature" via Pezibear on Pixabay

 

"Garlic Press"

Day 12 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it.

Garlic Press

bulbous clove
garlic squeezed into
stir fries
with onion and maybe mushroom
two seconds quick clutch,
the clench and then again more
that silver press
the tang and paper skin washed away
then jointed leg put to rest in
metal rack to dry:
robot knee kneels overnight

such a gentleman waiting

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image: "Garlic Press & Garlic" by Kat Shamash

"Home"

Day 11 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem of origin. Where am I from?

 

Home

Born in human suits,
Earthlings
on a blue
marble spinning in
black space
around the
nearest sun

before this:
an extreme location

we remember, sometimes--
we children, we dreamers ---
drawing before-time
with our crayons and
on the walls
of caves
going somewhere else
in our sleep
floating somewhere, sometimes,
in our sleep
glowing lights, sometimes,
in our sleep
knowing, sometimes,
in our sleep
that we won't remember
when we wake that
that the event horizon
is somewhere
far, far way
and closer
to home

 

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image: NASA Apollow8 Dec24 Earthrise

"Peace: Black and White"

Day 7 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem of gifts and joy. What would you give yourself, if you could have anything? What would you give someone else?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Peace: Black and White"

 

drop all the color

for just a day

 

choose something simple like

the dark brush, the bristles on

bleached canvas

the invisible

curve,

the evaporating water

on the concrete walk that

circles the lake

 

drop all the color

for just a day

 

contemplate

a solid word printed on a page 

a stamp on a white envelope

 

drop the symphony.

consider, instead,

a sheet of music fluttering in the wind

 

forget the game

notice the chess board,

the set of dominos

 

for one night, exchange your dance moves,

the disco ball,

for one long stretch of a tiger cat or

downward facing dog

 

drop all the color

for just a day

 

yawn and

admire the poppy seed, the daisy

 

stay home on a Friday night.

embrace JOMO

The Joy of MIssing Out

stir mushrooms in cream

in a pot

on your kitchen stove

 

leave all the spices in the rack and for

one weekend just

honor the salt.

the pepper.

 

exchange your wok for a cauldron

 

give yourself

warm river stones and sand

 

drip almond milk in tea.

drop a single coffee bean through the clouds

and watch it float in your

glass

 

spoon caviar on the china plate that

clinks in your kitchen sink

drink warm coconut milk and melted chocolate

bring out the linen tablecloth and

cloth napkins

 

drop all the color

for just a day

 

give away all your boas and sequins

place in your hair

the feather of a dove, 

the feather of a raven,

wear muslin, white linen,

a carriage cap

 

drop all the color

for just a day

 

contemplate

the snowman’s charcoal eyes

and what remains after

a day in the sun.

 

step out of your bath

onto a

white towel

wrap yourself in cotton

 

drop all the color

for just a day

 

breathe in

all parts of

yourself

 

give yourself permission

to love

the silhouette of one

lone witch

flying across the face of

the moon

 

 

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image "Open Air Breathing Room: Lama Foundation" ©2011 Kat Shamash 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Wood and Stone"

Day 3 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem that takes time.

"Wood and Stone"

My name in German means "pure"
I was born this way to a mother
of alabaster skin
and a father who wore
the deacon's suit

Tiny girl on the church pew,
I sat and listened, an
eager spy
with her ear to the
door of God.

Everything was wooden then
Pulsing with the afterlife of trees -- 
The church bench, the pulpit,
The doorway, and even
The doorknob,
Smooth and painted black.

But then, the blaze:
Orange tongues
Licking away faith
Scorching arms
Wrapped around all that
The carpenter made
In the end, nothing left
But cinders.

The only thing holy, then,
Was stone.
I am now the pilgrim god-seeker,
The gypsy, the wandering hobo.

The Temple of Artemis, Ephesus
The Cididel of Machu Pichu, Peru.
The Pyramids of Giza, Cairo
The Columns of Medusa, Istanbul
The Monastery at Petra, Jordan
The Ruins at Chichén Itzá, Mexico
The Tiawanaku Temple of the Sun, Bolivia
The Ring of Stones, Stonehenge

Oh, Greeks, Oh Romans
Oh Incas, Oh Pharaohs,
Oh Nabateans,
Oh, Mayans, Oh Aymara
Oh, Druids.

Your cold stones are beautiful, but silent
As my grandfather's gravestone.

The face of God?

It is not in wood.

It is not in stone.

The divine is the alabaster skin of my living mother,
The breath of my aging father,
The deep and generous filigree of roots
Under the ground
Of the tree outside my window
And the leaves upturned to
Sky.

"Stonehenge"

Day 2 of 30:  Our GloPoWriMo 2019 prompt for today is to write a poem that transforms the natural world into an unsettled dream-place and resists closure by ending on a question.

"Stonehenge"

 

Summer solstice

Double-decker bus

Just in from Glastonbury- maybe Wimbledon

Parking lot crowded

Sightseers with

Audio phones pressed to their ears

Muted and servile, cattle-like, gawking 

Touching the ropes and signs that warn:

“Do.  Not.  Touch. The. Stones.”

The sandstone ring, the bluestone, the sarsen

Carved four thousand years ago and

Off limits to everyone but

The Druids.

********

Across Salisbury Plain

Lonely sound of wind

Whips 

Raven’s shadow circles close

Stone posts carved from boulders lugged in from Wales

Rise against the storm

Drums beat loud to Celtic tunes, caped figures dance,

The toes of the troubadour shoes point and curl,

Velvet hoods,  tall staffs, a single hand extended,

A gust moves the long beard of Merlin,

In the yellow sky a message: an incantation from the

Woman warrior with outstretched arm and the long

Red braid.

What is her prophesy?

 

********

Turn off the phone. The car. The lights.

Forget the tele.

Light a fire.

Circle round.

Beat the drum

at Stonehenge.

Call in the powers of North, South, East, West.

To Salisbury.

Listen closely.

Press your ears to the stones.

What do they have

to say?

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image "The Morrigu, Phantom of the Celts" by Howard David Johnson

 

"Stonehenge"

 

Summer solstice

Double-decker bus

Just in from Glastonbury- maybe Wimbledon

Parking lot crowded

Sightseers with

Audio phones pressed to their ears

Muted and servile, cattle-like, gawking 

Touching the ropes and signs that warn:

“Do.  Not.  Touch. The. Stones.”

