Poetry & prose

A Long Walk, A Thousand Miles From Newtown

December 18, 2012 — 2 Comments

On Saturday Silas and I walked downtown to buy a book for his kindergarten class gift exchange.

On Friday our town had been a snow-covered Christmas-fairy-tale village. Then it rained. It rained on Friday night, and all day Saturday. The rain erased the snow and exposed the husks and straw of fall to the numb gray sky.

We bought our book and headed home through the mist. Everything was crying. We moved slowly and silently, my 37-year-old legs newly attuned to his six-year-old pace.

The cheerful Christmas music piped through Central Park’s loudspeakers sounded alien and anachronistic.

We passed the post office and the library, who face one another across Broadway. Their flags waved wearily where they had fallen, halfway to the muddy ground.

We passed my children’s school, whose flag also trailed low, heavy with its load of grief.

We passed three neighbor boys on bicycles. I smiled and said hello. They were painfully beautiful.

That was a very long walk. I am still tired from it.

Happy Birthday Emily Dickinson

December 10, 2012 — 1 Comment

On the occasion of Emily Dickinson’s birthday, let’s have a poem I find fitting for this blog:

This World Is Not Conclusion

by Emily Dickinson

this world is not conclusion
a species stands beyond –
invisible, as music –
but positive as sound –

it beckons, and it baffles
philosophy – don’t know –
and through a riddle, at the last –
sagacity must go –

to guess it, puzzles scholars –
to gain it, men have borne
contempt of generations
and crucifixion, shown –

faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –
blushes, if any see –
plucks at a twig of evidence –
and asks a vane, the way –

much gesture, from the pulpit –
strong hallelujahs roll –
narcotics cannot still the tooth
that nibbles at the soul –

 

Matryoshka Doll

October 2, 2012 — 5 Comments

Here’s a poem I wrote last year, about my multilayered identity of recovering good girl, wife, mother, and aspiring artist.

Matryoshka Doll

When they drop by the house
I am in my apron in the kitchen.
In their eyes I see a glimmer of worship
At sighting a domestic angel.
My young son is building superstructures in the living room
And I am baking bread
So I am a stay-at-home mom
(Apparently).

Once, remarking on my unpainted face,
Someone asked for counsel
About wifely submission.

They find me writing at the coffee shop
And praise my husband for giving me time off
From what (apparently) is my real work.

A little girl within
Believes them
Craves their favor.

A woman deeper still
Knows more
Feels lonely feisty misunderstood
Amused
Angry stuck sad useless.

At her heart is a human
Being
Living
Gestating
Faith hope love.

The heart of her heart
Throbs with the secret
And the strength
Of labor
The grip of death
That releases life
And, once more,
She breathes.

Thirty and Thirty-Five

June 2, 2012 — Leave a comment

I read and enjoyed “Seventy-Two is Not Thirty-Five” by David Budbill in The Writer’s Almanac today. It reminded me of a poem I wrote about Thirty-Five, contrasted not with an older age but a younger. Now that I’m nearing thirty-seven, it seemed as good a time as ever to post the poem.

Thirty and Thirty-Five
by Julia Tindall Bloom

Thirty is starting a mountain climb
Unaware of the mountain
Straining forward
Wondering why the old habit of putting one leg in front of the other
Has gotten so hard.
Thirty is feeling age’s breath on your neck
And catching glimpses of death
On the horizon.

Thirty-five is getting to the top
Discovering you were climbing
Looking down
Over the terrain you traversed
The lay of the land of your life
So far
And finding it a more expansive place
Than you knew at the time
It is also
Noticing there are higher mountaintops
And plenty more land
Up ahead
In front of death
It is resting on the mountaintop
While age climbs and catches up with you
Until she joins your journey
Forward
And you are friends.