Виолончели ("Cello", in Russian)

When he woke the sheets were
still, cold, with hard edges

A broken eggshell
and she had run out

So he bought a cello
and adored it instead

Another distant instrument
he'd never know how to play.

Pearl Jamming and a damn good weekend

It was a good weekend. I managed to cram 4 days of festivities into two whirlwind tours of fun. I'll keep it short, but here's the gist:

Spent all day Saturday on either the beach or a boat at L's cabin. On the beach, I read trashy magazines, threw around a football, and drank beers. On the boat, I watched wakeboarders ride, drank raspberry vodka from the bottle, listened to SoundGarden and pretty much felt like a badass. The company was good, the music was good, and it was that classic summer day you never want to end.

By the time we got the boat off the water, I was pretty sure it couldn't get better (remember, I was three sheets to the wind, in a swimsuit, in the sun, and no one had yet shat themselves). But then it did.

A couple of my friends and I were unexpectedly offered free tickets to the Pearl Jam show that evening by a new (generous) acquaintance. The concert was at the Gorge in George, Washington. Not only is this my favorite venue (for a number of reasons but mostly the aesthetic appeal of the place -- it's just breathtaking), but I was already pretty close, my friends are die-hard PJ fans, and the prefunking was done.

I was in, with three friends.

Now, it was hotter than two rats copulating in a tube sock at the Gorge. We're talking 89 degrees after the sun set. But I was so blissed out the whole time just to be there that I didn't even notice. It was good. Like, really good. Teenage Wasteland was a particular high point, as was Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, of course. But you can download it here and see for yourself.

After the concert, we went back to the cabin where we crashed and then got up the following morning for an early drive home, during which I slept shamelessly the whole way, half draped over my helpless (but admirably patient) backseat companion (who doubled as a pillow).

Upon arriving home, I changed and went to the much-anticipated company picnic and -- surprise! -- had a great time. It was again a zillion and a half degrees, but at one point all the execs kids had a waterfight and somehow my CEO and I got involved, which was both fun and totally necessary to prevent me from actually melting right there in the park.

Immediately following the picnic, I got on a ferry and headed across the water to an island where a friend of mine recently moved and bought a boat. We killed three hours on the boat, and then went to a nearby restaraunt on a pier and ate our weight in seafood.

By the time I finally got on the ferry home, it was 11:30 and I was full, completely exhausted, and happy. You can't ask for much more than that.

Let's take the scenic route, eh?

On Seattle

I.
It's as if I am visiting after being away far too long.
I had almost forgotten the feeling
of damp air on skin,
the sickly sweet smell of garbage and bum piss
in the alleys of downtown,
and the way spring doesn't come until June --
buds bursting into colorful crowns
yesterday nonexistant in the green,
now grinning and bobbing outside my window.

I had almost forgotten the contradiction of this place:
How it buzzes, steel and glass planted in wetland;
The reflections in tall, mirrored buildings
of slender trees tacking down squares of earth along gritty streets;
The reflections in wide, windowed buildings
of two people in one trenchcoat beneath a yellow bus sign, kissing;
The reflections in geometric wonders of buildings:
reverse images of brick buildings and black buildings
and of building itself.

I'd let the pierced blonde woman slip my mind:
glittering tragically in anger and rebellion
with her carefully dirty hair,
lounging always outside the coffee shop
with newsprint-blackened fingers
framed by the fog of a hot-tipped cigarette.

I had almost forgotten the noise:
The pregnant silence just before
a strong-armed man in rainboots throws his head back,
hands outstretched in an embrace with thick air
and belts "Fish! FII-IISH!"
in a gravely bass that makes me want to join him
in my own triumphant release;
And the cacaphony of buses, taxis and horse-drawn carts
jockying for position along First Avenue,
all hissing, honking and clopping.

And I am lucky to have been moved to remember
how in a day amongst
the raincoats
and streetlights
and brick buildings
and buses
it's possible to exist solely on this energy
and be satiated, somehow.

II.
Bumper to bumper,
we creep through the arteries of this city together.
Bonding in bored glances from lane to lane,
we flirt -- one metal pod to another --
at seven, eight, fourteen miles per hour.

III.
I finally peel away from the rush hour rest
and fly.

Brakes shriek as I careen around a corner,
reckless in my new freedom.
I pass the standing firemen,
all navy jumpsuits and square jaws,
at the station
with my windows cranked down and
The Doobie Brothers blaring from the one good speaker.

I sing through the sucker tucked in my cheek
just loud enough for them to notice,
though I don't know the words to this one.

The air screams in one window --
whipping my hair about my neck
pouring in my sleeves, around my ankles
then biting cheeks and dampening eyes --
before it bursts out another.

