Seven Minutes for a Solstice Poem

There’s a lot of talk about “Let’s put the soul back in solstice” but how can we do that when we’re a society of zombies, walking around flat and attacking innocent children with semi-automatic weapons?

What soul?

A soul is not a compass, leading you in a moral direction.

A soul does not cover you like a shroud, or cloak your nakedness.

It does not stand there, solid as a tree. A soul is not solid.

How can you dare to put it into something as sure and solid as the solstice? We can count on the solstice; it comes twice a year.

It returns to us, unasked.

Once your soul leaves, will it return?

Sun- and soul-free time of winter: now is when we make our bad decisions—sleep too late, eat junk food, plot a massacre, mechanically go about our days.

Winter is when you’ll buy the things you do not need, say the things you don’t believe, break up with the ones you love because you’re just so glum and sure to find happiness with someone else, somewhere else.

So, you search for your soul.

You find that giving a hug to your son’s teacher at school brings a lump in your throat; being serenaded by a kilt-wearing banjo player in an art gallery brings tears to your eyes.

Oh yeah, you think: there you are, my soul.

                                     
                                           Samantha Kolber 12/21/12

Thanks for reading! And yes, I did write this in seven minutes. Part of my desire to be part of the Holiday Blog Tour was to force me to write, as I find myself too busy these days to engage with my passion. So, sitting down for seven minutes at a time works for me.

A BIG THANK YOU to Icess Fernandez Rojas for putting this Holiday Blog Tour 2012 together. 

Please be sure to read the next featured blogger in the tour tomorrow: Thelma T. Rayna at www.theliteraryself.blogspot.com. She has a long list of awards and published books (congrats, Thelma), but more importantly, she writes because it's good for her soul. And yours. Happy reading! And, happy holidays and blessings for the return of the sun.

Poet Tree Joins Holiday Blog Tour

Breaking News: I will be participating in the 2012 Holiday Blog Tour! Run by writer and Goddard College alumna Icess Fernandez Rojas of Writing to Insanity, this tour features an all-star cast of (mostly) women writers & artists in all genres: short fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, painting, illustration, and more!

Mark your calendars to discover some amazing blog--I mean writing--talent (I will be writing a Solstice poem on the 21st):

Dec. 7 Lupe Mendez, The Poet Mendez
Dec. 8 Gwendolyn Jerris, Silence & Honeysuckle
Dec. 9 Natasha Oliver, 2 cents
Dec. 10 Regina Tingle, Unsolicited Certainties 
Dec. 11 Caridad Pineiro, Paranormal Romance Author Caridad Pineiro
Dec. 12 Teresa Carbajal Ravet, Sententia Vera
Dec. 13 Nathasha Alvarez, AudaciousLady
Dec. 14 Stephanie Dorman, How Many Frogs
Dec. 15 Karen La Beau, My Life on Canvas
Dec. 16 Annette Santos, The Monga Confesses
Dec. 17 Zoraida Cordova, Zoraida Writes
Dec. 18 Kristy Harding, Kristy Harding
Dec. 19 Nikki Kallio, Purple Houses
Dec. 20 Sujeiry Gonzalez, Love Sujeiry
Dec. 21 Samantha Kolber, Sam Poet 
Dec. 22 Thelma T. Reyna, The Literary Self
Dec. 23 Julia Amante, Julia Amante
Dec. 24 Icess Fernandez Rojas



I hope you follow along, and happy holidays!

All She Does is Write it Down and Say Thank You

                        for Annie Finch

What she hears

in the solitude of water

she remembers

into poems.

It Was Written Long Ago

It was written long ago: the wing’s beat

and the owl’s stare; the cool drink of morning

on the mountain. The verdant fields knew how

to sing long before the blue bunting rose

to the occasion, long before tourists

rose up from the pavement and declared this

land pure.

                     Vessels with technology might

be combing Lake Champlain for history

but we know there’s no fatidic tale the

lake will tell. It was written in our bones

only we don’t pay attention to that

story anymore. The ursine birth of

our distractions keeps us hibernated

through winter and beyond.

                                                  It is quiet

enough at the top of Owl’s Head to hear

your own voice pierce the stillness, crack it like

a quartz line.  The fear settles over you,

an infant in a blanket.  The wind. 

It was written long ago: The echo 

of someone’s love barely touching your skin. 

It was always going to be like this. 

Samantha Kolber

 

Chris’s Villanelle

That’s because it’s a burn from 

the cheap polyester socks that rub against skin.   

Every time I slide I get some

new scrape on top of the old one.

The healing process can’t begin.    

That’s because it’s a burn from     

being fast enough, or dumb           

enough to make the slide, again

to second. Every time I slide I get some

rush of feeling I didn’t have before.

I just quit smoking

because it’s like burning from

the inside out. I must have smoked a ton

and I never really let anyone in.

Sometimes I slide and I get some

cigarettes, just to have some

security, just in case I need a clip

to keep me from the burn, from

feeling every time I slide.

God, My Father

Aching for a reason, and
Because we don’t know any better we
Coalesce our beliefs with our cognizance.
Defiantly we look out instead of in,
Exacting our own
Fates as if we’re surgeons with no
Grief, looking for a
Harbour from our sins, our desires.
Immortality is what will abrade
Justice over time, just as humanity
Kills again and again the spark, that
Light. Salient and
Manic in our search,
Nearing psychotic episodes
Of garrulous grandiosity like
Prayer. But we still pan for heaven,
Quarrel here on earth. We still ask our questions,
Rage wars that tickle His toes. We
Still try and wend our way to Him.
Thinking like Icarus, we blindly scoop our eyes
Upward to gain entrance. The
Very morning comes
Where this is all a dream, an
X-ray image of my father’s neck confirms:
You fly too close, you do get burned.
Zeroing in on the answer, we keep from flying home.

Samantha Lori Kolber

RIP Adrienne Rich

Poems Are Never Finished

A poem is never finished, only abandoned.
Well none of us ever fit the whole of our soul on one page.
I look back through my journal, come across anchored, dolphins,
flips end over end. It was New Year's Day.

He didn't say he didn't love me, though he didn't say he did.
With the most ordinary garbage floating around in my brain
how could I think he'd pick me? I pick and bite my fingertips till
they bleed. Trying to be healthy, we're eating rain-

bows and writing down our thoughts. You can't put cerebellum
in a poem, he says. The dark and dreamy luxury of winter...
Luxury? Winter? What?! Frosted with winter sun,
I say, the dark and dreary dream is splintered.

Liminality, then. Identity, too.
It's small enough, this boundary to you.


Samantha Kolber

I see a big tree
it doesn't see me
I am so very small
nothing sees me at all