I only did 60 ab clenches last night, but doing 30 at a time it burned. Rory laughed at me. Then he tried to do pushups and couldn’t even do one, which he was probably doing wrong anyway. Is it still how it used to be? Girls on their knees, boys on their toes? He was on his toes and I didn’t want to advise him differently until I consulted my trainer. :)
So anyway the Cipro seems to be working and I’m feeling better all the time, more energetic, happier. More willing to attend to work…we left at 7:50 this morning but I still only punched in at 9:00. Traffic. One day I make it in 58 minutes, the next day it takes 70 minutes. That’s fucked up but it’s how it is.
I’m sending you 3 more poems, and I think I won’t bore you with any more unless you want me to. But I want you to understand about two of these, "Bitterness" and "Eventually." I wrote the first one, or at least started it, in 1995, on the day I moved from Manhattan Beach to my sister’s house in Lancaster. I was distraught. Out of work and almost out of hope…it was by writing that poem (which I don’t think I ever finished until I was back in my own home over a year later), that I began to really acknowledge my own bitterness and also how hateful it is to be bitter. In one of the letters I wrote to you but did not send, I said, "I beat off bitterness after an ugly fight and was practically a saint in my own eyes for that alone."
I won’t go back. My life is so much better now, and so am I. (I’m crying again) You’ve got me so hopeful, and so scared Swol. I want it all and I do deserve it too. Why am I so afraid I can’t have it? well, I know the answer. It’s my history. But if I changed it before and made it better, I can change it again and make it better yet, right?
"Eventually" is the last poem I wrote to/about Brok – it started out in a letter to him, because he was back on his way to prison for the second time. Since then he’s done a third stretch and when he returns (I’m pretty sure) it will be for the long haul. I mean he’ll get the purple bracelet. Anyway I’m sending it to you because it affirms that resolution, to not go back. That I refused bitterness after what Brok did to me I take as a very positive sign of not only my strength for life but of my continuing ability to hope, trust, and love. It’s just fear that stalls me now. But fear has never got the best of me.
Anyhow. "Poem for a China Plate" speaks for itself, I hope…lol
So you will greet 40 tired and sweating
and sucking the love from your children
like some bizarrely reversed pregnancy -
And you will be, as ever,
alone
But you will not be grown-up, or graceful you
klutz of a slut you bad girl you.
You’ll be an ass, drunk and stupid
Or an old maid staring blankly at - what? why?
while the shrivel you spoke of
when still just a girl
destroys all your chances,
succumbs to the bitterness -
Oh you tried to swallow it -
You tried turning it loose
But it wound itself around you
like a python.
Eventually it is learned that the why will not be revealed.
Eventually it is learned that the lie is all it was.
Maybe it will be learned that to love is stupid.
Maybe it will be learned that to ask for honesty is to beg for bullshit.
I feel like a dead oak being rendered: big chunks
being milled for furniture, chips
for the garden, sawdust
for the floor of prufrock's bar.
Nobody realized that there was still a green spark of life left.
An oak that wanted to survive this winter to produce
awesomely numerous blooming leaves.
My name is Barbara. I am not a tree.
I am an old-souled, holey soled poor mother alone and grieving.
I am a giver and I have been tested and I gave.
I am a poet and a lover and this makes me weirdly wrong
I am a wondering survivor and I remain broken and still strong.
I am a traveler, though you may only see me sitting still.
My heart is ashes, my soul is scalded, and they will be redeemed by the grace of my will.
I still believe in miracles. That in itself is a miracle.
You are the faithless one. You are the bereft.
I am the one who feels it. I am the one who can see.
What I see makes me cry, makes me hate, makes me grieve.
I also see your beauty. I have heard you laugh, and it was sincere.
I have been in your arms, and it was warm and gold and liquid
and always.
Always…
It has come to my attention, dear,
We are not the only attendees here.
These infinitely split personalities
Can cut a couple off at the knees.
Stubborn wants everything done his way,
A bitch named Bitter wants to come out and play;
Wary’s okay, but he’s wrapped up in Fear --
It’s no fucking wonder it’s so hard to hear!
Jealousy, abetted by Insecurity
Binds, gags and tortures Sensitivity
Judgment, Sarcasm and lowly Derision
Make such a racket Love loses its vision.
Acceptance, Humor, and Compromise
May clear the space between our eyes--
But those Positive Thinkers are only as strong
As the humans who choose to bring them along.
© Barbara Bales 2000 all rights reserved
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