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.

PoemCity 2015 Call for Submissions

We Want Your Poems for PoemCity 2015!

Do you live in Vermont and like to write poems? You're invited to submit your original poems for publication in PoemCity 2015, a city-wide event in Montpelier, Vermont, now in its sixth year.

PoemCity publishes and displays Vermont poetry on local business storefronts as a way to celebrate National Poetry Month. Chosen poems will appear throughout the downtown district of Montpelier for the month of April 2015.

“Poetry has an important place in the lives of Vermonters,” said Kellogg-Hubbard Library Program and Development Coordinator Rachel Senechal. 

“PoemCity collaborates with many organizations, schools, and individuals, to read, hear, write, and discuss poetry, the language of the soul. With the many poems displayed in our downtown windows, it is our goal to make poetry accessible to our community, and to inspire new readers and writers of poetry,” she said.

Along with displayed poems, PoemCity will also offer poetry workshops, public readings, panel discussions, and visual poetry and art displays throughout downtown. The month-long schedule of events and programming is free and open to the public.

Poets of all ages are welcome to submit up to three poems no longer than 24 lines each for consideration of public display. Each poem should be original work by the author, who must be a Vermont resident or student. Deadline to submit is January 31, 2015.  

For submission guidelines and to submit, go to https://kellogghubbardlibrary.submittable.com/submit

 ####

ABOUT KELLOGG-HUBBARD LIBRARY

The Kellogg-Hubbard Library is a public library that is the focal point for cultural, educational, and intellectual life in Central Vermont. It serves as a resource to encourage lifelong learning, acts as a catalyst for the free exchange of ideas, and promotes literacy for community members of all ages. Learn more at http://www.kellogghubbard.org. 

Spring Villanelle

Thanks to the Kellogg-Hubbard Library and Montpelier Alive for hosting my Modern Villanelle Writing Workshop today as part of PoemCity 2014. We had four participants: poet and poetry therapist Mary Rose Dougherty, Indiana transplant & writer John Fox, film instructor and Sestina master Rick Winston, and Veteran and Vermonter George Druin.

We had a lively discussion of the form, its history, and its contents, while also reading a few great poems by Sherman Alexie, Dylan Thomas, and Ursula K. Le Guin, to name a few.

Books about Villanells I recommended and used as a reference are Villanelles edited by Annie Finch and Marie-Elizabeth Mali (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2012); and The Teachers & writers handbook of poetic forms, edited by Ron Padgett (Teachers & Writers Collaborative, 2000).

Thanks to our poets who participated today, five new Villanelles have been birthed into the world (I wrote one, too).

Here I'll share with you my own villanelle I wrote this morning, and also here is the form to give you a sense of how to write your own:

A1
b
A2

a
b
A1

a
b
A2

a
b
A1

a
b
A2

a
b
A1
A2


Spring Villanelle 
        by Samantha Kolber


It's been too long since we've seen the sun.
We stumble blind
as if out of the dark cave we've come.

Ready for laughing and fun,
warmth on our skin.
It's been too long since we've seen the sun.

Ready for fingers in dirt, planting a garden.
The ground not harsh, but kind
as if out of the dark cave seeds come

up, released from Hades. Not a son
but a daughter reunites.
It's been too long since she's seen the sun.

And as for mothers and fathers you only get one.
If your childhood's been unkind
it's out of the darkness you've come.

Winter breeds darkness, and spring the growing season.
Mom, dad, I'm really trying
to see the sun.
Out of your dark cave is where I've come from.

Modern Villanelle Writing Workshop with Samantha Kolber: a PoemCity Event

It's that time of year again: National Poetry Month! To celebrate, I have joined the PoemCity 2014 movement in Montpelier, Vermont.

Not only do I have a poem displayed in the window of Julio's restaurant on State Street...

....but I am also teaching a free Modern Villanelle Writing Workshop on Saturday, April 12. Here is the program description:

Come learn about villanelles, and write your own!

“The villanelle is one of the most fascinating and paradoxical of poetic forms, quirky and edgy…prone to moods of obsession and delight; structured through the marriage of repetition and surprise… No wonder it is currently enjoying such a powerful, post-modernist blossoming,” from Villanelles: Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets. 

We’ll read aloud examples by poets such as Sherman Alexie and Sylvia Plath to get inspired; then we’ll get busy creating our own villanelles. All levels and ages of writers are welcome.

