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Literature Text
December.
The solstice smells of wet soil.
A rising sea of dusk washes over her,
pressing on her mind
like her fingers press the lump of clay in her palm.
Grandmother keeps her hands busy,
forces nervous tremors into the small vessel
emerging like a snake
from the earth.
A bundle of flowers had held the sweat of her hands.
The trip to the hospital bore the scent of old leather,
worn bus seats
and lilies too long without water.
He'd been badly burned, they said.
His fingertips were flame-marked,
smooth and new-pink
when they came to change his bandages.
Grandmother flexes her parchment fingers.
Clay rims her wrinkled knuckles,
turns her hands to dusty grey spiders.
She clings to her secrets so tightly
her hands start to burn.
Her feet take her across the road from the bus stop.
In the Oklahoma fields, the long grass breaks against her legs,
the winds drag a tide toward her.
No moon rises tonight.
Grandmother lifts her eyes from the little clay pot in her hands,
eyes the stars
and the streak of spider's silk across the sky.
Where her brothers and sisters have failed,
she must succeed.
Out of the darkness sprouts
the five gnarled fingers of an ancient tree,
reaching for the absent sun.
Grandmother nestles in its palm,
lets her hair lose from its braid
and snatches a single silken strand of silver hair from her head.
She lids the little clay pot,
winds the silk thread around it
and then watches the tiny lump of earth lift
like hopes into the sky.
Grandmother waits—a small child
in the lap of an old, old tree—
until the wind ceases
and the earth stops for breath
And Grandmother holds her hand up to the sky
to catch her little pot
baked warm and soft.
She smiles,
cradles the clay egg in her lap,
and lifts the dainty lid—
Dawn springs joyous into the sky,
a child from its grandmother's lap,
as she turns her feet toward the bus stop
and a warm cup of coffee.
The solstice smells of wet soil.
A rising sea of dusk washes over her,
pressing on her mind
like her fingers press the lump of clay in her palm.
Grandmother keeps her hands busy,
forces nervous tremors into the small vessel
emerging like a snake
from the earth.
A bundle of flowers had held the sweat of her hands.
The trip to the hospital bore the scent of old leather,
worn bus seats
and lilies too long without water.
He'd been badly burned, they said.
His fingertips were flame-marked,
smooth and new-pink
when they came to change his bandages.
Grandmother flexes her parchment fingers.
Clay rims her wrinkled knuckles,
turns her hands to dusty grey spiders.
She clings to her secrets so tightly
her hands start to burn.
Her feet take her across the road from the bus stop.
In the Oklahoma fields, the long grass breaks against her legs,
the winds drag a tide toward her.
No moon rises tonight.
Grandmother lifts her eyes from the little clay pot in her hands,
eyes the stars
and the streak of spider's silk across the sky.
Where her brothers and sisters have failed,
she must succeed.
Out of the darkness sprouts
the five gnarled fingers of an ancient tree,
reaching for the absent sun.
Grandmother nestles in its palm,
lets her hair lose from its braid
and snatches a single silken strand of silver hair from her head.
She lids the little clay pot,
winds the silk thread around it
and then watches the tiny lump of earth lift
like hopes into the sky.
Grandmother waits—a small child
in the lap of an old, old tree—
until the wind ceases
and the earth stops for breath
And Grandmother holds her hand up to the sky
to catch her little pot
baked warm and soft.
She smiles,
cradles the clay egg in her lap,
and lifts the dainty lid—
Dawn springs joyous into the sky,
a child from its grandmother's lap,
as she turns her feet toward the bus stop
and a warm cup of coffee.
Literature
DARK MOON DAUGHTER
She is inevitable. She is the Deep Dark Moon
within my belly's concave insides that causes
a cataclysm of Fluid and Force, a tide of change
that pulls my consciousness into a Night of
inner Sorcery that can never be learned-but
felt with every vibrating nerve stroking my
awakening into a silent song, she is invisible
but I feel her pulling the secrets from my
ocean, pulsing mysteries that I only come to
know through her, finally I accept my secret
self that I could never abhor under the ancient
memories spilling onto my head from a Dark
Moon Sky, even as my newly awakened soul is
conflagrated by the far-reaching dusky fingers
o
Literature
The First Haiku
an eye opening
for the first time this morning
to embrace this world
Literature
a sister's eyes
I think of them
and recall how wise
are the eyes of
my little sister,
always laughing-
wind whisperer
through outstretched
oceans of blue grass
surrounded by
rolling island dunes
and the stalks of
her crowning pale glory,
but her eyes
are the constant
changing of seasons-
the silver grey
of low-lying mists
that roll in at dawn
after the night
gives up its gems,
deepest sapphires,
to reclaim them when
she stirs from sleep
while I keep
clinging to her,
and I let myself
drift in her seasons
with eyes open,
feeling safe a while
in our single bed
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Whew. First poem I've written in a while. I've had two poems sitting in my message center for weeks, and decided to challenge myself to do both at once.
Associated with this painting: [link]
One is #transliterations' Modernizing Myths Contest.
I chose the Cherokee story of how Grandmother Spider Steals the Sun. (I believe the Choctaw have a very similar tale, but I wanted her to steal the SUN, not fire). The purpose was to bring the story into the present, but I still wanted to keep some of the mystical elements.
