Reminder

My Grandma Charlotte died almost a year ago now. I wrote this poem recently about how it takes the brain a while to catch up, at least the subconscious part that still wants to call her and tell her things, but how also...we don't always want it to catch up...








Reminder

I just absentmindedly drew
an angry clown smoking
a stogie. Read that
Rorschach inkblot.

You used to draw
a clown for me on paper placemats.
I remember some of the parts
looked like sausage links or balloons,
but I can’t remember the order.

I want chocolate milk with a bendy straw
and blueberry pancakes from Pappan’s Restaurant.
There’s a Wendy’s now where Pappan’s used to be.

I want to call and ask you if you think Stabler and Olivia
should hook up on Law and Order: SVU
and how do you spell Mariska’s last name?
It is hard to remember again and again
that you have died.

H-A-R-G-I-T-A-Y.
Hargitay sounds like hard to say.
What was that song you sang
to me that went paddy raddy bumsteay?
I’m trying to say I don’t want
even my memories
to die.

Senseless

Senseless

I have a hard time putting things into boxes.

When I move I have full garbage bags labeled DO NOT THROW AWAY.

I have as hard a time with mental boxes-->categories-->gestalts.

I can put dog in a small furry animal that barks box,

but what can I do with 16 yr old kills my 28 yr old Syrian student, Jamal?

28- Not old enough to have been his father, but at least a brother

an uncle a mentor a teacher if life made sense

If 57 choices were made that weren't

and 3 that were, weren't.

I hope he gets tried as an adult

because I'm trying to believe

children are too innocent to kill

or die.

God, it's true

I just realized

I have a stuffed camel called Jamal.

Clarence, my friend stationed in Iraq, sent me 3 yrs ago.

Now Clarence's son is in Iraq

training Iraqi soldiers

how not to get killed.

The son's name is Tony. He's 29.

The killer's name is Eric.

He is somebody's son,

probably somebody's brother,

maybe somebody's nephewunclecousin friend student

He's a child.

I have 2 stuffed camels, Jamal,

and one from Camel Rock Casino on Tesuque Pueblo,

where I met Clarence,

who taught me how to say I love you

in Tewa,

where I learned that I can understand

that I need to understand

what I don't understand

that I can't understand.

Is there a word for this plurality

in Tewa?

in English?
in Arabic?

Remembering Jamal Mouzaffar

Yesterday evening, I went for a walk to clear my head...or to look for a sign to make sense of all this. I saw flowers growing in weeds, I saw new leaves growing from a lightning charred tree. I tried to run, but couldn't run fast enough. I sat in the garden. I searched for some comparison, something that would give me a reason. I couldn't find any. I spent some time writing in my Nature journal that i had put away back in the beginning of June. I wanted to feel connected to the Earth.

Inshallah
God Willing
like we don't have
a choice
Because we really don't
It means
I want the best
for you and yours
but have no way to guarantee it
Inshallah
God willing
by and by
Vaya con Dios
We all have a way to say it
but how can we make sense
of your death?
We're not supposed to
but God willing
one day we'll see
clearly
face
to
face
Go with God, Jamal
We don't have a choice
in this life
when we come and go
but God willing
I will see you again habibi
dear one
friend

----

When I returned home, I found a passage in one of my books of poetry by Rumi that struck me as particularly relevant. I'm sharing it with you here:

On the day I die, when I'm being carried
toward the grave, don't weep. Don't say,

He's gone! He's gone. Death has nothing
to do with going away. The sun sets and

the moon sets, but they're not gone.
Death is a coming together. The tomb

looks like a prison, but it's really
release into union. The human seed goes

down in the ground like a bucket into
the well where Joseph is. It grows and

comes up full of some unimagined beauty.
Your mouth closes here and immediately

opens with a shout of joy there.

~mevlana jelaluddin rumi - 13th century

In Memory of Jamal Mouzaffar

-Article about the shooting-

I heard on the radio first thing this morning that one of my students had been shot and killed. Jamal Mouzaffar was in my Microsoft PowerPoint class, and had taken two other classes with Ron. He was signed up to take Publisher with me in September. Jamal was here from Syria for medical treatment. He had a prosthetic leg that was getting some adjustments. He had completed some study at the university back home in Journalism, and was planning to complete it on his return in a few weeks. The radio said he was opening his Uncle's deli, a gunman demanded money, Jamal complied, but he was shot anyways. It is such a terrible loss. And such irony that really doesn't give any comfort right now- he came to this country TO GET BETTER, and this is what happens. My heart goes out to his family right now, both here and back in Syria. I called the only number I had, which was at Jamal's apartment, and my throat caught when I heard his voice on the answering machine. I can't make sense of this. He always had a smile, he was so kind, so friendly, so curious, so willing to learn. Sometimes the world doesn't make sense. Rest in peace, Jamal, I hope wherever you are is better than this world where such things can happen.

In Memory of My Grandma (d. 2006)

I want to post a poem to now that my Grandma actually helped me a bit with. I was having trouble describing the particular sound of the tug boat horns we always heard on the river, and went to her with advice. Later, in the hospital, I told her I thought I found the right words, but she never got to hear the whole poem. This is a poem that, on the surface, seems to be more about boats and the Ohio River. However, in reality, and on a somewhat deeper level, this is completely a poem about the world’s best Grandma, and the powerful effect she had on her grandchildren, who were blessed to have her. By the end of the poem, the sound of the river boat horns seems to be equated with Grandma’s welcome voice calling us in to her home from out playing. This poem is emotionally true. Factually, the poem is more of a combination of many, many, many wonderful events all smushed together to form one scene. The line breaks are not showing as written, so I am putting a forward slash at the end of each line as intended. The first time I read this poem publicly was the exact day in December 06 my Grandma was admitted to the emergency room. This also happened to be the day of my last Craft of Poetry class, and a public reading in the art gallery at school. I was torn up reading it then.

Sleepovers at Grandma’s House on the Ohio River

Lightning bugs lit the way for us cousins in our buttercup necklaces /
as we followed our Grandma’s welcome voice to the porch and indoors, /

where, before we could hear the stories behind the bleating of the river boat horn— /
my Grandma’s imaginary boyfriends’ echoed greetings— /

we washed off our dandelion makeup and dirt under fingernails, /
while Ivory soap smells bubbled in our noses, /

then settled into the big blue-room bed, with its blue walls and comforter, /
to play twenty-questions and giggle at ceiling tiles until we were shushed /

and drifted our way to dreams— /
times like that, it seemed summer would never end. /


Then we grew older. /

We drifted more and more apart. /

The flood forced relocation to a smaller house. /

The rising river ruined almost everything that had made our summer days. /

The carpet we had sat on cross-legged playing Atari when it rained. /

The box of toys like Evil Knievil motorcyclist and Indian brave. /


But sometimes, even though I’m away, alone in my apartment, I think I hear the welcome river boat greetings./