The sandstone ring, the bluestone, the sarsen

Carved four thousand years ago and

Off limits to everyone but

The Druids.

********

Across Salisbury Plain

Lonely sound of wind

Whips 

Raven’s shadow circles close

Stone posts carved from boulders lugged in from Wales

Rise against the storm

Drums beat loud to Celtic tunes, caped figures dance,

The toes of the troubadour shoes point and curl,

Velvet hoods,  tall staffs, a single hand extended,

A gust moves the long beard of Merlin,

In the yellow sky a message: an incantation from the

Woman warrior with outstretched arm and the long

Red braid.

What is her prophesy?

 

********

Turn off the phone. The car. The lights.

Forget the tele.

Light a fire.

Circle round.

Beat the drum

at Stonehenge.

Call in the powers of North, South, East, West.

To Salisbury.

Listen closely.

Press your ears to the stones.

What do they have

to say?

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image "The Morrigu, Phantom of the Celts" by Howard David Johnson

 

"How to Practice Gratitude"

Day 1 of 30:  Our Global Poetry Writing Month 2019 ( #GloPoWriMo 2019) prompt for today is to write a poem that gives the reader instructions on how to do something.

"How to Practice Gratitude"

Close your eyes.

Hold the mango in your hands like a prayer for two long, delicious minutes
then
take a bite.

Hold the hand of a grandmother for a spell.
What does she say? What does she not say?

At midnight, in the dark, light a candle.
Remember the 13th century.

Find a stranger, a colleague, or a cousin --
Imagine, for a while, walking in her stilettos.

Listen to someone twice or three times or four times older than you.
Listen to someone twice or three times or four times younger than you.

Mine for sound.
Listen for something new in the meadow, the dark city, the tide.

Close your eyes.
Find new rhythms in hip-hop, jazz, the spoken word.

Say thanks to all things wing-ed:
The raven, the butterfly,
The plane, the angel.

Look long and tenderly at all that is within the walls of your home.
You live on an altar. It is sacred. 
In the street and in the forest, find the holy places.

Like a spider, think of gratitude as
a gathering in of
the exquisite and the necessary--
all of it suspended
on one thin and fragile net.

Look out the window.
Notice the transience in each ordinary thing.
Study the changes of the seasons.
Note the shift in the time of daybreak and sundown. Chart the movement of the storm cloud.
Honor the equinox.
Know the moon phases.

Notice it all and bless it.

Notice it all.

Notice it.

Notice.

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image "Moon at Night" ©2019 Kat Shamash  

 

 

 

Close your eyes.

Hold the mango in your hands like a prayer for two long, delicious minutes
then
take a bite.

Hold the hand of a grandmother for a spell.
What does she say? What does she not say?

At midnight, in the dark, light a candle.
Remember the 13th century.

Find a stranger, a colleague, or a cousin --
Imagine, for a while, walking in her stilettos.

Listen to someone twice or three times or four times older than you.
Listen to someone twice or three times or four times younger than you.

Mine for sound.
Listen for something new in the meadow, the dark city, the tide.

Close your eyes.
Find new rhythms in hip-hop, jazz, the spoken word.

Say thanks to all things wing-ed:
The raven, the butterfly,
The plane, the angel.

Look long and tenderly at all that is within the walls of your home.
You live on an altar. It is sacred. 
In the street and in the forest, find the holy places.

Like a spider, think of gratitude as
a gathering in of
the exquisite and the necessary--
all of it suspended
on one thin and fragile net.

Look out the window.
Notice the transience in each ordinary thing.
Study the changes of the seasons.
Note the shift in the time of daybreak and sundown. Chart the movement of the storm cloud.
Honor the equinox.
Know the moon phases.

Notice it all and bless it.

Notice it all.

Notice it.

Notice.

 

~by Kat Shamash ©2019 Kat Shamash

Image "Moon at Night" ©2019 Kat Shamash  

 

 

 

"Mesopotamia"

Day 9 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

"Mesopotamia"

the small and
the big

the king and
the king kong

the fish and
the fish monger

the jet and
the warship

the camel and
the the desert

the writer and
the censor

the village and
the sandstorm

the child and
the bomb

~by Kat Shamash

 

 

©2018 Kat Shamash 

image "Camels" ©2018 Kat Shamash 

 

#GloPoWriMo2018 #NaPoWriMo2018 

"Silence"

Day 5 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 "Silence"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                      Photo: "Flight" © 2017 by Kat Shamash

 

 

"Silence"

Was it gravity that pulled you
through? A tunnel? A curiosity, an intent?
A great waterfall?A funnel? Did the wind
rush through? Did you forget your chute?
Did you try to hang on? Was it a
struggle? A surrender? The distance is
too far, too dark for me find my way even with
these structures of Jacob's Ladder lights
ascending and descending on this escalator

turn around one last time, my dear. step off that
dark path of sadness to smile, and laugh.
don't slip away to someplace unreachable
someplace silent without leaving us something luminous.
we are living fossils here breathing
we are the moss where angels walk
no one should ever feel they have to go alone.

 

~by Kat Shamash

© 2018 Kat Shamash (April 5, 2018) 

The poem in original Japanese is by Toshio Nakae

#GloPoWriMo2018 #NaPoWriMo2018 

 

Day 4 – GloPoWriMo - "Wealth"

Day 4 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Wealth"

the pink sunglasses
the cat eyes and the valet
the bikini coverup in the girl's bathroom
and the fingernails combing hair,
tanned bare feet
on tile shipped in from Italy

the laugh like rain
the feather-gold coins
on bronzed skin
the boa giggle, the wink

infinity pools, liquid crystal
the sighs
the cabana that costs $700 to reserve
curtains and couches
the blue green ocean
the same color
as
the sapphire ring
on the pedicured
toe

mirrors and marble
calamari, ceviche
taffeta and teak

the fast swipe of the plastic, the strong arm
the bruise
that pays for it all

 

~by Kat Shamash

© 2018 Kat Shamash (April 4, 2018) 

#GloPoWriMo2018 #NaPoWriMo2018 

Day 2 – GloPoWriMo - "Pink Menno"

Day 2 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

"Pink Menno" 

I. The Shunned
Sting of pink duct tape
across our lips
Shoulders square and proud
Terracotta warriors with
no weapons, no guns, no swords

Stand in formation:
with hymns.
with songs of our childhood.
with love. and wanting to be loved.

