shamash says...

"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