Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)







Friday, September 18, 2020

POPO 2020

 

Never have I been so late getting out my PoPo mail. Postcards that should've gone out all throughout August are finally getting sent mid-September. It's been a strange year and I'm simply not going to give a list of justifications, because they would likely fall on deaf ears. So many of us are living in upheaval. 

I did things much differently this year, writing poems as the August days bumbled on, meaning to transfer them to postcards and send, but ended up with a typed out list of short thoughts/poems. I promised everyone in Group 1 would get a card, I just didn't say when. I jokingly promised myself I'd get them out by my birthday, which is today, and I gasp to think it took that long. The time came for me to put the whole project together and I decided so as to make them legible, I would do as some others have done: cut and paste. I loved it, because what it forced me to do was find (out of a pile of postcards collected in my travels, visits to various local and faraway places, and estate sales) the exact right card to go with a verse. Sometimes it really hit the mark; other times you may need to use a bit of imagination.

These pieces are written with the same abandon all PoPo cards are written; spontaneous, unedited, naked. There has been no editing done in the cut-and-paste procedure.

There is no particular order, since they didn't get sent out Day 1, etc. I apologize to my PoPo friends and promise to do better next year, in which I'm hoping to figure out a way to send cards I've found at estate sales that were once written on and sent by strangers, with me writing something about their words. It will be exciting to see how that might turn out. 

Some of these cards I've hung onto forever and felt it was time to send them on their way. I've left some notes about a few of them.


POPO 2020

Looking out into the humid night, the sounds of tiny animals screaming, the weather getting hotter with every minute, relentless night creeping slowly to a hotter dawn, waves crashing on the cliff below, the only rhythm inducing sleep, fighting in the air with cicadas.

 




 




********************************************************************************

My life has been a revolving door 
of opening chapters, 
all suitable for short stories 
some on the edge of terror, 
other narratives of bliss. 
Maybe I should write a book.

(Little Oddfellows - One of my favorite reading/writing/meditating/lunch/meeting places in all of Seattle. Just on the edge of the CHOP/CHAZ.)


                                                           **********************

   

 A man being a boy again

Faded red fenderless Schwinn

His shirt flapping behind him

Plaid, black and white, open and free

Coming down the hill

In the shadows of impending dark

A man being a boy again

No mask

Remembering


                     

                                        *******************************************




This morning my daughters call me
Bring scones
I arrive
They’re sitting outside around
The fire
Smiles
Their children not in sight
Teenagers off on perfect errands
It’s just the three of us
This is home


               ****************************************************************



Pre-covid. It’s a thing. Last February we weren’t even sure what to call it. Coronavirus. Covid-19. Covid. The Rona. Now it’s part of our natural speech. A thing we live with every day. Will we say post-covid at some point? What will it mean?

(Here was a postcard that I've had for a long time from a collection of my mother's, who passed ten years ago. It was hard to let go of, but I know it's now going to be in someone else's precious collection.)

                                                      ****************************




I pieced ears.
Anybody’s.
I didn’t really like it, but they asked.
A raw potato half, held behind the lobe
A thick darning needle thrust deep
With thread to pull through
Black thick
With instructions
Of care
As if I was a hippie nurse
A girl for all ages

(I hope people see the humor in the choice of this card. When I came upon it, looking for the right car for the sentiment, I nearly collapsed laughing.)


                ****************************************************************



 
The bees used to bother us
Now it’s a surprise to have their company
At the beach or park or dinner table
We’ve invited them to come
But they’re busy attending bee funerals

(It's been tough letting go of my Carl Larsson cards. I love them so; I wish I had a large house, with a huge room, where I could hang prints of all his pieces. Such a marvelous artist.)

******************************             ********************          *******************************             *******************
 
 

Some years are just bad.
It’s not only 2020
I remember 1994
My world crashed
It never was the same again
Nor will this be
We need to find bright angels
In these years
And tell them to follow us home.
 


 (Turner is another fantastic artist. Some of his pieces look like washes and nothing more, until you look closely. This is The Sun of Venice Going to Sea. Absolute magic.)

*******************************************     ************************************************




Summer’s finally come
now it’s the end of summer
while it teased us along for weeks on end.
Green tomatoes – will they turn red
given the eastern morning sun?
Or will it be another year of
no other satisfaction than smelling
the rich deep vines and
pouring water on the tender arms.

 

      (I hope Rosina enjoys this card. It's a local artist Molly Norris Curtis. 
        I love it and send it on to a new  home.)


**********          **********          **********          **********          **********          *******


Floating around the pool, 
holding hands to not drift apart, 
giggling, gossiping, 
people thinking you were 
my boyfriend. Back to my place 
for an intense game of scrabble, 
dinner roasted on my open grill, 
then you, 
off to meet your boyfriend. 

 


*****************************************




March 

How we imagined August. 
Or did we even dare to think about 
August then? Masks kept our faces 
warm and let us scowl at strangers. 
Come August, we continued to scowl.
August barely existed as we’d imagined it.

(I'm glad I have a photo of this card. It's been hanging around for a long time and I've always loved it.)

*************  *************  ***********  **************  *************  ***************  **************



Flesh was a color in the crayon box. 
Bandaids were all the same hue.
I lived in a small town in Washington. 1962.
A young black man wanted to go to school
JFK federalized the Guard.
In my town is was hard
To imagine. 
 



             (A dismal image for what still continues to be a dismal situation.)



*******************************************************************************



Now we’re looking for good deals
On masks but we want
The fashion statement type, not those plain ol’…
I like your Seahawks mask. Where’d you get it?
The smaller size for kids
With Sponge Bob and Elsa.
My granddaughter has one
for her Teddy bear.
I want one that says VOTE!

