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Snapshots
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i'm still (after reading Jill's wednesday shot, this was my day in the USA) like traffic on these urban streets where double parking is deemed protection against being blocked in i weave in and around such obstacles, stubborn against lines someone else painted as reasonable, drawing compliance or the ire of meeting at crosshairs i weave the sound of knots and oughts and nots, one right after the other running through my brain not turning back or pulling loose those skeins of tangled thoughts not even noontime angelus has tolled but i have stopped at the obligatory pause to let someone else pass through this hell some call a neighborhood. and it is i suppose. this intersection has become a crossroads and a drama good for retelling later in creole, portuguese spanish and whatever twisting of phrase passes for explaining to the insurance company how metal spun out like a toddler's top and came to rest on my front bumper (already jagged like a ripped nail from a hit and run at stop and shop) thinking "oh well, two for the price of one." Deborah L. Humphreys at home on Grafton Street Newark, NJ Wednesday, 7:55 pm "if i sleep, clowns will eat me." monday night it was hard to sleep and i was thinking about all the nights before school would start when summer closed shut slammed like the last book of required reading and the order from the sears and roebuck store had finally arrived and was arranged carefully in the proper drawers new things not unfamiliar how many years have i gone into this ritual forest each september and now years long past childhood my friend wears the shirt that proclaims these night terrors about clowns that leads me to believe she is brave and ready for the realities of dealing with the innocence of other people’s children not knowing where to line up for the bell and administrators who show up with their summer homework undone. clowns will eat me even if i stay awake for lunch Deborah L. Humphreys Newark, NJ Wednesday 7:12 almost ready for the staff inservice day at the Newark Public Schools Office of Early Childhood Education and 7,011 children ready for the New Year Listers, Just a little note. Our sisters are opening a space (638 Elizabeth Avenue) for women in the downtown of Elizabeth NJ to come and be at home (away from home) to be creative, reflective, supported/supportive. It's neither a retreat house or a social service agency. It has yet to really be defined. It is called Josephine's Place, honoring Mother Josephine O'Brien who despite her Bostonian/Irish-Catholic upbringing--helped our community move forward in the 1960s at great personal cost. Judy the person helping to get the house together asked if I would write something for the opening--and, hey! It's Wednesday. Hurray. do you like this having a somewhere that fits you fine like a new coat, the one you stare at through the glass of your waking walking dreams, where it is really new, not hand-me-down new or bargain table found this house is like that, this place is precisely what surrounds you cool silken lining closest to your skin and wool woven thick, weighted for protection for traveling, for going places together we know the hidden spaces, the hiding places holding spaces, the extra places we willingly set the niches, the pedestals, the under-the-bridge places the world accommodates us unsure as they are of our loyalty or the depths of our anger or our ability to incorporate josephine's place into our many lives Deborah Humphreys Newark, NJ 24 september 2003 words I carried with me all day now 7:32 pm for the detainees at the Elizabeth NJ Detention Center (a former ShopRite warehouse) falling off the world we discover is flat, imagine that we have been mistaken misinformed, led astray lo these many ages we took kindly to the creed that life must be global, encircling, sustaining and, if not perfect, at least certain as october's moon coming round. it is our pride ourselves standing brittle and dry like ordered stacks at harvest awaiting the victor's parades and the workers illegal, undocumented, under the gun following in groups like vessels stem to stern, the nina, the pinta the santa maria, the feastdays our cristophers celebrate the passage with the familiar, the communal, the original words carried like testimony and repeated so often, so mindlessly, so reverently images were not lost, but stolen taken hostage for triumph and those who first crossed over stand at the edge of their own political science Deborah Humphreys Newark, NJ, USA 7:31 am snapshots dropped (24 roll pick up) wend STAY when click, click, caa ah lick, clicks clix, pix, cool picks, the picts pictures, yankee pitchers pit chores mi amis outta hear con text, text ures text aisles snap, snaps, snapxxxx s napzzzzz sun apse sol, solas so/l/a/s solace con suelo consol (an la/ sin) cheese, cheez, geezz us retrato retro grabado graph grab griangraf, green automat----ick the treetop struck like a match goitse gotcha gonzo Deborah Humphreys coming home at midday Branch Brook Park Newark, NJ the fact she reminds me of my sister on a good day the fact that she shares the same sorts of genetic endowments academic associations, the pus color rage i can see under skin that barely contains such living between pileups of shoulds and oughts the disenfranchised loneliness a mother with