Safe as Lightning Book Review

Safe as Lightning: Poems by Scudder H. Parker
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Such a wonderful collection of poems that are hopeful, sad, pensive, gracious, and grateful--a world of emotions expressed in this world of nature and poetry! There are such lovely lines and turns of phrases throughout, too, such as "a bowl of wildness" (p. 95); "remember you are here by gift" (121); and:

"We found and ate wild onions, green flags,
red bulbs flecked with loam,
so spring would infect our breath" (p. 41).

The poems are accessible, and many feel like little stories of a life and place in rural Vermont. A complete book that will transport and transform you. Full disclosure: I am the editor of this book, however, I would not inflate my review as such. I truly enjoy the work here, and think you will too.

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I Take a Walk with My Daughter to the Library

and it’s quiet but for screams of circling seagulls overhead. Still, it’s quieter than usual. We see no people. Only the chipper birds, all the birds, circling and swooping the sky that’s now theirs.

I walk in this desolate town that used to bustle at Noon. We get to the library that used to be open. My daughter asks if she can play in the library today. When I tell her no she says, because of the virus?

A person walks by with a dog and I put my mask up over my mouth and nose. I walk away from them. My daughter thank god is already running around the library lawn and doesn’t notice the person and the white, fluffy dog. I don’t have to remind her to stay away.

Downtown Main Street: all the parking spaces are empty; all the storefronts closed.

My daughter picks up a stick and draws a picture of an oval in the dirt. I ask her, is it a heart? and she says, no it’s a bird with no wings, and I’m amazed she knows exactly how I feel.

Then she draws a shape duck table, she yells it at me three times. She is three years old.

Then she chants I want to go home, places three shriveled winter berries in my hand, wraps her soft hand around my thumb and leads me down the sidewalk while I trail the empty red Radio Flyer wagon behind.

My daughter playing on the library building.

Jewel Tones

For twenty-five dollars
my mother can dress your feet
in jewel tones. You send her a check,
she’ll send you jewel tones.

My mother can dress your feet,
she does it by hand, with fingers curled as a reflex.
She’ll send you jewel tones.
Around needles, without thought

she does it by hand, with fingers curled as a reflex.
Intricate toes and heels form tubular
around needles, without thought
my mother knits.

Intricate toes and heels form tubular.
One hand over the other,
my mother knits.
She doesn’t need to think anymore.

One hand over the other,
knit one, purl two,
she doesn’t need to think anymore,
lost in knitter’s repetition.

Knit one, purl two,
while the television blares she
is lost in knitter’s repetition,
her private concerto.

While the television blares she
hears jewel tones,
her private concerto.
Her lips move in the counting.

She hears jewel tones,
with large glasses sliding down her nose,
her lips move in the counting
as a sign of her concentration.

With large glasses sliding down her nose,
inaudibly whispering to herself
as a sign of her concentration,
she holds back her world.

Inaudibly whispering to herself
for if she let her excitement out
(she holds back her world)
she might disturb our TV show.

If she let her excitement out
in unraveling emotions in the family room
she might disturb our TV show,
or we might disturb her.

In unraveling emotions in the family room
sometimes instead of the sitcom, I watch her
but not to disturb her,
her inner world that none of us enter.

Sometimes instead of the sitcom, I watch her
knitting, her way to escape
into her inner world that none of us enter
where beautiful things are born.

Knitting, her way to escape,
making socks instead of time
where beautiful things are born
in a now empty nest.

Making socks instead of time,
the lines of worlds fade, and all that’s left
in a now empty nest
are the lines of corrugated yarn in a spiral design.

The lines of worlds fade, and all that’s left
is wrapped around needles, lips, and hearts.
The lines of corrugated yarn in a spiral design
coming together in knots,

wrapped around needles, lips, and hearts.
A pair of hand-knit socks
coming together in knots.
And she’ll send them to you,

a pair of hand-knit socks
in jewel tones. You send her a check
and she’ll send them to you
for twenty-five dollars.

---

One of the many difficulties of writing in strict form is the pitfall of allowing the form of the poem to take over the content or the intention of the poet. In “Jewel Tones” we see the opposite: A poet utilizing the form to carry the very human desire of the person writing it.
—Matthew Dickman, 2010 Ruth Stone Poetry Prize Judge

*This poem was Runner-Up in the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize and was published at Hunger Mountain.*

Because These Foreheads Speak

we don’t have to say words out loud;

We simply tip, skin to skin. Nod into each other

the way our daughter asks us to after a kiss, a hug

and a snuzzle, and before a high five, a fist bump, and a pat on the back.

These rituals you and I perform

are ones we never thought we’d do.

We never had to think of them in these great foreheads of ours.

We never had to invent the future

because it was already here. Waiting.

We just had to bend our way into it.

The way we bend toward each other in sleep.

The way our foreheads touch when we want to speak.

Two Breastfeeding Poems

Breastfeeding Poem: One

There is a world at my fingertips, Or I am the world with fingertips, Or she is the world, she grips me with the tips of her fingers.