I watch it in the rearview
as it teases the litter in the street behind me;
I watch it grow smaller.

And I watch the dappled light,
filtered through the trees,
flying over my hood, windshield and me,
faster and faster:
an Appaloosa racing through the veins of this metropolis.

I wrote you a haiku and filled out a survey. Friends?

Please forgive me for my neglect. Pretty soon I'm not going to have any readers at all because I suck suck suck suck ass at posting lately. My bad. To make you feel better, I thought I'd write you a few haikus, which I have recently discovered I am very good (read: terrible) at.

First, a gentle introduction to my skills:


It's not as easy as it looks, and this is proof

You might think I joke
about my haiku writing
sucking, but I don't.


And now, for the main course: A walk down memory lane via haiku. We'll call this series "Portrait Series I: College Roommates '99-'03"


College roommate I (the bizarre one)

She said "You mind?" when
I caught her borrowing my
underwear. "Um, yeah."


College roommate II (the skanky one)

She said "So what?" when
I caught her borrowing my
date; she had me there.


College roommate III (the best one)

One time, high, we ate
a whole box of cereal
sitting cross-legged.


That's enough of that for today. I'm sure there's more to come, though. Just give me the holidays with my family to refill the bank of crazy people to haiku about and I'll be back with "Portrait Series II: Woe is My Gene Pool".

In yet another show of laziness, I am now going to repost a survey I filled out on MySpace because somehow these two mediums have been running together a lot lately as I've been preoccupied by the holiday season, craziness at work, craziness in my personal life, and doing some serious writing which I'm too shy to ever share here. That means you get whatever is left over, and based on what I've been giving you lately, you're probably trying to locate an expiration date on this carton. But let me assure you: I'm still good... I just need a little time to age properly. So hang in there, and I hope something I've left you with today makes you chuckle. In the end, I'm starting to think that's what it's all about.

On to the holiday survey -- Liz on Christmas in 28 questions:

1. Hot Chocolate or apple cider?
Coffee. Coffee should definitely be listed as an option here. Coffee is a holiday staple -- something like $4 bottles of champagne, Advil and candy cane particles in the bottom of my purse.

2. Turkey or Ham?
Whiskey-Crab Bisque, actually. Turkey is for thanksgiving and definitely not ham. Pigs eat their own doo and each other and whatnot and Im a vegetarian. Sorry its just not going to happen.

3. Do you get a Fake, real from a lot, or you cut it yourself christmas tree? Fake. Times two. With lights lights lights everywhere. And spray-pine scent. And cheesy ornaments, like my miniature Vibe (thanks, mom) and a little snowman I made in the third grade. Guess my parents didnt want to hang on to that one and now Im stuck with it.

4. Decorations on the outside of your house? This year? Yes. But they came at a price because on the klutz scale Im a 10. All you who know my story about knocking myself out and simultaneously flashing my neighbor while plugging in Christmas lights can have a good laugh now at my expense. The scar on my head is hardly noticeable.

5. Snowball fights or sledding?
Love and love. Unless the snowball fights are with Kyle McGee (resulted in a black eye) or any boys who throw at the head region or whitewash. Thats just bad manners. (But Im allowed to do both, just to be clear).

6. Do you enjoy going downtown shopping?
I love the mania. Suits me fine.

7. Favorite Christmas song? Easy. Last Christmas by Wham. Followed by O holy night sung by any lady with a big voice.

8. Worst Christmas Song? Anything by Celine Dion. That lady is an obnoxious waste of thinness.

9. How do you feel about Christmas movies? We have a close personal relationship.

10. When is it too early to start listening to Christmas music?
Um, never. Clearly. I usually take a hiatus through spring and then start round two right around groundhog day.

11. Carolers, do you or do you not watch and listen to them?
Definitely. Its best when theyre like 30 and drunk and its the middle of the night and theres 3 of them howling and slurring in the middle of the street, though. Those are my favorites.

12. What is your favorite thing to do at Christmas?
The new gift swap/hunt for a hideous tree/drink mimosas all day tradition with the girls is tied for the favorite position with my annual geek dinner/gingerbread house party with the nerd-squad from 8th grade. You know who you are And I love you and all the memories!

13. What is your favorite holiday smell? Car exhaust. Honestly, these questions kinda suck. What do you THINK my favorite holiday smell is? Christmas trees. Duh.

14. Favorite Christmas memory? The year my whole family decided to sing the 12 days of Christmas and it took us like an hour because everyone was tipsy and kept laughing and forgetting to sing and forgetting what day we were on and the FIIIVE GOOOLDENNN RIIIINNNGGGSS part took easily 3 minutes every time we sang it.