Hayes Room, Kellogg-Hubbard Library, 135 Main Street | 10 AM

Hope to see you there!

Walk Poem at Norwich University

for ENV 299, thank you

I wish I had sunglasses
on these short
annoying stairs.

I see Meg's dark eyes
much worse, the sun shines
and her smile still sparkles.

Looking up is fruitless.

The wind makes the leaves dance
and I wish they wouldn't
distract me so.

Stark shadow on the ground
is me getting out of my own way.

The bark eye of the tree
is underneath all things.

I smell asphalt on the wind.
I wish I didn't smell asphalt
but I wish I could smell wind.

Vibrant colors too clean and
bright and if we go down the stairs
I'll fall or not write as much.

The poet's obstacle course
can't make me jump the hoops
of all time.

Smelling green grass that grows fake
seeing gold chairs that feel hollow
why is it man-made life and
nature can both be so beautiful?

The newness mixed with the old
means nothing ever really dies.
It just changes shape.
Like this path that changes
from cement to dirt back to
cement again. Which one is the
true path? The way for poets?

I crashed my snowboard on this--
more stairs
steeply down
if I could wander down stairs,
across fields, in the sun toward a
glowing mountain of autumn leaves
forever, then I'd always know
I am alive. This heat gives life. This
bright green grass beneath my feet
that sparkles here and there with
leftover dew, tethers me to the ground.
Without ground, I'd float off
into an abstract sky.

Why call this fall when all we do is
stay? Stay here on the earth with
its crunchy leaves underfoot. Stay here
on an endless train track, forever
in both directions.

Moving into nature
say hello. Question.
Why this dirt?
Why that pile of hay?
Why that dead birch right there off
the path? Why do we veer off the path?

Listen! There's a sewer and underneath
a river flowing, I can hear it
shushing and lulling like a waterfall.

The crow caws, the sun makes me
glint and it hurts my eyes.

I run to catch up.
A gun shot far off in the hills.
I take a deep breath
a thousand breaths to make
this afternoon last forever.

Grab a hold of that light bulb
one flash and it's over.

I just found a poem I wrote in 2005 on an old hardrive, and I revised it into this new poem. What do you think?

-->

I want the weight of you,

not just your hand like a delicate shadow

on my belly;

Not just your open mouth on mine,

your scruff on my neck,  no

this won’t do.

I don’t want pieces of you.

I want the cool finger of vision,

your hands down my spine.

Our bodies wading shallow,

naked in a reflective pool. Two

puddles coming together,

the meniscus of our crescent

figures like droplets

returning from the waterfall.

On your lips I tell you this,

taste our stolen kiss.

You don’t hear me

through the rush.

© 2013 Samantha Kolber

A Poem for When I am Not Writing Poems

In fiction, I must ask:

What’s my character’s problem?

And not: Why aren’t I outside looking at the moon,

singing to her and pining for all things light and dark

to touch me in ways I can only dream of being touched?

In fiction I must write silence into my dialogue without saying

“Insert awkward silence here.”

Who knew?

Who knew that a life of nothing much would

lead me here, to a keyboard in the middle of the night,

to a man dancing parallel lines to my groovy hips?

And now I’m driving toward a one and only future,

one I can’t imagine but somehow have known,

at least I’ve known to write it down, to document.

I document for those who dare not speak, but what do I have to say for them?

I have no problem, hence

my character has no problem, unless you count

a general problem with the way the world works

as a central problem to solve. Why have we come this far

and not solved rape?

Why have we come this far to debate on

who can and cannot be married?

Why have we come this far?

It’s not very far at all, is it?

But we are far – far from the one, the one true point

I don’t even believe

we’ve really ever come from: that garden, that snake. Nope. Don’t buy it.

Everything will change, but how

have we evolved so far from divinity? So far from light and truth

and justice and peace for all? Who will you pledge your allegiance to

when the moon doth not shine? Who will you side with

when there is no light to see any sides? Because that light is gone

as far as I can tell,

and I’m not even a poet.

Anymore.

**

What it’s like to give up writing poems:

I’ve given up my camera,

I am unable to take pictures of your thoughts,

snap snap

I just took your heart

snap

an eyeball’s core with that image of

your brother’s bleeding wrists you had wanted to forget

snap

not even bandages cover up what my camera can capture.

I miss it. The darkness like my own private dark room,

the way my heart reached out to it

in negative phototropism.

