The Cruelest Month

How does one "be happy" during the cruelest month? Here are 30 suggestions: (In retrospect  I should have given these to you guys on April 1 to help you along. Sorry!)

1. Surprise someone. I surprised Brooke with dinner. Since I got home early, I made chorizo tacos and rice and beans with all the fixings.
2. Learn a new dance. "Puddle Dodger" ...it's a dance on a bike.
3. Get dirty. Re-potted plants, rode bike in rain, deep cleaned house: check.
4. Acknowledge people who serve you. I am a generous tipper when I go out to eat. When you've been a waitress you know.
5. Make your baseball predictions. I predict many double-headers late in the season once the rain subsides.
6. Enroll in a class that interests you. I should have taken a poetry class this month. I needed a peer group to workshop things.
7. Prepare a meal you've never cooked before. Jesus and I made chicken shawarma and falafel for our Middle Eastern food night.
8. Stretch and breathe. Ok.
9. Walk in the rain. Impossible not to.
10. Make a flower arrangement. As soon as we get some flowers around here!
11. Make 3 wishes. Summer. Personal Yacht. Free food.
12. Attend a baseball game. Maybe once it's warmer out.
13. Start a book club. It's called the Will Someone Read What I'm Reading Club.
14. Meditate. Ok.
15. Account for everything you value. Like write a list? Didn't we just do that last month?
16. Vary your exercise. Pass.
17. Visit a museum. Waiting for summer free days.
18. Do something excessive without guilt. Excess usually means food for me.
19. Rent a foreign movie. I failed to do this. I rented some great American movies. I watched trailers for foreign movies--several documentaries and some Oscar winners.
20. Clean your house from top to bottom. Spring cleaning! Brit and I did that a few weeks ago.
21. Look a homeless person in the eye. I do.
22. Do something you've been meaning to do. Bleach my hair, buy a desk, finish an art project...I was productive in April.
23. Let everyone go ahead of you. I frequently let people cut in while driving...I believe in road karma, so if I let someone go ahead of me, I hope that when I need to make a left turn on Ashland during rush hour, someone else lets me go.
24. Imagine something wonderful. An 80 degree day.
25. Go hunting for bargains. Why go hunting when the bargains come to me? Thanks, Groupon!
26. Do something for someone as if you were doing it for yourself. For me this means cooking.
27. Tell someone you love him or her. Every day.
28. Do a complete makeover. I bleached my hair!
29. Avoid profanity/be polite. I do.
30. Barter with someone. I barter with my roommates to decide who is doing what chores. I will do almost anything to not do dishes.

The first nice weekend

On the first nice--weekend--day of the
year, all my neighbors are out
on their porches and balconies.
I forget how much I learn with just an
open window and the willingness to listen.
I hear the hoarder discuss her business travel--
two weekends each month--while above her
the new neighbors choose a cable provider.
The blond gardener eats a salad as she
reads, surrounded by her numerous
ferns and already-flowering foliage.
The circus neighbors continue
endless yard improvements--reseeding,
fresh compost, and several raised gardens,
but still plenty of room to practice flame throwing.

Pathetic

Please tell me
April is almost over
These poems are
Hard to write
Every day or even every
Third day and
I want to use a different form to
Capture my adventures.

Chicago has wettest April on record

If you feel especially soggy these days,
don't feel bad. Chicago has wettest April
on record. There is nothing we can do
about your leaks, floods, and water damage.
Our April is the wettest on record. We
apologize for any inconvenience, but
there is little for us to do. Please take this
voucher, good for one sunny May.

The Startler

I startle easily.
That is, I startle others with
a frequency
that startles me.
I'm not scary, not like
flesh-hungry
animals, dark-alley killers,
or bill collectors.
I don't hide around corners,
in nooks or behind doors.
I don't wait for you to
wander past me so I can
jump out with a yell,
arms outstretched,
laugh at your expense.
No, my method is subtle. My
footsteps are quiet. I don't take up
much space
in a room, and if you
don't expect
me to be there,
my presence is enough
to boost your
heart rate

homage to my hips (by Lucille Clifton)

homage to my hips
by Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don't fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don't like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

Forced Celebration

Like an inspired prank, or a purposeful
lesson, my car--not mine, the one I use
to buy organic groceries and chauffeur privileged children,
would not start today. Not a sound
came from her engine as I turned the ignition.
A dome light, left on the entire weekend (thanks to
privileged, forgetful children), sucked all life from the battery.
And so it was, on this Earth Day, I
walked to buy organic groceries and escorted privileged,
forgetful, and bummed out children on the train.

The Egg Boiler (by Gwendolyn Brooks)

The Egg Boiler
by Gwendolyn Brooks

Being you, you cut your poetry from wood.
The boiling of an egg is heavy art.
You come upon it as an artist should,
With rich-eyed passion, and with straining heart.
We fools, we cut our poems out of air,
Night color, wind soprano, and such stuff.
And sometimes weightlessness is much to bear.
You mock it, though, you name it it Not Enough.
The egg, spooned gently to the avid pan,
And left the strict three minutes, or the four,
Is your Enough and art for any man.
We fools give courteous ear -- then cut some more,
Shaping a gorgeous Nothingness from cloud.
You watch us, eat your egg, and laugh aloud.

Ode to the Cason Burger

I had the best burger of my life last night. I want to write songs about it, but this serious/silly poem will do for now.