 

 

 

II.  The Annointed Men
I wish your hair weren't pink, or that it weren't cut so short
and I wish your arms were covered and that your shoes were black and laced up tight. I'd actually like you

To wear something to cover your hair.
Stop asking to share your stories to the assembly.
Stop that tattoo stuff, that talk of women leading a congregation stuff,
That "men and women of god are equal" stuff.

Stop that "women love women" and "men love men"stuff.
Just. Stop. It.
We will not 
listen to your stories.
nor give you a place at the table
nor break bread
nor share the cup

We'd rather look at your dirty, unclean feet

Than wash them,

or look you in the eye.

 

III. Jesus of Nazareth 

I came to earth
and died
for
this?

Who will cast  the first stone?

Who will enter the Kingdom of Heaven?

 

~by Kat Shamash

 

© 2018 Kat Shamash (April 2, 2018) 

#GloPoWriMo2018 #NaPoWriMo2018 

Day 1 – GloPoWriMo - "Never Leave the Hotel"

Day 1 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

"Never Leave the Hotel"

Bangkok, city of tuk-tuks and temples,
Highest room of any hotel, just below the penthouse
order room service day after day after day
never leave that high-rise balcony,
that mahogany desk, those clean, white sheets
that hold you captive
phad thai tastes just as good delivered just outside the door
by a smiling guard

Let the taxis slither a night path through allies
let them learn one-way streets and how to speak Thai
You? Navigate the solitary stars blinking high above the sky line
discover the secret diamond constellations
in city lights,
like one majestic Titan, silently walk the community carpet of city traffic
Smile at the inviting sky rise across the way
who lifts a glass in a toast.

 

The fan in the Balinese eco-hotel
beside terraced green rice fields
loves you.
Light a clove cigarette, bath in the handmade tile shower
Play some Santana and weep good tears.
That beautiful blue pool pond outside,
Empty and round, below the palms--
It doesn't miss you
At all.

That claw-foot tub in the B & B in Old Shanghai?
The room you have to climb three floors of wooden steps to open with a
skeleton key?
That tiny room, that antique bed with chocolates on the pillow is
the best prison yet
You never have to leave.

Istanbul isn't any better, really.
The way you order seven or eight cappuccinos a day to be delivered outside your door
So no one will see you.
The way the empty white ceramic cups and saucers pile up like a memorial to something lost
The way they lean like the Leaning Tower of Pisa on Turkish carpet
It is rainy and cold and you don't have a decent jacket
Just stay. Listen day after day to the call to prayer echo through eternal drizzle.
You can always visit the Blue Mosque on the way
Out of town.

So many ways
to be
a traveler

So many ways
to know
a city.

~by Kat Shamash

 

© 2018 Kat Shamash (April 1, 2018) 

#GloPoWriMo2018 #NaPoWriMo2018 

 

 

Morning

 

Morning

 

that brief second

before thought arrives

breathing between worlds

suspended

 

not asleep

not awake

not asleep

not awake

 

just me,

before thought

before gravity

wrapped in white sheet clouds

still floating around me like

dream worlds

a thousand tiny fireflies

 

then the waking grabs me

then gravity catches

then the tiny tugs

of a thousand

balloon strings

tie me

back down to

earth

 

 © 2016 Kat Shamash (July 24, 2016) 

Home

 

only when

night falls

and I turn my gaze

up toward the

stars

can I navigate

where I might belong in

the universe

 

© 2016 Kat Shamash (July 12, 2016) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credit:  

Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI)

using the Hubble Space Telescope 

 

"First Thing"

 

 

 

Day 28 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to "write a poem that tells a story. But here’s the twist – the story should be told backwards. The first line should say what happened last, and work its way through the past until you get to the beginning."

 

Photo "Another Planet" 

Ash Sharqiyah, Saudi Arabia, December 2015

©2015 Kat Shamash

 

First Thing

She covers herself in a blanket that looks like

a shroud and breaths in and out, in and out.

"Is this what it comes to?" she thinks, her mind clicking.

"The sealing in, the shutting off of all light, a casket?"

Running, she begins to close all the windows,

all the blinds, waiting.

The sun begins to fade.

"A sandstorm," she thinks.

She walks out onto her patio.

She makes coffee first thing.

 

© 2016 Kat Shamash (April 28, 2016)

March in China

 

 

 

Day 23 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

Today's NaPoWriMo's challenge is to write a sonnet.

I did not write a sonnet.

Instead, I channeled poetry from my China-days.

 

 

 

 

Photo "Hangzhou Railway Station: Looking Out" 

©2012 Kat Shamash

 

 

March in China

 

while you sleep subways are being

built beneath you

labyrinth of underground water pipes

maze of fiber-optics in your walls – a pulsing grid

gardens cut out like cookie cutters for a high-rise

 

you want it all back - old gutters, abandoned adobe,

shovels and spring planting

you want the rusted taxis, the broken windows

of a tool shed

 

you want what was there before even that

lakeside trees moving in a dance

to catch the eye of Andromeda

 

look closely

it’s still here:

the way you move in spirals

like the galaxies

the way you silently 

move the brush

the way you wait

like the silent green of April

about to burst

into a primal dance

of your own

 

the way you are

about to show

the world

who’s really

in charge

 

 

© 2016 Kat Shamash (April 23, 2016)

"Earth Floats"

 

 

 

Day 22 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

Today's NaPoWriMo's challenge is write a poem in honor of Earth Day. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo "Globe Lamp Goa" (Process filter)

©2016 Kat Shamash

 

"Earth Floats"

 

on this boat

we are all sliding through water

we are all rowing through stars

 

desire lives in the sound of guns

in the tiny explosions,

in the bursts of color - red

 

but love

love has no pigment,

love is always detaching itself from the earth

transparent

and quietly breathing.

 

love is so silent that even in its weight

it is as if it were

not

 

there

 

© Copyright 2016 Kat Shamash (April 22, 2016)

"Wind"

 

 

 

Day 20 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

Today's NaPoWriMo's challenge 

is to write a “kenning” poem,

which is a riddle-like metaphor

used in the Norse sagas.

 

Not calling the object by its

actual name creates riddle: a

sort of off-kilter, clever

description.

