Poem of the Day: April 15th

RED CRESTED POET

Forty years after the last poem
burned on the altar of atonement
for the sin of having written
like a girl, she stands before
a crowd of welcoming readers
writers like-minded poets.
Rusty voiced she tells of
doorkeepers with feet
seven armlengths long
who keep paparazzi at bay.
Dead quiet room.
Next she reads a tale
called Unrequited Love
that sears the air with
violence and Amazonian
resistance. Applause.
Bolstered, the red-crested
poet carries on with fare
suited to the palate of
this blood-thirsty claque
feeding them with fugues
obsessions, and thwarted
suicide.
The poet and audience
are sated.
We finish with the one
with violets in her lap.

Poem of the Day 4/6/10

QUICKENED
by Sandra de Helen

You throw the rat poison
bottle out the door, down
the hall. It doesn’t break.
By the time I retrieve it
see the skull and crossbones
you have barred your door
and gone silent.
Scared, crying, but tiptoeing
I run outside the house,
peer in the windows for
a glimpse of your dying body
or maybe your prankster self
having a good laugh on me
like I thought you were
when Dad died.
That was no joke. Is this?
I can’t take it no more
you said before you
slammed the bedroom door
and sealed your promise
with a tossed vessel.
A darkened room, no
sound. Do I dare call
for help, risk your wrath
in exchange for my peace of mind?
Just because I wish you dead
doesn’t mean I want to be an
orphan. Do you really want to
die? Isn’t drinking enough?
I’m 14, I don’t know. Sometimes
I want out pretty bad myself.
I call you aunt and uncle.
No answer. I take this as an
omen, that no call is
necessary. In the morning
you slide the dresser away
from your door and are
resurrected.

experience

Christina Katz says she will find me if I write about experience this week, I don't know how, but here I am writing about it. I first wrote as a poet, or at least I was first published as a poet back in the olden days when people wrote by etching into the mud of their caves and published by having someone carve their work into stone. I think that's how it worked. I was 14 and my English teacher Mrs. Janice Wallace had my poem on abortion (abortion wasn't legal at the time) published in a teacher's magazine. I have no proof of this, not even a copy of the poem, but this is what I remember. In my 20's I had more poems published, and I do have copies of them. But the year I was 26, I took a creative writing class at Alaska Community College and my teacher who shall remain anonymous told me that I could write poetry because I could write like a man (like him), gave me a C, and I stopped writing poetry. Later that year I heard about the women's movement and tried to find out where to join up. I went on strike with the rest of the nation, became a feminist and never looked back. Unfortunately, I forgot about poetry until this year. I became a playwright, and have been produced as such for more than 30 years, always
saying I didn't like poetry, didn't understand it, couldn't write it, and so on.
But I became interested in writing a play in verse. So I thought I'd better learn something about poetry. The minute I did, suddenly all this poetry started pouring forth. The beast was
unleashed. I haven't been able to stop. I've been writing twitter poems daily. I've been writing longer poems. Poems from prompts, poems from no prompts, spending hours and hours writing and rewriting poems, bothering my friends with my poems. I've even signed up to read my poems at an open mic in just 10 days. I'll have to buy a poet outfit. (Will someone tell me what that looks like these days? It used to be a black dress and ballet slippers.)
Here's a recent poem of mine:

ICON

by Sandra de Helen

Millions of us, women and men

thought we could save her, if

only she would let us or

know us if only we

could wrap our arms

around her ivory soft limbs

whisper loving soft words

nurture her with everything

money or no money could buy.

I know I could have.

I would have kept her safe

from Bobby from Jack

from Peter and Frank. Hid

her in my closet as I did

Mary in our sophomore year

when she was pregnant

her stepfather wanted to kill

her and her unborn baby.

I would have stolen books from

St. Louis public library to

feed her hungry mind. Shop-lifted

the finest clothes Famous-Barr

had to offer. Held her ten to five

through the night terrors.

Told her what a great actor she

was, how I saw through the

bombshell image, saw the true

amazon warrior yearning to

be known. To be free.

But I was born too late

to save her.

Just as she was born

too soon save herself.

Completed, submitted

The Godmother is out into the world, looking for a producer. Two Acts, simple set, 13 characters played by 6 actors, gender-bending multi-racial actors. Young, actors who want to have a great time. This play is The Sopranos meets The L Word. If HBO or Showtime comes knocking on my door, I'm ready to play. Know why? Because I am totally in love with every character who showed up for The Godmother. Everyone has a backstory and a character arc. Every body has a story to tell. There are so many A, B, C and D stories here that we can go on for years. Seriously, The Godmother is just the beginning. Tomboy wants a lovelife! Bill has to grow up and find himself. Who knows what all Corker has in store? Like I say ... they all want their stories told. Meanwhile, The Godmother needs a producer. Or local investors, we could produce it here in Portland, Oregon no problem. The director would love to continue on. The script it already out in the world, and will be in other theater's literary managers in-boxes shortly. Wish us luck.

Nine more pages

Or however many it takes to write this last scene. We've had the dark night of the soul, the climax, and now we're wrapping it all up. Heading for that final scene, that final look at Tomboy that echoes our first look, but is totally different. The one that shows us where she is now after her journey, the journey we took with her. I love Tomboy. I hope she has a long life on the stage. I hope lots of people fall in love with her as I have. This is the first play I've ever written that I can visualize in other media. The Godmother could be The Sopranos meets The L Word if HBO or Showtime comes knocking. Or maybe it's a movie with a sequel. Or maybe it's more than one play, but whatever it is, Tomboy wants off the page and onto the stage. I have to continue to do my best for her. So, back to the coal mines I go.

Dreaming of writing

I had this dream last night. A young woman actor I knew was in a film that was nearing completion, she thought it was finished, so she dove into it (don't ask -- it was a dream!) and I was watching the film, enjoying it so much, couldn't wait to see the end, when the film stuttered, and words came up, that I couldn't quite read, then we skipped a scene and she was back, exciting! The film went on, but then -- without warning -- words came up again. Sorry, no ending. We're waiting for the writer to finish the script. Yikes! my friend was stuck inside the film! I had to get to the office, talk to the writer. I drove to the building and went to the door, but it was sealed off. I ran to another door and made my way in, but everything had changed in my absence. I was directed further and further into the building. I didn't know my place any more. And where was the writer? The asshole. He was gone. Could I use his office? Maybe I could finish the script and rescue my friend. I got inside his office, I set myself up at his desk, and I thought I heard my grandson call me from downstairs "Mom?" He doesn't call me Mom. What the? I woke up. Did I really have this transparent dream? Yes, I did. Will I finish the script in time? I don't know. But obviously I have to try!

Writing Part Two

The second act is coming along just fine, thanks. The opening scene is exactly what I was hoping for. The false victory scene is a family feast that's going gangbusters until --- interrupted by Chee Chee di Mayo. I've written out the outline with notes, and will fill and complete scenes all the way to fini. Aiming for wrapping up by the end of the day Sunday. We'll see. Think good thoughts if you're wired that way. I have a cold and a migraine, so it's like working in sludge today. It'd be great to finish early because there are a couple of things nagging me from the first Act that I want to clean up ...