For a fairly short version of the story check here: [link]
You are welcome to go seek out other versions of the story (the "official" scholarly version is by James Mooney, and you can find his version through Google Books), but the essence is pretty much the same. Or for (what I think of as a better) version ('cuz it's got more animals
), check out: [link] (Also note: I did make a conscious decision to set my version of the story in modern-day Oklahoma. Though I recognize there are a lot of Cherokee people in North Carolina, I chose to set it within the official Cherokee nation in Oklahoma.)
I also wrote this for #theWrittenRevolution's Anniversary Contest.
For my theme, I attempted: Intense emotion mixed with something neutral (e.g. sensory perception/math equations)
I'd love to hear comments as to how well I succeeded.
For my vignette, I slightly modified the sentence: "I'm holding secrets so tightly my hands start to burn."
EDIT: OMIGOD Thank you so much to all the lovely judges over at #theWrittenRevolution for awarding me third place!
You all are too sweet 
I'd LOVE to hear any comments or critiques you have. Please keep in mind:
1) I wanted to kind of bridge the gap between poetry and prose with this piece. I wanted it to sound like an oral history, but with some of the little details I associate with poetry. Did I succeed? Is it too much like prose?
2) How did I do with the imagery? I'm not used to telling a story quite like this in poem format, so I'm concerned about what imagery is useful and how it's phrased.
3) For those who are Cherokee (or Choctaw, I suppose) and have heard the story before, I'd particularly like to hear your thoughts on how well I translated the heart of the story to the present. I know I took a little bit of poetic license with it (and we were allowed to include only a PART of the story, so I skipped the earlier animals), but I'd like to know how I did.
4) Is it too mystical? I fear I haven't modernized the myth enough! Do you like the ending?
Any other comments appreciated!
My critique of *Carmalain7's excellent piece, "Static": [link]
Associated with this painting: [link]
One is #transliterations' Modernizing Myths Contest.
I chose the Cherokee story of how Grandmother Spider Steals the Sun. (I believe the Choctaw have a very similar tale, but I wanted her to steal the SUN, not fire). The purpose was to bring the story into the present, but I still wanted to keep some of the mystical elements.
For a fairly short version of the story check here: [link]
You are welcome to go seek out other versions of the story (the "official" scholarly version is by James Mooney, and you can find his version through Google Books), but the essence is pretty much the same. Or for (what I think of as a better) version ('cuz it's got more animals
), check out: [link] (Also note: I did make a conscious decision to set my version of the story in modern-day Oklahoma. Though I recognize there are a lot of Cherokee people in North Carolina, I chose to set it within the official Cherokee nation in Oklahoma.)I also wrote this for #theWrittenRevolution's Anniversary Contest.
For my theme, I attempted: Intense emotion mixed with something neutral (e.g. sensory perception/math equations)
I'd love to hear comments as to how well I succeeded.
For my vignette, I slightly modified the sentence: "I'm holding secrets so tightly my hands start to burn."
EDIT: OMIGOD Thank you so much to all the lovely judges over at #theWrittenRevolution for awarding me third place!
You all are too sweet I'd LOVE to hear any comments or critiques you have. Please keep in mind:
1) I wanted to kind of bridge the gap between poetry and prose with this piece. I wanted it to sound like an oral history, but with some of the little details I associate with poetry. Did I succeed? Is it too much like prose?
2) How did I do with the imagery? I'm not used to telling a story quite like this in poem format, so I'm concerned about what imagery is useful and how it's phrased.
3) For those who are Cherokee (or Choctaw, I suppose) and have heard the story before, I'd particularly like to hear your thoughts on how well I translated the heart of the story to the present. I know I took a little bit of poetic license with it (and we were allowed to include only a PART of the story, so I skipped the earlier animals), but I'd like to know how I did.
4) Is it too mystical? I fear I haven't modernized the myth enough! Do you like the ending?
Any other comments appreciated!
My critique of *Carmalain7's excellent piece, "Static": [link]
Comments26
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Overall
Vision
Originality Technique ImpactLet me begin by saying, as a person who frequents storytelling fesitvals and someone who love love loves mythology, I was very impressed with this from the start. You did a very good job of making the language sort of sing song and natural, and I could easily imagine it being read outloud. Further you have a gift with imagery and I enjoyed the sensory images put in there, the smell of wet soil, the feel of grass brushing her leg, really helped me find myself in the story.
On to your questions: I think it is modernized very well and I don't think you need to change anything in that regard.
There was one eensy weensy word choice I question and you can feel free to ignore me if you don't agree. In the line "blossoming like a snake" I didn't like ... well either blossoming or snake, because snakes don't blossom. So I think changing that to either something like 'blossoming like a flowering vine' or 'winding up like a snake' would be better suited, but that's just me.
Otherwise the flow and word choices were two thumbs up!
One content critique, and this is only because I'm not familiar with the myth, I don't know wo the person in the hospital is and how he relates to grandmother spider, so if there is any way you could tell us that, in just a line or a word, I think that would make it have more of an impact on us. Again, at your discretion - if your target audience is people who already know the myth it's probably not necessary.
Ok so that's it! Thanks so much for sharing this, it was a fun and beautiful read!