 

Photo "Saudi Sand" 

©2015 Kat Shamash

 

  

“Wind”

 

Sand-thrower

Hair-blower

Temp-lower

 

Wave-crasher

Mountain-dasher

Tree-masher

 

House-shaker

Leaf-raker

Cool-maker

 

 

© 2016 Kat Shamash (April 20, 2016) 

"How to Miss the Bus"

 

 

 

 

Day 19 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

Today's NaPoWriMo's challenge is to write a  “how to” poem – a didactic poem that focuses on a practical skill.

 

Is this a poem? Or prose in poetic form? Whatever the case, I had fun with this one. Since it is based on first-hand experience, it was very easy to write.

 

 

 

 

Photo:  "Breakfast on the Terrace: Goa, India" 

©2016 Kat Shamash

 

 

How to Miss the Bus

 

First of all,

get up late.

Hit the snooze

and then fall asleep.

Again.

 

Get up.

Drink the second cup of coffee,

leisurely,

and then, even though you know you shouldn't,

drink a third.

 

Ignore your good sense.

Pick up the book you're reading and

finish a chapter, even though

you're not even dressed yet, and 

even though you won’t really

have time to

take a shower.

 

Take a shower anyway.

Do it double-quick so that

you lose a contact lens

and have to spend extra time

trying to figure out if it has

crept to the back of your

eyeball

or

has simply disappeared all together.

(Be sure to store extra

pair of lenses in a place you will forget.)

Stumble about, blind and frantic.

In a last-ditch attempt to see,

don an old

pair of glasses.

 

Be sure that by now

you only have only

four minutes left

to make your morning

breakfast smoothie.

 

Do not forget to drop a large

dollop of yogurt onto

your silk shirt

ensuring that you will have to go

change the entire

outfit.

 

In preparation,

be sure that the shoes you

want to wear

are nowhere to be found.

Spend precious time

looking for them.

Find them under the

false hope that you

will find them.

 

Wear another pair.

 

Run out the door.

Lock it.

Remember that your

your phone is inside,

charging.

Realize, in that very same second,

that your keys are also inside

and that by the look of the position

of the sun, high in the sky,

the bus

has already left you

in the dust.

 

© 2016 Kat Shamash (April 19, 2016)

"Wild-Crafted"

 

 

 

Day 17 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

Today's NaPoWriMo's challenge is to write a poem using at least 10 terms from a specialized dictionary. Today's poem is based on the specialized online dictionary called the Glossary for the Modern Soap Maker.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Photo: ©2014 Kat Shamash "Pennsylvania Fence Row" 

 

 

 

Wild-Crafted

Come wild-crafted

The botanical grown

Cinnamon and

Clove

 

Hold out your hands

Cup solar sea salts

Bring the essence of the silk road

The silk robe

The preparations of the bath

 

Burn the

honeycomb

the frankincense

you brought from Arabia

 

Offer up

the oil of almond, of lavender, of

the rose of Lebanon.

 

Harvest the coconut 

The southern bee's wax

The scented floral water 

The balsam from the northern hills

The hand-milled soap

 

Bring something from

The sky.

 Then brew the decoction.

 Find my flash point.

 Be my chandler.

 

© 2016 Kat Shamash (April 17, 2016)

"Hangzhou, China"

 

 

 

 

 Day 16 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

Today Maureen at NaPoWriMo challenged us to write a poem using concrete details about a specific place. I chose China.

 

To all poets and creatives out there, take a moment to listen to the compelling words of Ira Glass in his two-minute talk Storytelling. Among many things, he says it is super-important for creatives to produce a lot of work.  That's what I like about the "30 Days, 30 Poems" challenge: if forces me to produce. Although I'm not completely happy with any of my poems, at least I am at the page, working, and that is divine.

 

The crucial thing is this: show up at the page. Write every day. As Confucius notes: "It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you do not stop." [Note. to. self.]

 

Photo "Hangzhou Bridge and Skyline"

©Copyright 2012 Kat Shamash

  

 

"Hangzhou, China"

 

I.   Captive Art

underneath the shirt of the

conga drummer at Eudora Station

is another shirt that says “Free Wei Wei”

every time his hands move,

free and easy and magic on the skin

of the drum,

he is thinking of escape

 

II.   Found Art

on the sidewalk outside my high rise in Bin Jiang

lie the toothpicks that she dropped

such scattered beauty in the rain

wood against stone

in such a hurry to get somewhere else

she left them there

in the dark

for me to find

 

III.   The Art

beside West Lake the silent

tea-harvesters

in straw hats bend

to pick tea leaves

worth more per ounce than gold

 

at day's end they sneak some

home for a slow-steep cuppa

they walk with soft earth underfoot

they sip the drink of emperors

they have no need for 

concrete streets nor

the bullet train to Shanghai

  

Hangzhou.

It is the Grand Canal, the river barge

the porcelain cup, the pedal bike

the sky rise

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 15, 2016 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes from the Field: Day 16

As I look back over the poems that I've written, I see many that I'm not happy with, and a couple that I like. Not having the time to go back and tweak each poem is killing me. On the other hand, the whole point of this the "30 poems in 30 days" challenge to write, write, write and to keep writing new stuff. In May I'll blog more about what this experience has been like for me, but until then, suffice to say, that putting myself out here, publicly, is scary. It makes me feel very vulnerable. Ten years ago.. five years ago... even a year a go I would have never even dared to share my poetry with the public in this way. But there's something shifting in me... a fearlessness that comes with confidence and love. I come back to Rumi's words: "Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious."

And beyond all the fears we have, as creatives, to show our work, it is important to remember that the creative life takes time. As Ira Glass says in his talk "Storytelling", 

"The most important possible thing [for creatives] to do is to do a lot of work."  It won't be great. It will take time... years. My work is, many times, a disappointment to me and it's not measuring up to what I want. But that's okay. The important thing to do is to show up at the page. Write every day. Don't stop. As Confucius notes: "It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you do not stop."

 

 

 

 

"Pairs of Things"

 

 

Day 15 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

   

 

 

 

Since today marks the half-way point of the GloPoWriMo challenge, today's NaPoWriMo prompt asks us to write a poem that has as its theme the idea of doubles: mirrors or things that come in pairs. 

 

I always notice pairs, whether in nature or in urban settings. I also have the natural tendency, the compulsion, to photograph pairs. I have enough "pairs of things" photos to fill a book.

 

I used one of my "pairs of things" photos ("World Trade Beauty Salon" ) as a prompt for this poem.