15. Favorite Part about winter? Looking at Christmas lights, singing xmas songs too loud in my car and not caring who sees me, being able to see your breath, waiting for snow, acting like a 6 year old moron when it finally snows, free candycanes EVERYWHERE, those ever-cheerful door-holding-bell-ringer-people

16. Worst part about winter? Every year when I slip on ice in public and take 3 friends, an ornamental tree and an old person down with me, being cold, having to dress sensibly, static, and the fact that its dark when I wake up followed by 4 hours of dim daylight and drizzle and then gets dark again somewhere around effing lunchtime.

17. How do reindeer fly? For once Im not going to B.S. you. I have no clue. Mexican food, maybe?

18. Do you like to give or recieve? Yes. Yes, I do.

19. Do you send holiday cards?
Call it paranoia, but I think my Mom might have written this quiz knowing I'd fill it out just to ask that question and make me feel guilty. She's a conniver, that one.

20. Ever kissed under mistletoe? Nope. Im turned off by cheesy fumbling predictable attempts at romance.

21. What goes on the top of your tree? My cat, usually.

22. Thoughts on Eggnog:
WHY? Its like the lunchmeat with the pimentos in it: a bad idea, but no one's saying anything. It's like the inventor is a member of the mafia or something. I am a little grossed out by the fact that youre basically drinking sweet, frothy raw eggs, but if you add alcohol to almost anything Im in, so I guess Im not really that offended when you get right down to it.

23. Certain person you want to kiss under mistletoe? Again why mistletoe? Totally arbitrary and boring and predictable. Id seriously rather kiss under a very full roosting pigeon or a fast-moving train.

24. Person who's throat you would like to shove the mistletoe down?Im more of a yeller than a beater. I prefer ascerbic comments muttered under my breath to actual acts of violence.

25. Favorite christmas movie? Mixed Nuts (act like you know) is tied with Christmas Vacation. Nice tree, kinda full, lotsa sap little sappy in here!! That theres an R.V. "THE BLEESSSSIINNNNGGGG!!" Who doesn't love that movie?

26. Best Holiday company party story:
I'm an optimist, so I'll say that its coming up this Wednesday. Im the crappiest bowler on the planet. The coworkers have no idea whats coming.

27. Think the holidays are overrated?
Absolutely. But so is Shaq, shopping and sleep, and Im still a big fan of all three. Sorry, it's true.

28. What do you want for Christmas?
Im pretty torn between Peace on Earth, one million dollars, a president with a higher IQ than mine and love at first sight. So I'll just leave this one blank, OK?


Best wishes this holiday season, whatever that means to you. Thanks for sticking with me. May the new year bring new friendships; the acceptance and embracing of solitude; and personal successes tempered by the compassion to share them with others. (Also, I wouldn't turn down Peace on Earth, one million dollars, a president with a higher IQ than mine or love at first sight.)

Cheers!

Vibe

**This was written for the 7th Poetry Carnival, hosted by Garnet with the theme "music".**

Vibe

In the dark I am one of many, fingers to lips just so,
exhaling my melody into the throbbing, smoke-filled room

where bodies warm with swaying nodding tapping lilt behind
the meter of the spotlit island's tight blue cadence.

Ice clinks in short glasses while I tap my thumb;
frosted ashtrays slowly fill with perfectly timed conversations.

My words scat along the bar now, rythmic and stacatto;
my heart pounds, crescendoing, in twos and fours

trading eights with yours across the table.

Greyhound, Seat 4C

So Erin at Poetic Acceptance gave me an assignment recently: to write a poem with the opening line:

"The clock runs in the shadows
as well as in the light"

Here is my attempt:



Greyhound, Seat 4C

The clock runs in the shadows
as well as in the light
but still she hides it
in her pocket.

Swallowed by the humm-thump of bus tires,
the pounding of her swollen heart
and raw, heaving ribcage,
she watches the blurry world

spin by with unnatural speed,
a palate of rust
and slate
in the dawn.

Dizzied, she fixes eyes to the horizon,
on that point where the dull, potholed highway
meets young lemon light,
and fingers the change in her palm --

enough for perhaps a few more transfers
and another cup of bitter coffee at the next stop,
last time so black
she couldn't see her reflection in the styrofoam cup.

Squeezing her eyes against the glare,
she leans her head to the vibrating window,
finally,
letting go.

A shudder shakes through her like a current
and a single salty orb slides from its swollen womb
to hang heavy
on long, damp lashes.

