the poetry greenhouse

Sometimes there are good Mondays.  (And Sundays.)

Sometimes your poems are beside her poem and you think:  an honor.

Sometimes I think:  how can these two things be separate?  How is it that I am mother and poet?  I want to tie them together with string:  mamapoet, mamapoet.

Sometimes it can be about the green, the greening, the wonderful world in spring.

Sometimes it's about the way your eyes spring tears when your dear friend reads a letter to that world.  Sometimes you are moved and are moving.  Sometimes you want to embrace her but don't because it all keeps going.

Sometimes your (former) professor shows you what hands can do.  Sometimes you want your hands to do too.

Sometimes women flatten you, blow you (away).  In order of appearance:  MC, Lightsey, Melissa, Molli.

Sometimes there are poetry readings.  Sometimes there are poetry fortunes.

Sometimes she sits in my lap and listens to poems (thank you, Melissa, for letting her make a few noise-sparks during your poems).  Sometimes she smushes gluten-free banana bread between her fingers, and sometimes Opal sends us home with more so you can smash and smash.

Sometimes:  Opal shows us what the Green / house is about.  She leads us in meditation:  tells us to go to that place in nature where we feel safe, tells us there is a source of water and we are to fill a vessel, fill it and it doesn't stop.  Then we write two words:  one, to reflect a sensory experience in meditation and another as a named body-part, human or otherwise.  She collects the cards, shuffles and reads:  it is an exquisite copse.

After the rest filter out, once we are alone in the space, we clean up:  meandMerylandOpal.  I should say: me, I read Maria's chapbook and think of women with dirt in their mouths.  Meryl sings a song from "Jesus camp" and there it is:  the wide-open laughter.  They work, cleaning the space, and I've been distracted, since one said:  Oh, there's Maya!  Her name repeats.  My love.  Meryl and I take the small bag of garbage out, search for somewhere to put it, make sense, watch a boy in a window with a flashlight.

What is it about ideal moments?  What is it about laughter in a kitchen?  I want to remember this forever.

Gold Lion Arts :: Poetry Greenhouse :: Opal C McCarthy