 Photo: ©2015 Kat Shamash  

"World Trade Beauty Salon" 

 

  

 

 

"Pairs of Things"

 

coffee cups and the red shoes

the way that each pair lifts

our spirits like

the beauty salon

 

two glasses of red wine and then

hair dye: a blue streak

like the ink on your back,

the set of wings

that nobody sees

but God

 

the pair of scissors, the brush

two chrome chairs that swivel,

dual merry-go-rounds for

living non-stop

 

platinum blond, nose ring, tat --

not the cape dress,

not the hair bun,

not the covering, covering, covering

of our kin

 

it was always like this

with women

 

all of us, soul-weary

trying to help each other

mend our broken

hearts

by new looks

in another mirror

 

the other

pair of eyes

looking back

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 15, 2016

"Deep Space"

 

 

 

 

 

Day 14 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is write a seven-line poem called a san san, a Chinese term which means “three three”.

The form includes repetition and rhyme, repeating three terms or images thrice in a seven line rhyme pattern of a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d.

Below is my attempt to write a san san.

 

Photo: ©2014 Kat Shamash   "Rainwalkers, New Mexico" 

 

 

"Deep Space"

 

rain across the desert dances

storms that move across the earth

clouds that cover sun and moon

 

tribes that move to drums and dances

moving, shifting, giving birth

called by storm-clouds, moon and season

 

stars that light-dance cross the cosmos, moon

that pulls us through the storm

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 14, 2016

“Fire in the Mind: New Mexico”

 

Day 12 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is

to write an index poem starting

with found language from

an actual index.

 

Below is my index poem, based on the

Table of Contents of Fire in the Mind:

Science, Faith, and the Search for Order

by George Johnson. 

 

   

“Fire in the Mind: New Mexico”

 

measure the height of the sky

with morada prayers

calibrate the level of

radiation in devotion

 

climb down the kiva ladder

to the depth of the atom

enter the assembly room of the stem cell with sage

smudge the steeple, the spiral staircase

of DNA

 

place the petri dish in the chapel

a microscope to study enlightenment 

 

sneak into the cold, gray

cave of abstraction

to meet

the demons that accompany

knowledge:  the world of faith

examined

 

atop four magic mountains

you will find Phaedrus’s ghosts,

the riddle of the camel,

the secrets of the nuclear age.

 

the dawn of recognition is

the question,

the spirit,

the nucleus.

  

science and god

a search for form

a leap into the unknown

 

© Kat Shamash, April 12, 2016

 

"Swoon: a Love Equation

Day 11 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

 

A poem written for the writing prompt for NaPoWriMo's Day 11 Challenge. 

 

 

"Swoon: a Love Equation"

 

ginger: grated, juiced

tiny tingle on tongue,

palate of fresh garlic, minced

whirl of the blender when

mixing in

fresh tomatoes and pouring it

ever so gently

over slippery chicken

you just cut

in the sink

 

fried plantains

bubbling on stove

sweet and brown

then cut for the plate

flesh as tender as peaches

in your kitchen

imagination   +   attention    >  gold

 

© Kat Shamash, April 11, 2016

 

 

 

"The Tao of Physics in Five Parts"

Day 10 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

 

Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a “book spine” poem. This involves taking a look at your bookshelves, and rearranging the titles to create a poem.

I liked this kinesetic way of working: creating a poem without writing or sitting at the computer, but by hanging out with my treasured books. A librarian's dream! 

  

"The Tao of Physics in Five Parts"

I.

The tao of physics is

fire in the mind,

the magic of awareness, 

an eloquent eye.

 

II.

The two truths about love are:

1. kiss that frog

2. be here now

 

III.

The rise and fall of great powers 

are reduced to three things:

1. essays on love, 

2. forks over knives.

3. how the hippies saved physics

 

IV.

Oh, Habibi. 

A reflection on Islamic art is

the new Persian kitchen --

a catalog of peculiar inventions:

Lawrence in Arabia,

the interpreter of maladies

the Alaskan bootlegger's Bible

 

V.

The wonders of the universe come down to this:

when women were birds,

they wept tears of love,

they built singing schools,  and dreamt 

bird dreams that 

hit the ground running.

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 10, 2016

"I Forgot to Tell You"

Day 9 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem that includes a line that you’re afraid to write; something that you’re genuinely a little scared to say.

This is by far my favorite prompt, and certainly the juiciest.

I could write a poem a day for a year.... for a decade.... on this prompt alone.

 

  

"Even at the time that the pebbles are being counted out, be not frightened, nor terrified; tell no lies."  

- The Tibetan Book of the Dead

 

 

"I Forgot to Tell You"

 

I am dying.

I say

 

Why did you wait so long to tell us?

they say

 

Isn’t there something more you can do?

they say

  

There isn’t anything more that can be done.

I say 

 

I am dying.

You are dying

We are all dying.

 

Each morning we wake, one more day

Marching toward

The end

 

 

I am dying

I say

 

I waited this long to tell you because

You already knew.

I say

 

 

Sometimes

You just forget.

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 9, 2016

"Bumrungrad Rose"

Day 8 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

"Bumrungrad Rose"

just before they put me under

I wonder

if they will remember to return my

nosering

if they will allow me to see the

tumors

and if taking them out is more urgent than

the trek

we had planned to the

foothills of

the Himalayas

 

beside me

on hospital couch

you stay

four nights

covered only with a blanket

behind you

a whole wall of windows

the cityscape of Bangkok

  

I cannot understand

a word the

funny-capped nurses

say as they glide up and down the hall

in moving shadows

and

probe

my wrists with

needles

in the middle of the night

and my eyes

close and open

close and open

in a haze like a

fish who is

almost dead

 

then morning

then the sun winking on windows far, far away

rising over the long line of skyscrapers

 

then you bring me breakfast

speaking a language that I can

finally understand

 

a single red rose

the obligatory pill

my laptop

today's  International Herald Tribune

rolled up neatly

on my tray

 

© Kat Shamash, April 8, 2016

"A is for Ants (Who Were Swept Out to Sea)"

Day 7 of 30:  Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

What a pleasant surprise to wake up this morning to find that NaPoWriMo listed me as the featured poet for the poem "She Was from Moscow". Thanks, NaPoWriMo! 

 

Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a tritina, which involves "three, three-line stanzas, and a final concluding line. Three 'end words' are used to conclude the lines of each stanza, in a set pattern of ABC, CAB, BCA, and all three end words appear together in the final line." 