It slips onto velvety cheek,
waning as it purposefully rolls,
leaving part of itself -- a telltale trail--
behind.

But when it lands in one final rush,
pooled, glistening sorrow at the corner of her curved mouth,
it is much to familiar
and she much too weary

to notice it's flavor
like the sea on her tongue
or the man in 4D,
in awe of her,

offering his handkerchief.

The 6th Poetry Carnival: Ars Poetica

What is a poem? Why do we write? As poets, what is the experience -- the process -- of writing, and how is it different from the experience of having finally written?

This, the 6th Poetry Carnival, explores works inspired by "Ars Poetica": today our poets speak on their art. Not suprisingly, each keyboard clicked a little differently, each eraser, every wastebasket, all 52 spirals on each notebook looked and felt and meant differently to each poet.


Sometimes the significance of the poem was simply the act of discovering it, as in "Poetry Happens", by Adam Graham. He describes the writing of a poem as a sudden experience -- perhaps divine inspiration?:

"It comes in a moment,
In an instant, in a flash,
It comes without warning,
And it demands written down."


For Martin at Complete and Utter Poetry in "Ars Poetica (Occasional Flashes of Lucidity)", poems also emerge unpredictably -- sometimes from the fog of sleep. He describes the experience of learning to capture and cultivate those gifts:

"I grope for things just out of reach-
At last, a phrase is caught
I explore its form
Learn its texture, shape and weight"


In an untitled, two-line poem, Troy Oster expresses the frustration of a struggle for inspiration and purpose -- perhaps that is the discovery of the poem?:

"Stifled in the mundane with an absence of prophetic epihany I exist in unknown pursuit of that unknown which I am to pursue. There would be other days but that was the only day never to repeat itself."


In That Which Drives Me at My Serenity Vijay ponders a poet's need for inspiration in the first place:

"With every passing second, a new life,
With every uttered word, a perfect statement,
With every action done, a perfect event,
Such perfection, this harmony, beyond limits.
Is there a need for reason to write poetry?"


Regardless of why we write, few poets find their work and their approach static. In "Love of Fare", Violet leans on some delicious food imagery when describing her relationship with poetry. She fancies herself a chef, sampling from the plates of many as she assesses and develops her skills as a poetry chef:

"Wine of symbol and sound
liqueur lyrics abound
I’m becoming an addict of diction ..."


Daniel Barkowitz at Talking to Myself discusses poetry as a state of being in "ours, Poetica" -- and its being, perhaps, a metaphor for itself:

"Imagine, were it possible to see
a world where every object was expressed
as reference to another, every tree
a metaphor, and every one addressed

by 'rose' or 'poem' or 'ancient crooked man'."


At GlitteringMuse, Garnet also explores this idea -- does a poem inspire being, or does being inspire a poem? In "Writing a Poem", Garnet discusses a moment spent trying to create, and finding perhaps he already had:

I see the shapeshifting reality bulge
around the illusory hibiscus I could never match.
Veils of words needs constant shattering
to lighten thick, moldy layers of thatch.


Perhaps a poem is an invitation. Andrew Nichols at danweasel.com briefly encourages his poetry, and his readers, to BE the experience in "Philosophical Poetry":

"Dance on God’s fingertips.
Don’t pay too much attention to my reckless advances.
Bitter or sated, always be bright.
Speak to me alone; sing to many universes.
Cry with me, laugh with me.
No matter how we’ve aged, let us touch like new lovers.
Dance with me."


What should a poem do and mean? At Words To Go With Poetry Renee likens a poem to the changing and change-making water in her version of Ars Poetica:

"Sometimes the beauty of the wild water
Sometimes the ease of a canalled stream
Freedom to flow, shaping rocks to pebbles
Raging in canyons, an ever changing path."


In Erin Monahan's Ars Poetica, a poem appears to act as the healing of a self-inflicted infection, a passion, a child, a relief:

"Let it be a draining of pus
from infected palms, wounded
by the blunt edges of your own
spoiled and sod-soiled nails."


Ed Kidhardt's Beachhead explores a related theme of burying that which inspires a poem, (love? fear? passion? hope?) only to find that it's a hardy little bugger, and lives like a rockflower in the most barren and forgotten places:

"The one fatal flaw, it came from the act
of hiding this thing so deep in the earth
though we never watered or tended it
divine intervention gave the seed birth"


In the end, maybe none of us really know why we do it -- just that we're compelled to. In Billy The Blogging Poet's version of Ars Poetica, Billy says he writes:

"To plead to my lover,
to strike an accord,
to relieve my disgust
with my broken down Ford."

And ultimately, he says, perhaps we do it simply because we've discovered we're able to, and it feels good, and that is reason enough.