********************
 


I walked by your door yesterday
The old wooden stairs
Up to your loft where you lived
4 floors up with 2 spoiled cats
And watched the night life
and the day life below in the
streets of 1st Ave. You live in
Barthelona now and your
life has always had a
hint of mystery.

(This is my last card of artist Marjett Schille. She was a friend of my mom and at one time I had several of her postcards. Mom is long passed and not sure what happened to Marjett but her whimsical art is a treasure.)
     
********************                     *********************                ***************************               *************************

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And one was blocked by an impenetrable wall
But the view was clear
Yet I was forced to take
The other
Though it clearly was not my choice
And struggled on the way to way
It has made all the difference
Of the bitterness that surfaces now and again
With recollection of the road not taken.
 


****    ****    ****    ****     ****    ****    ****    ****    ****    ****    ****     ****    *****



I struggle to be a poet
It’s like time is against me, 
and technology thumbs its nose 
at me as I take two steps forward
and three steps back.  Sometimes
the stumbling gets the better of me.
When I fall, I get back up again
Slower each time.
It's a good thing I'm not a pianist 
Or a brain surgeon.

**********************************************************************************

To sir with love… Sidney Poitier. 
White girls could love him 
like my mom loved Harry Belafonte 
and Nat King Cole. Then Janis Ian 
wrote that song. And we nearly got whiplash 
Wanting what we'd never wanted before.
 







********************   **********************  ******************   *****************



Morning with dew lashing my bare toes 
as I walk the dog, hoping 
warm weather will last into September, 
a small fog hangs at the end of the road, crows 
and seagulls competing in the big green 
bins for morsels, a moon still pasted 
on the horizon, gossamer, fading fast.

(J.M.W. Turner again. Magical shapes on canvas.)



**********************************************************************************



Mom had something against those who sleep in the morning, pulling us out of bed to do chores on weekends and summer days. Now I luxuriate, catching up.


(Carl Larsson again, such clarity, as opposed to Turner)

 

********      **********         ***********    ********      *********    ********  *********



We once wandered through the Farmer’s Market, making slow decisions, back and forth from one vendor to another. Now we hurry, moved by a line behind us, masked and distanced, willing their way in, while we wind our way out.


(These are almost the last of my Van Gogh's)


***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

 

I keep missing the moonrise
and now when I see it, 
high in the sky, 
I mourn a little, not being able to 
garner the energy I could 
if I’d only pay attention 
and make myself available to the sky.

 



                                 *************************************************




Sunday morning on 
the waterfront. Fog has just lifted 
with a chill still in the air, 
promise of a true summer day, 
with everything going my way.

***************************************************************************************

 


When I lived in Mexico and people would ask where I was on vacation from, I told them I was on vacation from life and expected to last until I died. Unfortunately I only lasted until I had to pull up tent stakes, sell the condo and use different talents.

                                         *****************************************



Our flag used to represent our nation, .
not it only seems to represent 
some of us. 
But who? 
Which side am I on? 
Even as I search the boundaries 
I don't know which piece of cloth 
To use in case of surrender.

 ***************************



In the park I hear a child crying, 
everyone looks. 
His father bends to commiserate 
while people crank their necks 
to hear the pleas 
of a woe begotten preschooler 
in need of another popsicle.

*****************************

 

Three Days
Feb 28 - the Opera. Yardbird, half empty seats; 
after all, the opera is a bastion of the elderly. 
Nervous, we sat close, far from others. 
Feb 29 - the school auction, half empty seats, 
knocking elbows with friends. 
No hugging, shaking hands. 
No masks. Yet. 
The school made almost $1 million , 
so somebody was there besides us. High Hopes. 
March 1 - family breakfast, still no masks. 
Kisses hugs. Last ones for three months.


**********************************************************************************



 

You’re a different person now. You’re 
Philippo with short hair and 
a mind boggling diagnosis. You’re 
still as carefree and goofy, but your beaming face but now 
shows the serious decisions you must make, 
and only you can be in charge. Now 
you know who loved you’ve always been. 

In the clearing stands a boxer – 
a fighter by his trade.

(When I went to pull a postcard out of the pile for this sentiment, my hand grabbed this Carl Larsson for our friend Philippo, who will fly this weekend from Puerto Vallarta to Los Angeles to begin treatment for brain cancer, an astonishing revelation that brought his little community in the jungles of Yelapa together in their customary way, Mexicans and gringos alike. It's been a long process already for him and it's just begun. My wish for Philippo is the peace this room conveys.)

**********************************************
 

I don’t always trust Siri and Alexa. 
Are they really my friends? 
Do they like me? 
Are they telling me the truth? 
I don’t think they’re government spies 
but I do think they would stand me up 
for coffee and scones. 
They’d probably meet with each other 
and talk behind my kitchen.

(I can't describe my delight at finding this particular card for Siri and Alexa, no two ghostly roommates.)
 


                                            ***************************************************



Writing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s also the thing that makes me happiest. I live between berating myself and reading something over and over because I know it’s good. I’ve lost all my writing jobs due to covid and now I write for myself though I can’t even seem to post a blog. There’s no closure with writing. It never stops. There’s always something new.


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Thank you for reading

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


4 comments:

  1. Just beautiful, thankyou for sharing bits of your heart and soul🙏Love the postcard idea too💜

    ReplyDelete
  2. I will have to read these again so I can savor the post cards and the words. Enjoyabable and intriguing reading .. but too many interrruptions.
    Thank you for the link to your blog.
    .
    Also, thank you for the reminder there is a time to let go of ones treasures of the past.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Jodi...read and looked at each of your post cards...nice work of sharing your poetry & your selection of cards...csn't wait to see mine...blessings StanleydelGozo

    ReplyDelete
  4. These are wonderful, insightful poems, Jodi! Thank you for sharing them here.

    ReplyDelete