 

This took some brain power. The hardest part was picking which three words to use in the tritina pattern. Below is my humble attempt.

 

(At left: a photo I took many years ago. It was some of some of the best wine I've ever had, and some of the best company, too!)

 

 

 

A is for Ants (Who Were Swept Out to Sea)

 

Ants: circling the pomegranate again and again,

Mounting the tangerine, pineapple, grape

Morning in fruit bowl: a kind of ant-happiness

 

Expats: distilling the sugar, the yeast for gin-happiness

Lifting the glasses to toast, once again

The cluster, the tide, the white and red grape

 

The spirits, the shine, from juniper moon grapes

Each colony swimming: a fruit of vine happiness

Antennas for drinking, elixir on tongues, the tribe starts again

 

A dance in the sand, an ant-mortal disco: saluting the grape again and again

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 7, 2016

"She Was from Moscow"

Day 6 of 30:  Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

 Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem about food.

My inspiration comes from a delightful sister, a world wanderer, who I met in India. We were both traveling by ourselves and became fast friends during the time we spent at Villa River Cat in Goa. With a shared passion for the sea and good food, we hung out at places along the Arabian Sea eating grilled garlic mussels at the spectacular French restaurant The Plage and piña coladas at Marbela Beach. We shared so much: laughter, stories, and dreams of "organizing our lives", but the best part of our friendship was the long silences between us as we stared out at the sea.

How lucky was I to snap this iPhone photo just as she placed the plate on the table?

 

 

 

“She Was from Moscow”

 

So sweet

The birthday treats

She served

Wearing orange Shanghai

Silk, her hair up in an Oriental bun.

 

She was

The scent of roses.

 

The red ones, which she didn’t like,

Floated in a bowl on the bamboo table.

She gathered together long-stemmed

Ivory ones, the butter-colored ones,

a bit brown on the edges, but fragrant,

And put them in glass vases

All around the terrace.

 

Come, taste my birthday sweets!

she said, smiling like a tango dance as she took them

out of the box, arranged them on the plate.

We cut them in tiny squares, a mosaic,

and shared them at brunch.

 

It wasn’t because I was American

And she was Russian

And we were in India drinking tea on

The anniversary of the day she was born.

 

It was because I had never known the salty taste

Of red caviar exploding on the tongue

And she had never known a writer

And we both loved the sea

More than we loved a man or the land.

 

She said,

“Isn’t it funny how we humans need our bodies to get around?”

Each breath she took

lifted the scar on her chest where doctors once

took out her heart to fix it.

 

Do you know what happiness is?

she asked, turning to look at me.

Happiness is having enough food to eat, and someone to feed.

 

 

© Kat Shamash, April 6, 2016

 

 

"Basil"

Day 5 of 30:  Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

I am challenging myself to write one poem a day for 30 days. Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to browse seed catalogs looking for unusual names of heirloom plants. Then, write a poem that takes its inspiration from one or more of the various garden rarities. I chose to focus on basil, my current obsession, which I am trying to grow for the first time in container pots on my desert patio.

This is a photo of my first attempt.

 

 

 

"Basil"

 

spikes of light in the desert sun

patio container pots

deep bracts of color

oh, the heavy fragrance

spicy vanilla

green spice

 

such a simple leaf

 

the cinnamon kind

the tasty one from the gardens of Mexico

and the one from Corsica

Napoleon's island birthplace

green to purple like Mediterranean kitchen tile

mottled

 

maybe the classic, compact Genovese from Italy

perhaps the ornamental Dark Purple Opal

with aromatic leaf nodes and

tender stems extended

 

so many harvests

so many terracotta pots on stone steps in the countryside

on roofs of sky rises, on window sills of city apartments 

so many green leaves in ghetto vegetable patches

at farmer’s markets

in the finely manicured gardens of Château de Versailles 

so many cooks grinding pine nuts and walnuts

gathering leaves for pesto

 

Greeks are adding olive oil to dwarf basil

Cute and compact, with its spicy-anise flavor

 

Japanese are chopping up the lettuce leaf kind:

large leaves with a lemon-licorice scent.

 

The basil from the Orient is lime-flavored, like Siam Queen Thai

And then the sweet version with the fuzzy stems: The Hairy Lemon.

For potpourri, the spicy-sweet flavor of the Thai Holy Kaprao,

sacred clove herb of the Hindus.

 

Oh, the scent of Persia: Reyhan,

lemon and spice and the deep burgundy, slightly blousy leaves

of the Red Rubin

 

such a simple leaf, sprinkled everywhere

and common as the sea

 

quietly growing in the hot sun

of Pennsylvania and

here,

etching an Arabian border

between a garden and

infinite

sand.

 

© Kat Shamash, April 5, 2016

"August Is the Cruelest Month"

Day 4 of 30:  Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 

 

 

For me, the cruelest month is not April, as T.S. Eliot writes in his poem "The Wasteland", but rather August. Today's National Poetry Writing Month challenge is to write a poem in which we explore what we think is the cruelest month. 

 

"August is the Cruelest Month"

 

August is the cruelest month

a cyclone of anger

shatters a wine glass

Forbidden whiskey melts on broken ice

in the hand of a man

who once promised he loved you.

 

August is the name of the mason

who closes you in,

stacking the bricks

between you

and the rest of the world.

.

August is the month you wake up

each morning from a nightmare

still wearing the earplugs, the blindfold, the gag

 

It is the kidnapped heart

Strapped in an empty warehouse

Bound in ropes

To an old wooden chair.

 

No one, not even your family

nor your closest friends, can pay the ransom.

 

The lightening bugs flee

on August nights.

Mosquitos arrive in the dark.

The electricity is off.

Your furniture is gone. So are your screens.

 

August is your Beloved driving away,

without a word.

 

You’re still here,

an empty box of matches.

 

August is a yard sale

selling everything you hold dear

to the lowest

bidder.

 

© Kat Shamash, April 4, 2016

"Ode to the Sea"

 

 

Day 3 of 30 of  Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month 

 

April is Global Poetry Writing Month, so I am challenging myself to write one poem a day for 30 days. Yesterday, I wrote about a family portrait. Today's NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem in the form of a fan letter. My fan letter is to the sea. 

 

 

“Ode to the Sea”

 

Dear Sea,

I have always been your fan.

