Author: Christina's Words

“The darkness around us is deep.” ~ William Stafford

“Kathryn” by Rachel Nix

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry1 Comment

1200 miles from home on the southeast side of Vermont,
I sat at a table outfitted with strawberry rhubarb pie
and sweet tea good enough for any southerner. Below,
a blind mare bumped into the side of the barn-turned-home
of a woman who had invited me into her way of life long before
I left Alabama to settle myself in her kitchen. I watched
as she chose her words: hardly as pared down as her poetry,
but just as precise. She eyed me when she spoke; it made me nervous
for reasons she couldn’t understand, and warm in a way
I couldn’t word. This woman, whose writing had made me want
to taste words and run inside them, conversed with me
earnestly, without hinging on a thing other than finer details
of my phrasing. After finishing off my third glass of tea,
I found my way to her living room and sat myself down on the floor
next to her dogs. With my hand on the belly of her youngest,
who had wallowed her way up to my lap, I spied Kathryn looking
at me as if I were more than some silly kid that took a shine
to her. It sent a batch of shivers over me to see her see me
as someone that meant something, whatever the adjectives
for me were in her head. I’d only looked at one other person
with so much adoration in my whole life, and I had buried her
less than a year before my trek north. I needed someone
with a careful eye and a simple threading of words to speak
to me – to fit me back together the way my grandmother
had kept me whole. Kathryn showed me her kindness; the grace
of her poetry became a second thought, only after the tenderness
of her reach. I came back home to Alabama with dog hair all over
my dress and a story I wish I could have told my grandmother.

 

“Kathryn” by Rachel Nix was originally published in Issue 6 of Bop Dead City, where it was the winner of the ‘Home’ poetry contest. A print copy of the magazine may be purchased here.

Rachel dedicated “Kathryn” to Kathryn King, “who has no idea what kind of effect she’s had on me.” You may read more of Rachel’s poetry at chasingthegrey.com or even “hear more” on her Soundcloud page “Rachel’s Readings.”

“Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating… (Hogan)

On By Christina's WordsIn Quote

“Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating. And the oceans are above me here, rolling clouds, heavy and dark. It is winter and there is smoke from the fires. It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.”

– Linda Hogan, Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World

 

“house of strays” by Kristy Bowen

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry

Suddenly, a hole opens in the year and we slip into it, the riptide
pull of strange, lonely dogs and broken phone lines.
You forgive me if I mistake hunted for haunted,
but I do like to rearrange things in my body every few years.
Take a can of gasoline to the frayed and ghosted.
Lights out. All hands on deck.
Still you wonder why I keep losing my shoes in the road
and coaxing cats in the alley with cans of tunafish and a flashlight.
Why my contentment is beautiful, but highly improbable, sort of like
four leaf clovers or an ice cream truck in the middle of the night.
This tiny thing breathing between us that aches something awful.
By summer, I am slipping all the complimentary mints in my coat pockets
while you pay the check. Gripping the railings on bridges to keep
diving over. Some dark dog in my throat when I say hello.

Kristy Bowen, “house of strays“

“I read poems. I write. That is my destiny… (Hooks)

On By Christina's WordsIn Quote1 Comment

“I read poems. I write. That is my destiny. Standing on the edge of the cliff about to fall into the abyss, I remember who I am. I am a young poet, a writer. I am here to make words. I have the power to pull myself back from death—to keep myself alive.”

– Bell Hooks, Bone Black: Memories of Girlhood

“Over Time” by Martha Collins

On By Christina's WordsIn Poetry

October 2004

1

Not much. Less. Slip
of a finger, diminished
interval, maybe third

of three or two.

Water mirrors house with high
green door opening out (no

steps) into pure air.

2

Air pockets three
hawks. Cat got
the bird got the cat.

Overflown. A habit
of flight. Worn cloud
on the edge of edge.

Wisps. Little tongues.

3

Tongues at work. Talk Today

She could did for an hour or more.

My first her, who gave me words.

Then at the end, before, merely Oh!

A moment of…of more, perhaps.

Oh sweet and blessed could be.

Oh my soul

4

Soul slept, called in sick

Late sun clouds
the lack with clouds.

Katydid down
to —did —did

Nothing to be done.

Little sun, quarter moon.

5

Moon covered, un-
covered, covered again, cold.

Cold and hot, very and both.

Disturbed the Sea of Tranquility.

Distributed by the Moon Shop.

Distributed self in pieces.

Oh my broken.

6

Broken down, or out, as in
war, or into, soon: my own him.