alzheimer's all of this, any of this in common makes it complicated to fire her today when after an initial relief a rush of adrenaline before the how is lost in a search for the dust-covered face of authority the untangling of procedures of separation, of letting go cutting losses in structures organized for redemption this is not family, i remind myself she is not my sister Deborah Newark, NJ begun at 4:55 am Deborah L. Humphreys (Stage directions for snap (in case of formatting disturbances) poem is centered-- reading can also at centered "i" or be read down or maybe even from the bottom up; bidirectional (although it may sound like my pet "Furby" toy)) they look edge of building along a line display interactive yet orderly decorative but in a row hanging out starlings sky at a november up look -------------------------------------i-------------------------------- look again through a veil of twig four perfectly ovals identical last of season drooooplets hanging on waiting on a breeze a goodbye wave ------------------------- Deborah in NJ 6:37 pm Newark seasoning in newArk: a discussion with my friend Yolanda about tomorrow in three tongues--the bird, el pavo, turcai/ seas on soups on it's the season, "dice mi amiga" "arsa m'chara" chattering in thirty something degrees in a light fleece wrap it's the seasoning sazo/n conversacio/n not crisp like the lecho/n asao of navidad the sound of craiceann, the skin of the body of this flightless bird prepared with the herbs adobo, ajo, sofrito sal y pimiento of eternal travel what are the irish condiments, i wonder but this turkey resists two days of marination "the turkey does not grab the seasoning" close your eyes and pass the tofu savor the flava, el sabor the hint of leftovers the last si/ob home, el tapo/n in bayonne freedom until the rush of monday morning Deborah Newark, NJ 8:05 am Deborah L. Humphreys the finished book: maybe you have a tendency to keenly feel the cold, the loss of voice in seasons that follow the gathering of the fallen feathers of poems, of white-dry stories hard work pressed between the skins the sheets of revered trees the stain of ink and scar the well-meaning lives of industrious poets suddenly out in the cold and wondering if they will ever recover Deborah stretched out on the couch Grafton Ave, Newark, NJ 7:06 pm make my day a little holiday fill-in-the-___________-poem how do you make time time for all the times ____________________ sits in front of you like a take-no-prisoners two year-old or a________________ or a wall rising up, the tide of days before _______________ when you are supposed to make merry make those scrumptious desserts ________ always expects and then on top of that as if that were not already over the moon make space in the living room, ________'s room, the guest pull-out couch, the squeezed-in-tight place in your heart and make peace around the table, the____________ and make do when________________. just how do you make it look so easy. oh how you make me smile! Deborah in NJ a poem for our gathering of family service workers in daycare centers in Newark 6:44 Deborah L. Humphreys SC currier and i've got a lovely view outside my back windows the snow fell like a blessing in disguise a covering of white over the oil-slicked skin of a swimming pool, the tar lagoon the abutting neighbors have abandoned to the elements once-upon-a-summer ended and the plastic bobbling toys went inside, the boom box music unplugged the seasons turned, the sun and the shimmer of wind across the top, kalaidescope of mold and like the early snow now, the brown oak leaves covered up whatever was living in the jello my flight of lochness escapades noirin says keep the back bedroom when it rises it will eat you first. Deborah in NJ 7:49 a snap inspired by the weather snaps the new year week resolutions already turning dimming facing resistances anticipated unwelcome a month days so bitter so stiff i make myself get up move about find something hot words pressed into brew tap uh tap uh tap uh a drummer's beat a poet's keyboard click a click a click a like a heart a poem like an ekg Deborah Humphreys Newark NJ 7:53 am these things happen but in december with a perfectly clean sheet 31 clear postage stamps of space in front of me, middle january looks safe, even possible and on that reckless in retrospect advent day of peculiarly seductive east coast weather i commit to paper to time and energy to an event far enough away to expect myself and 35 others to be there in the same upstairs room and now the feel of advent again the ground blanched before the salt trucks pass the skies fill up with the grey white billowy breath of "hurry home" go to the store, come back prepared remember when i did the great snow dance sleepless at the vigils when snow was as tall as my fourth grade shadow and i knew nothing of the messiness of phone chains, canceling caterers, or chancing work for another equally winter day Deborah Humphreys Newark NJ 7:54 PM the nuns said we could --when we listened? live lives like those girls from the early times we could barely sit still because ours was already running ahead of us. adventures awaiting our names to be said out loud from the canon each and every day by a priest, a bishop, a pontiff somewhere in the world agatha, lucy, agnes, cecilia, anastasia sounded like girls we could hang with play hard to get with agnes was a girl who could not be burned so