 

when I was three

I saw you first in 2D:

farmhouse hallway

etched blue on

the globe that I kept

spinning & spinning & spinning

with tiny fingers,

rushing all the continents 

through winter & spring & summer & fall,

passing the seasons

until I grew up.

 

You like to draw.

 

I always looked for the boot you etched for the place of pasta,

EE-ta-lee --

the way it matched the larger boot

in the place of gwa-ta-MAHL-ah

where Uncle Larry was a missionary

 

You were everywhere.

 

Even before I learned you covered ¾ of the earth,

Even before my body floated and crashed in your waves,

Even before the astronauts sent us the

ocean-blue earth image from space,

 

I felt your pull.

 

I was not the only girl

drawn from her midnight bed

while the rest of the house was fast asleep.

Stepping out, barefoot onto the cool grass

a whirling dervish

twirling in her shimmery blue

nightgown,

spinning like a globe

orbited by

moonshadows, moonshadows.

 

 

Oh,

sea-tides.

 

I love you most in ah-RAY-bee-ah.

 

Ancient EE-gipt,

parting your waters

so a wandering tribe

can walk on dry land

 

Even now

with all the

guns & battles in PAHCK-ee-stan, the

bombshell explosions in Eye-ran and Eye-rack

 

still you reach

around,

cupping the shores

with water hands,

holding it

like Mother IN-dyah.

 

even when mermaids

sprout fins and grow gills

even when mere mortals are pulled to the Beyond

with a force as strong as the tides,

 

our feet are

caught in land grasses,

held by the ever-strong gravity of place,

 

land-bound.

 

© Kat Shamash, April 3, 2016

 

"First-Born"

 

 

Day 2 of 30 of  Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

 It's Global Poetry Writing Month, so I am taking up the challenge of writing a poem a day for 30 days. Today's challenge:  write poem about a family portrait.

As Mennonites, we didn't have many family portraits when I was a young girl growing up. This informal portrait (which looks quite formal, to be frank!) was taken because we are four generations of first-borns. It was taken in 1967 in the house of my great-grandfather. I am the newborn sitting in my great-grandfather's lap. Beside him is my grandfather. Beside him is my mother.

 

 

 

 

"First Born"

 

A young woman, a mother, sits on the couch

Arms plump with youth, fingers strong

From kneading bread

Nimble from the thimble

Of sewing thread

 

She wears a cape dress, which she covers with an apron.

All of her dresses are from the same pattern. So are her mother’s. So are her aunt's.

She does not own a pair of trousers. She has never seen a movie.

She has never flown on a plane. She has never cut

her long, dark hair, which is pinned back  into a bun with bobby-pins.

 

She: daring to not give her daughters biblical names like Ruth or Mary, but

Exotic ones that no one in church has ever heard.

She: stitching pointed sleeves on her wedding dress -- risqué!

She:  on the day of her marriage

summoning into the Pennsylvania reception hall

the heady scent of lilacs picked from flower bushes 

from miles around Franklin County: white, lavender, deep purple.

The wedding guests swooned.

 

Beside her sits her father, arms crossed, and her grandfather

who holds me in his lap, his one hand, extended,  bigger than my infant head.

 

First-born, all of them.

First-born, all of us.

 

What do we know of this mother's tiny rebellions, the light in her bright eyes?

What do we know of the dreams she forms over the garden,

the sewing machine, the steaming stove, the hot oven,

the clothes line?

 

What do we know of the prayers she whispers

While spreading the bed

With sheets she just brought in

From the fresh, spring air

That blew in from someplace far, far away?

 

From someplace

Not

Here?

 

© Kat Shamash April 2, 2016

"Ganesh"

Day 1 of 30: Global Poetry Writing Month and National Poetry Writing Month

It's Global Poetry Writing Month, so I am challenging myself to write a poem a day. 

Today's challenge: write a lune, which is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable (or 5-3-5 word) count. I've modified this lune to a series of tercets, with the structure of 5 words in the first line, three in the second line, and five in the final line. The poem is accompanied by a photo I took in while writing the poem from a lounge chair in a guest house in Goa, India.

 

 

 

 

"Ganesh"

you never forget, do you?

always sitting, watching

remembering everything, a hard drive

 

blind men think you’re just

trunk, side, tusk

but to those who pray

 

you're the Remover of Obstacles

the lost bringing 

all the incense of India

 

marigolds in a bowl, chants

sandalwood supplicant, rising

from calloused knees: smiling, hopeful

 

© Kat Shamash, April 1, 2016

Bring Out the Veggies: China’s Answer to the Bird Flu

 

Sukjunamul, a Bean Sprout/Cucumber Salad: Yum!!

 I’ve been living in Zhejiang Province near Shanghai for going on two years. There are things I love about China, and others that are a bit challenging. Like people dying of the H7N9 bird flu, for example, and the way it brings back memories of another time I wrestled with my own fears of the bird flu while living in Myanmar.

 

I haven’t bought or eaten pork in China, even before there were thousands of pig corpses bopping in the waters of the main river that runs through Shanghai this month. The only domestic protein in my freezer is fish, and my main protein comes when I eat out, which is often.

With diseased pigs and chickens being slaughtered thoughout the province and as concerns about China’s domestic meat market mount, I figured it’s time to start finding some good vegetarian recipes. Besides looking for ways to include protein in my diet by combining rice and beans, including whey protein powder in my morning shake, and experimenting with tofu, I’m finding some great vegetable recipes. The local City Life grocery store has an organic produce section that appeals to me, so I’ve been finding ways to incorporate vegetable side dishes into my menu. The one pictured here is a "Mung Bean Sprout and Cucumber" side dish that I found online at this link. You’ll be charmed by Korean-Canadian Maangchi who taught me, via this video, how to make the Korean dish Sukjunamul. Yummy!

It feels good to chop in the kitchen, music blaring, with a breeze coming though this 13th floor on this Sunday afternoon.  As I ponder on the fact that over half of the world's population is vegetarian, I know that I can live a long, long time without eating any meat at all. 

The Night Rises : Imaginative Storm (Day 2)

“Rather than falling, night, to the watchful eye, rises” - A. Roger Ekirch -- “At Day's Close: Night in Times Past”

When I lived in New Mexico, I longed for the night. A deep blue indigo would descend on the mesa, and then the soft velvet,  

Night Sky: Taos, New Mexico 2011

first in blue-black streaks, then covering the whole wide expanse of the sky. There is that moment, on nights of the new moon, when three stars appear at once. Venus is one. The evening star. And once, in Thailand, the cosmic smile: crescent moon for upturned lips, diamond-studded eyes and nose: shimmery. A dark cloak descends on half of the earth – kind, gentle, like a blessing.