The way my whole being would turn to it

in order to get the poem.

Poems come from dark and silent places,

and also light and fluffy ones.

But mostly dark.

Poets Know:

it’s not an attitude, it’s an attunement.

It’s not always about line breaks and enjamb

ments. Nor is it always about witnessing. Rhyming,

definitely not even close to being about rhyming.

But what? That question

says it all.

Fuck You, Depression

I.

I have stood where the wind

touches no one.

I have let her hollow cry

brush my ears.

And when she made me cry

from sheer bitterness

I went on pretending,

forced a plastered smile.

II.

I dress in black

and walk in snow,

rise tall like a shadow

or a ghost.

People say “Fuck

you, depression.”

I say nothing at all

and fall.

So tired and so awake

I recall whistling

to a dog in a sunny

park.

Was that my childhood

or just the one I wanted?

I lay with piles around

me—heaps and stacks I

never put away.

There’s just no room for it all.

I’m craving sunshine

big sky, curvy land,

vast ocean.

But I have snow, a grey sky,

city lights bounce off the

snow-covered streets.

Nothing much to anchor me

or help me feel.

III.

At home? Happy? Fulfilled? Who

ever really feels like that? I’m

hungry now, I always have

been. And this sucks, the

way I write now is always

looking for the good line, always

editing it down, even before I

write it to get the poem. I

can’t write the poem: it has

to write me. Oh I’ve forgotten

my tools. These are my tools.

Why am I filling my head with

fluff? Wasting my time with empty

entertainment? When I should be

carting my tools around

crafting stories and life from

the details I see.

I have always loved words.

Words are delicious.

Fucking depression. I will ninja

kick you back to hell.

Fuck you, depression. I will take a

Samurai sword and chop

your head off. Maybe even

borrow my dad’s machete. 

©2013 Samantha Kolber 

Clothes Shopping: Love/Hate Relationship with my Body

I just want to talk for a minute about women's bodies and shopping. Now, I have what I have always considered a normal body. I am not overweight, nor am I too skinny. I have some cellulose (perfectly normal) in my thighs, my calves are thick from sports, and I still have a waist (at my age and after having a kid). And I love my body--it grew and birthed a child, it has ran marathons and hiked up mountains, it has danced and laughed and repaired itself from illnesses and injuries--but I hate clothes shopping. The thing is, while trying on clothes and seeing how nothing fits even though I pick my size off the shelf, I start to loathe my body. Love body while not clothes shopping; hate body while clothes shopping. Tough equation.

In the dressing room while stuffing my all-of-a-sudden sausage legs into a size 10 pair of pants--damn "skinny" pants!--I start to feel fat. In a size 10. Scary double digits. I wonder, if sizes came in letters, A,B,C,D and so on, would I feel the same about my body? Or would I equate the letters with school grades and think I have failed if I wear a size F? Yet the numbers serve to tell me that the higher I go, the bigger I am. When in fact I am not big. I am just me. My body is perfectly sized exactly right just for me. So how is it nothing ever fits? Why aren't the clothing companies making clothes that actually fit my body? If one pair of pants is too small in the legs, they're too big in the waist. If another fits in the waist, they are two feet too long in the legs. Trying on endless pairs of pants, I find myself longing for the days where people made their own clothes, or had their own tailor.

And don't even get me started on those mirrors and those lights! While the clothing may make me feel fat, the lights and mirrors make me feel ugly! Blotchy, pale, discolored, wide, out of proportion--it's like a fun house mirror. If the companies do that on purpose to try and disorient us into making bad purchases, oh wait, it's working. I bought a royal blue blazer at the store where it looked awesome on me in their mirror, but when I got it home it looked like a Wal-Mart cashier  blazer! Sigh. Why do I even go shopping? Oh yeah, I usually don't shop at big box stores. Tonight was an exception. I think I'll stick to my local downtown stores who have signs on their regularly lighted mirrors that say "I am beautiful! I love my body." No more exceptions. No more cheap short-cuts to big box stores. Back to thrift stores and saving up for weeks to buy one item at a clothing boutique! You can't really win with clothes shopping, can you?

Constraints of a Box

Show me your fist
as if I didn’t know
you could hold it.

I never feel the blow
in my memory.
I’m too far out to row

through the possibilities.
Look at this beautiful
mess, the frailty

of your dutiful
voice: a perfect mess
you yell and yell.


©Samantha Kolber 2013

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