**To participate in the next Poetry Carnival, join the Google Group!**

The Poetry Carnival is here!

Welcome, one and all, to the 6th Poetry Carnival!

Ars Poetica: A poem or verse which sets forth a poet’s principles for the art of poetry. Horace wrote the original Ars Poetica somewhere between 18 and 20 B.C. It reads like a thesis on the art of poetry – its purpose, its form, its intent.

Later, Archibald MacLiesh and Czeslaw Milosz were both inspired by Horace to craft their own verses with the borrowed title “Ars Poetica”, MacLiesh’s version can be read here.

This Carnival’s challenge is to create your own Ars Poetica. Dabble in art for art’s sake. What is your personal rulebook for the function, craft, form or purpose of a poem--or are there rules? What motivates you, a poet? What you seek to accomplish each time you set pen to paper (or fingertip to keyboard, as it may be)? What is a poem? What mustn’t it be? All mediums and formats welcome -- after all, you're the poet.

Submissions due by November 12 (next Saturday) at noon. They should be submitted to liz8murray@hotmail.com, or via the "email" button at the bottom of this post, and should include the following:

Your Name (or pseudonym):
Title of Blog:
URL of Blog:
Title of Poem:
Permalink URL of the Poem:
Excerpt to showcase:

To join the Poetry Carnival google group, go here and sign up. Or, click on the title, above, to link to danweasel's Poetry Carnival page. All are welcome!

Looking forward to your submissions... the carnival will be up Monday, November 14.

We're famous! Ok, not really...

Billy the Blogging Poet has highlighted Legwarmers as Day 52 of "100 Blogging Poets in 100 Days". Check it out here. But please note the disclaimer: 100 Blogging Poets is by NO means a "top 100" of sorts -- so don't go thinking I'm all special or anything... we all know better, don't we? :)

While perhaps I am neither famous nor talented, thanks, Billy, for bringing a whole new set of fresh meat to Legwarmers. I'm nothing if not lucky. :)

I may be the host of an upcoming Poetry Carnival... so watch for that. In the meantime, check out the last one here.

The untruth

You told me I was a hurricane, once;
sucking people up out of their lives
like frogs from their cool, happy creekbeds
and dropping them, shaken, somewhere hopeful and bright.

You told me I felt as natural as rain,
like soap on your damp body.
You said I left you cool but sweet;
I was proud of the traces me on your skin.

You watched my eyes burn but didn't tell me I was beautiful.
I forgot what to do when a man doesn't say that.
Each day you cleared your throat and didn't say it
I blinked and began to believe I was gone.

You called me a contradiction one day at the fair,
pointing out in my hair the chewed pencil that held it,
then breathing softly on the silver and diamonds
embedded proudly in each of my ears.

You said I spoke like a shotgun at three in the morning
after our talk left me pale and raw,
and I envied your aim; your sharpshooter hand so steady
it almost didn't hurt as I bled birdshot words.

You watched my eyes burn but didn't tell me I was beautiful.
I forgot what to do when a man doesn't say that.
Each day you blinked, cleared your throat and didn't say it
drove me closer and closer to gone.

You watched my eyes burn.
For you I was beautiful,
but I'd forgotten what to do when a man says that.

That day I didn't blink,
and when you finally said it

I was gone before you cleared your throat.

Rush

One in a rush of bodies,
a living wave of motion,
I stepped off the ferry...
cars and sea behind me, land ahead.

Slicing the thickly salted air in my hurry,
I watched the dock pass
furiously beneath me.

I drove each step into the future,
pounding it back with my hastening soles.
I pretended not to be terrified
by yesterday grinning at my heels.

His stillness caught my eye as I passed.
Oblivious to splinters he leaned,
leather elbow to worn rail.

Barefoot and dirty,
he challenged me
to pause a moment,
to admire.

I tried, but didn't understand.
My thoughts were with tomorrow.

Shaking his head,
he fixed his eyes on the horizon,
watching it approach.

Suddenly, my breath stopped in my throat
as he stood
so still,
and I saw him at last.

Tell me the time -- your pallid wrist seems tremendous with hours,
with every minute and day that has not been mine!
Lend me your tattered watch so that I may have an eternal moment like yours.

Give it to me!
I am desperate for it -
even breath, daring gaze, standing still -
make it mine!

But he shook his head once more,
and, smiling, unclasped his watch,
letting it slide slowly past finger and earthy thumb.

As it clattered through a gap in the warping dock,
its ticking disk caught,
briefly suspended in time (which continued without it)
before dissapearing quietly in the dark water below.

And he eased by me,
eyes up,
into the past.