Back in Pennsylvania, many lock themselves in for the night, especially the farmers who sleep not long after the sun sets and who wake upon its rising. While they sleep, fireflies blink over the cornfields, a yellow mirror reflection of white stars.

Nights bring out the mystery: the place of stories, of torches, fire. Andean nights with my Southern lover on the balcony: La Paz, Bolivia: highest capital city in the world, two miles high. The cowboy in Levis who pulled me into the crook of his arm, who held me on the longest night of the year – Saint John’s Eve - by a bonfire. We watched Orion move across the sky, upside down, and traced the line of the Southern Cross.

New Mexico nights are not black, not if you look closely. They are the deepest purple velvet, wood smoke and sage. The stars of Santa Fe and Taos wheel in the slow pass of a tango, and dance, a twinkling, a shadow-train of a queen as she passes.

 The night in China is filled with skyscrapers, illuminated. The cities of China try to be the sky: the expanse of high rises--- twinkling windows: stars. China nights are hard. Brittle. 

City at Night: Shanghai, China 2012

The hard edges of the buildings, and street corners are softened only by the edge of a moon, by the slow curve of rivers.

The river that runs through my city is two blocks from my apartment. Sometimes, on my e-bike, I ride along its shores. My bike is electric. Silent. Run by a battery . Only the wind makes a sound. The riverside is deserted, lit only in blinking street lamps: everyone is home, sleeping, dreaming. I prowl about, a coyote howling for home --- a night creature remembering the scent of sage, wood smoke, campfire, the bear in the larder, the breathing of a sky so close, so bright, I could stretch my neck and touch its twinkling with my lips. A place where movement is in streams, dust storm, and the brush of the wing of a nighthawk in midflight.

Those nights, in a country of 1.3 billion people, in a city of 8 million, I zoom along the river, my hair  streaming wild behind me.

The Bund: Shanghai, China 2011

And there, just before I reach the traffic light, blinking red, my soul rises.

Into the wide expanse of Asia I am skimming the cityscapes.

Holding my hands are sisters who love me.

The night clings to me close like something primal, like something ancestral, like something as familiar as an embrace.

Expat Life: The Honeymoon Is Over

I expected my move to China to be an easy transition. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

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I have reinvented my life many times. Packed my belongings into cars and suitcases, locked my possessions in storage units, and taken off on yearlong road trips and planes bound for many foreign lands. I’ve lived as an expatriate for over 12 years on four different continents.  Because of this, I expected my move to China to be an easy transition. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Image: an art exhibition poster I found at the Hangzhou Academy of Art. I want to go, but first I need to find a translator.

China is not a place for a Westerner with a low tolerance for uncertainty. If you want to avoid ambiguity, it’s best to stay home. Hibernate. Find a cave and stay there. Believe me: it’s tempting. I’d probably stay home more than I do, but I avoid hanging out in my apartment with its mismatched furniture, florescent lights, and white, undecorated walls. I still haven’t figured out how to adjust the temperature of the water heater because the controls are written in Chinese. Most of the showers I take are cold.  My tiny kitchen is always hot and stuffy, so cooking is like taking a sauna. I eat out a lot.

I’ve moved halfway around the world to a country whose citizens speak a language I do not understand. I work at a new school at a job that is a brand new profession.  From my city apartment, I look out my living room window to a view of six high-rises that are over 40 stories high. I have traveled on a bullet train at 220 mph towards the most populated city in the world.

I’ve lost my frame of reference. Where’s my country, my house, my friends, my mountain, my language? I feel myself changing: shifting into an urban creature directed more by instinct than intellect. Minus language or cultural reference, I use my intuition to guide me. I am the city survivalist, trying not to crash her e-bike into the bus barreling around the corner. I communicate with non-verbal cues, expressions and gestures. I am the chimpanzee in an unmanaged zoo, trying to speak and write and talk. I’d rather be home in my forest, gently picking fleas off my cousins.

Someone once told me “We are the same people we were last year except for the books we have read, the films we have seen, the people we’ve met, and the places we’ve been.” I am not the same person I was two months ago. I am finding beauty in concrete and steel. I have learned to meditate while moving. Even though so much of New China is urban and contemporary, I am tapping into something ancient. I'm enamoured with traditional Chinese medicine, traditional Chinese massage, and the Way of Tea.

I think less about horoscopes and astrology and more about the design of buildings, the fabric of society, and how my choices and behavior affect the design of my own life.

Before living here, I swallowed the stereotypes about China hook, line, and sinker. I actually believed that everything made in China was inferior merchandise and that the Chinese were, in general, an unhappy people. Now I realize how the western media distorted my view, and how threatened the U.S. government is by the power of the Chinese economy.  The U.S. press reflects this fear. Living here has opened me up to a new way of seeing China and rest of the world.

Two months of living here, and I feel as if I have shifted on a cellular level. I’m more aware of mass consciousness. I light my nam champa incense with a slightly different prayer. The sacred tobacco seeds from women’s lodge still aren’t planted in the pots on my windowsill, but soon they will be. Only the moon makes me feel rooted – a strong and powerful connection to my former life and my community back home. I’m searching for something that’s just beyond my reach- the sound of a gong in the night air, an unexpected scent of jasmine, yellowed maps from the Old Silk Road.  I am still looking for a city tribe that understands soul matters: a group of poets, a community of artists. In my dreams, I go to the place of the mountains. I want to stay there.

I am torn between the old me and the new me, shadow boxing the questions and trying to accept the tears that come with confronting my own identity.  I am fragile. Vulnerable. They said this would happen, those experts in the psychology of expatriate living and culture shock. That the honeymoon high would wear off around the second or third month, and the oh-my-god-what-have-I-done phase would set in.

I’m at the oh-my-god-what-have-I-done phase, but I’m not quitting. I’m not running home. I’m staying, because the greatest growth is not an external process: it’s internal. The fortitude it takes to stay, when living here is so hard, has something to do with perseverance and a lot to do with hope. One day, I will call China home. I will have art on the walls, and warm lamps and showers, and a group of friends to invite home for dinner.

Until then: it isn’t easy, people.

Facebook doesn’t tell the whole story.

Ever.