Thank heaven for the cow who
sacrificed herself for my dinner.
She was a beauty, and her meals of grass
became much more for me.
Sitting on that bun, buttered delicately
like a fine mist of dew on a peach,
her medium-cooked beef took me to
a place where tastes explode like fireworks
over the oohs and aahs of eager taste buds.
Don't let me forget the cow who gave her milk
for the camembert that melted over the beef
like a silk scarf draped over a lamp, adding
mystery and a hint of drama to the room.
And the pig--oh, what a pig, applewood smoked
until crispy and sweet salty, floating on that cheese,
the entire trio swimming in Dijon on arugula floats.
I could end here, the memory of a perfect burger
lingering in my mouth even the morning after--but
my memory won't let me leave out the surprise win:
ginger poached pears, poised and stoic, ushering
this burger into the hallowed halls of food legend.

The Self and the Mulberry (by Marvin Bell)

The Self and the Mulberry
by Marvin Bell

I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry.
It had no trouble accepting its limits,
yet defining and redefining a small area
so that any shape was possible, any movement.
It stayed put, but was part of all the air.
I wanted to learn to be there and not there
like the continually changing, slightly moving
mulberry, wild cherry and particularly the willow.
Like the willow, I tried to weep without tears.
Like the cherry tree, I tried to be sturdy and productive.
Like the mulberry, I tried to keep moving.
I couldn't cry right, couldn't stay or go.
I kept losing parts of myself like a soft maple.
I fell ill like the elm. That was the end
of looking in nature to find a natural self.
Let nature think itself not manly enough!
Let nature wonder at the mystery of laughter.
Let nature hypothesize man's indifference to it.
Let nature take a turn at saying what love is!

Week End

Unending shards of glass cut my face,
melt and mix with my sweat.
I blink, the road changing instantly:
dry, wet, slick,
it reflects the orange streetlights as I
emerge onto Western Ave, congested with
rush hour stragglers and now the glass
turns to knives, no longer scratching, but
slicing into me. I don't feel my legs anymore.
I am only a face, blindly making my way
home.

I woke up so early

The Whole Foods wasn't even open when I got there.

I had to wait in my car--not my car,

the car I use to get organic groceries--

while commuters fought to make the light

on Ashland. I watched from the empty parking lot

as traffic stalled, pedestrians crossing between vehicles

stuck in the intersection. I cleaned the garbage

from the car and wondered why I don't do

mornings more often.

Curriculum Vitae

A woman stands next to me,
contemplating the sprinkles and frosting
in the baking aisle at the grocery store.
Her basket holds marshmallows and cereal,
her phone balances on her shoulder:
"Let me call you back. I have an interview
in five minutes." She only hesitates a moment before
adding a bag of chocolate chips to her resume.

Some Days (a poem by Billy Collins)

Some Days by Billy Collins

Some days I put the people in their places at the table, bend their legs at the knees, if they come with that feature, and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs. All afternoon they face one another, the man in the brown suit, the woman in the blue dress, perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved. But other days, I am the one who is lifted up by the ribs, then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse to sit with the others at the long table. Very funny, but how would you like it if you never knew from one day to the next if you were going to spend it striding around like a vivid god, your shoulders in the clouds, or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper, staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?

Moving In

We have new neighbors.
They live across our bedroom window and appear
minimalist. Sparse furniture, sheer curtains,
scattered decor makes them seem torn
from a catalog. I have yet to see them in person;
I'm sure they're lovely.

Salt

For best results, they say, eliminate
sodium consumption, but I am not a snail.
I want Lot's wife to shake herself
over my soup. Give me a Roman soldier's salary,
I would march with Ghandi for independence
and flavor, anything to preserve
my sanity during a bland diet.
I don't mind water retention, I like my blood
with some pressure.

Just Listen

Loyal Readers,

You've been reading a lot of poetry this month, some mine, some not, some solid, some not--how about listening to poetry today? Here are some spoken word poems/slam poetry/poetry readings.

Marc Kelly Smith, "Slam Papi," founder of the slam poetry movement & Chicagoan:



Johnny Macrae, Canadian poet



Rives--this one almost made me cry.



Saul Williams, poet/musician (at their hearts, they are the same thing though, right?)



Franny Choi

Compromise

I chewed two
pieces of gum this week.
I know it's not
fruit or vegetable,
but I think we
can agree it's not bread
or cheese either.

Approved

My bank decided they could trust me
with a credit limit of $1,000.
Me, the one who sort of paid her taxes today.
(I didn't read the last few pages of the online e-file instructions.)
Me, the one who whines when she is hungry, hot, or tired--
never mind all three, then I'm not even me, but a nasty creature,
a temperamental child, a force of nature that no one deserves to meet.
Yet: my bank trusts me with credit.
I eat lemon bars and bagels for breakfast,
drink wine and have chocolate chips for dinner,
order new contacts online in the middle of the night,
sleep with several stuffed animals.
Still: my bank trusts me with credit.

Blue Line

We shuffled onto the train,
somber as a funeral procession,
and rode into the city.

The gray sky and fluorescent lights
washed us out:
we looked like bored ghosts,
riding endless tracks in the not-yet-daylight.

When the train descended
underground, we looked
more alive, as if the earth pressing down
held us together.