She is my world, Or I am hers, I touch her with my fingertips, She suckles the round world planet that is my breast, Her fingers curl around her own palm and form a fist.

She is a world grabber, world eater, And I am the world, Yet so is she.

So maybe I am the sun, giving life to her, the planet, the world. No, I am the world, And she is my moon and stars, She orbits around the globe of me.

©Samantha Kolber

Breastfeeding Poem: Two

Your shoulder is a star

Shooting its way into

the gravitational pull of me.

Your mouth, a black hole

sucking what light I make

Into the core of you.

Oh these worlds we are now

you and I

tied together

like a planet and moon.

©Samantha Kolber

The Art of Motherhood

“Life affirms life. Plant your gardens. Make your art.” –Rose Chessman (1964-2004)

I don’t know where this phrase originated, “the art of motherhood,” but we see it in magazine ads, in books, in stores or doctor’s office posters, as if a fancy, loaded, upscale word, “art,” attached to motherhood will pacify us. Like we won’t see the reality of the mundane: the diapers, the tantrums, the lonely, frustrating world of motherhood because, they tell us, it’s an art. Our art. Yeah right. Here is why I do not believe motherhood is an art (although I wish I did because I’d like to be an artist, and also this artist mom is pretty rad at showing her art of motherhood).

I read a book called Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by Davie Bayles and Ted Orland. According to these art critics, to call something art, it must include self-expression. Does this sound like motherhood to you? Is motherhood a form of self-expression? More like a form of selfless-expression! I’ve never once—not while changing a horrendous blow-out diaper, or rushing to have dinner ready before my toddler explodes in a hunger tantrum, or nursing all night, every night—stopped and thought, gee, I’m really expressing myself here. Granted, I have used motherhood a great deal as a theme in my art and poetry, but I would not go as far as to say that the act of motherhood in itself is an art. Mothers still need our own creative outlets. Yes, giving birth is a major act of creativity, and motherhood can propel us into creative endeavors, but if we want to make art, we should paint, write poems, sculpt, blow hot glass—any medium will do. Motherhood is not an artist’s medium.

If we must use a creative metaphor for motherhood, why not call it a craft? According to Bayles and Orland, craft is doing a technique with an attainable goal of perfection; doing it over and over, repeatedly, in hopes of producing the perfect piece. Now, I know and you know there is no such thing as the perfect mother. But our culture still promotes this myth. If only we would just get it right, no one would end up on drugs, or commit crimes or suicide. We have hordes of books and experts telling us how to do it right. Even the experts on attachment parenting, the follow-your-instinct crowd, tell us if we do it that way we, and our kids, will be perfect. No matter what parenting theory you subscribe to, it’s all the same message: do things right, and everything, and everyone, will be right. And even though we know this to be false, we still work toward it. I want my child to grow up to be secure, well-adjusted, happy, healthy, loving, empathetic, socially conscious, and smart. In short, almost perfect. Who doesn’t want this for her child? So I breastfeed, I baby-wear, I feed him nutritious, organic food, I use cloth diapers, and so on in search of perfection, even though I know it is a myth. Over and over, day in and day out, I do the work of mothering, secretly wishing for perfection.

Here’s my conclusion: On days I want art, I make a collage, write and read poetry; on days I crave perfection, I make, and devour, The Best Chocolate Cake.

Cake

2 ½ cups unbleached white flour

1 ½ cups sugar (I use a little less)

½ cup cocoa

1 ½ teaspoons baking soda

¾ teaspoon salt

1 ½ cups warm water

½ cup vegetable oil

1 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract

1 ½ teaspoons white vinegar

Icing

1 cup semisweet chocolate chips

8 Tblsp. (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened

1 large egg

1. Preheat oven to 350ºF. Butter and flour two, 8-inch layer pans and set aside. Thoroughly combine the flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda, and salt in a bowl.

2. Pour in the water, oil, vanilla, and vinegar and stir until combined. Pour into the prepared pans. Bake 30 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool on a rack 10 minutes, then remove cakes from pans and cool completely. (For a quick, vegan treat, I usually stop right here and omit the frosting. It’s done in no time, and tastes amazing when warm!)

3. Buttercream frosting: melt the chocolate in a double boiler, then remove the top pan. Let the chocolate cool until tepid. In a medium bowl, cream the butter, using an electric mixer. Add the egg and beat until blended, but not smooth. Pour in the chocolate and beat until just combined.

4. When the cake is completely cool, spread some icing on one layer. Top with the other layer, then spread the remaining icing all over the cake. Chill the cake at least 30 minutes, then bring to room temperature before serving.

Babies are not paintings—works of art mothers create from air, imagination, canvas and brushes. Babies are not cakes that we mix and measure in perfect union of key ingredients. Babies are people, and people are far from perfect. Life is not perfect. That chocolate cake? Go ahead. See for yourself. I have to go self-express some toys off the floor.

Poem Inspired by an N.C. Wyeth Painting, 2/5/15

N.C. Wyeth, "Herring Gut, 1932" oil on canvas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In this world

is loneliness

and love. The two

exist together.

What we fill

our lifeboats with

is up to us.