How much we carry around
under our skins, many
we were, girls and boys

Now now

And then then.

7

Then gone and then to come:
all the time, except the split
second, except—

All the time in the world.

And out of this world?

Oh little heart on my wrist, where are we going?

8

Going home: packed her bags
to go back ninety years

burning skirt broken fork
slow train the old house

current counter under cross

The one who gave me time

is out of time.

9

Time to shut the rattling
windows slamming doors

And if at first you don’t and if
you try again and don’t you
slip a little slide

Rope burns hands over
the book the pages over

10

Over time she—
Overtime. Timer
she was Click I mean

I. Would work the week
long song bird in the—

Burning bush ahead, red
sumac jeweled by sun.

11

Sun, here come the clouds
again. Between us. You

could care: you’ll swallow
us up on your way out.

You’re almost halfway
there, and here

am I, way past half.

12

Half-life, half-light, half-
moon, half-mast: low

flag, and every evening down.

Discovered a world of green
in him, on the shore
of newfound skin

His different hand

13

Hand over hand
over: change
for an empty

Enter the bare page

Oh keep him safe
in his thin shift
on his metal bed

14

Bed for one, my very
one, own, oh let

him let him

Someone’s deep inside
him now, something

inside him’s taken is
it is he let him breathe

15

Breath light hold
in the light: him at bandaged
rest, her last year in her

last bed: the apple pink
just under the skin: I

am floating again a little less
less the chord resolving.

16

Resolved, that leaves should turn

and turn: color to motion to rest.

Flutter of yellow, flash of red, bronze-

leafed trunk fallen across the path.

Ducks twitch white tails over the water,

geese stretch necks…All fall down.

All rise. All different.

17

Different from us. Dry,
quiet. Still. Still

Freeman Sarah Rebekah John

locust maple hornbeam oak

Timothy. Bent grass under
our feet, over their bones.

Katheryn. Out of. Under and over.

18

Over my— my tiny
planet, growing colder, little

train that could but where’s
the track? On, off

again, over my, un-
done, nerve

flinched at No. But maybe If—

19

If. Only. Then
again. But out

of time just now as
the lace of yellow locust

leaves molecules
particles waves catches

its breath begins to hum.

20

Hum of words
under words: brief
for breath, him

for hum, him still
in his bed for one—

And clouds so thick and fast
the whole sky’s turning.

21

Turning now to the newsy world the Red
Sox take last four claim pennant countries
taken in or out people counted no
count bombing voting mission killing
vision blurred our leader says God says
had hatred in his heart he said rage
testosterone he said our leader vote for God

22

God is not a Republican
Democrat Yankee Red
Sox fan of him or her—

But him is whom our bed
is holding, him my one is home
again, oh bless him keep him safe

this little time that is our life.

23

Lifetime, timeline, line-
up, down time, no time

to lose time, all time gone.

More of them, body count a full
count, bases loaded, all bets

off, one by one, or war
time lots, all at once.

24

Once there was a girl, a boy, end
of story in one first word, once

she was and nothing’s left of her except

me oh my and her him too: her last

days he also came all back to me but

now my own him is here is not
once upon but times many.

25

Many, as in instances, or all,
one, as in passing, as in course of:

two words for time, in Vietnamese,
but one for all the times to do,
for go went gone, as in, this colder

day, the geese: only ducks and gulls
on the little pond, its tiny island.

26

Island’s I, for all
the thinking not (no man
no self). Island’s home,

at least for some. But here’s
a little boat for back and forth

with one beside, rowing through
the eventide, the late evening.

27

Evening out. On
the town, out of town:

city wearing your black
dress sequined with lights, I

am coming down for an even-
ing out, in bed beside.

The rest: held by, holding.

28

Holding on the Red
Sox won eclipsing even the full

eclipsed moon a moment outside
the trouble we’ve seen through the TV had

to bring in the war the war that people
believe is good because they want
to believe it’s a winning team

29

Teeming with leaves, trees
and gold all gold

around gray stones: I
am greeting my last
neighbors, we shall

all be changed, pieces
of gold slipping into air.

30

Airborn, air-born, hand-
sized cradle to hold
a soul, no broken-

bough fall. Good
news today, but best

in the air, this old
new leaf, turning it over.

31

Over and over again
and again, time

after time, stone
upon hallowed stone.

More than bones, ghost-
thin skin, I’m here, much

less less. Not yet not.

—Martha Collins, from Day Unto Day (Milkweed Editions, 2014)