they cut her. i wanted to be brave like agnes, take up her name for my confirmation tag but I came up before the judge unable to stand up against my mother who ruled agnes too much for a pretty little girl and i folded agnes into anne the mother of the mother of god for the sake of the kingdom until i found that deborah had been a judge and i could answer to that Deborah Newark, NJ Feast of Agnes of Rome 10:15 am the day following what did you come out to see a reed shaken by the wind (Matthew 11: 7) i have read this line until it feels like poetry, sounds like sunday, tastes warm like childhood which is no longer safe but indeed dangerous and i return wandering back to the sandy edge of grace carrying all these words on sheets of past impressions in yet another season of wood and resistance spirit calls, wind pushes the source is the same one that gives us wonders some feet, others roots the lucky ones both the work is the work we always have waiting where we stand toes, tendrils of roots digging in, a hold on silken soil, once rock a pile of stones a banked fire a little offering of protection, swaying dry grass camouflage, the succulence of waxy leaves, the music of pipers, ashes a blessing, a mitzah over time, mountains explode geographies shift, we just try to live the air of beauty about us trace elements of wood, dispersed light everywhere anyone can look up sun's brilliant visitations at the borders of day Deborah Newark, NJ 7:55 am Ash Wednesday for the Vigil and a sharing of soup and bread tonight at the Elizabeth Detention Center Spring, sprang, sprung days when words rest on green beds, oval as eggs wait to be scooped up what is it about hats and brick city flowers we want to show up scatter seeds, tear off piece of cloud, dandelion gets a brand new "do" Deborah Humphreys Newark, NJ 3:05 pm *** written in memory of Barra "Bui/" O Donnabhain spring. air. hearts a flight beginning of golden may we stand together (earrach, aer, aerach an che/ad la/ bui/ bealtaine ta/imid d’aon bhui/on) ********* soft sunlight. we are grateful for the small mercies the cool speckled leaf (solas bui/ gre/ine is bui/ le bocht an beaga/n an duilleog bhui/bhreac) ********* not just one pale life dandelions' yellow bloom BOOM...............scatter soft, white (ni/l aon so/rt buiocht na caisearbha/in bhoicht, bla/th bui/ go dti/ PLE/ASC bog, ban) Just got back from an Irish language weekend in NY and some snaps from the trip. developed in English Newark, NJ 8:05 am Deborah Humphrey's (Begun yesterday, interrupted by a migraine, better today, apologies) remembering grace something left over from the pious traditions of an ordinary childhood from a time of remembering which saint's feast falls on this date agnes jan 21 agatha feb 5 patrick march 17 columba june 9 a gentle way altogether to think about my girl heroes those irish ancestors who made good wrote loricas, held tough, held off the demons--why not carry them into my bureaucratic nightmares as well but today grace comes quietly as ever, another gemini gone nearly a quarter century whose souvenirs of vocabulary included waists for blouses and binders, bras who took the streetcars in jersey city who lived her share, prayed hard for anybody that everybody else forgot no church calendar honors her but i hold out this little snapshot offer up for a sharing of grace Sr. Grace Edward Hackett SC 16 June 1898 - 31 August 1981 Deborah Humphreys Newark, NJ begun 6/16/04 1 pm (on lunch break) finished 6/17/04 2:34 pm (free until Tuesday!) el di/a de san juan (for my good friend Petra on this vigil) legend has it an answer to most "inquietudes", questions in their serpentine forms and indigestions "ce/n fath", "por que/", "co/mo" "conas ta/" the recipes for seducing the sun to stay as long as possible the beloved to emerge from the sea from under the pillow of dreams to listen how the rosa of lima belongs to san german and the little-known san patricio beats out san blas in the race to rid "borinquen" of the unwelcome "hormigas" and bugs tonight, the vigil the druid on the hill milagros down the street in the breaths before her "quinceanera" and at night prayer i'm thinking about the beautiful bonfires i long ago saw in the city shaped like a tea cup reading the leaves the cartographer's symbols Deborah Newark, NJ 10:18 pm Poetryetc is a listserv relating to poetry and poetics which provides a forum for poets to debate their critical and creative work. The list has over the years run a number of projects for its members, of which Snapshots has been the most enduring. Every Wednesday, Poetryetc members were invited to post short poems on any subject or in any form they chose. The idea was to make a poetic collage of instamatic “snaps” of that day that reflected the international membership of the list. The project has generated an astounding number of poems. The first two runs, of six weeks each, and the first ten weeks of the third run, are archived at Wild Honey Press www.wildhoneypress.com under Poetryetc Project. The rest - amounting in all to a run of a year - are archived here. Poetryetc, like its affiliate Salt Publishing (http://www.saltpublishing.com), was founded by Australian poet John Kinsella. Salt is managed by Christopher Hamilton-Emery (cemery@saltpublishing.com), while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon (ajcroggon@bigpond.com). Poetryetc is now archived at http://www.jiscmail.ac.uk/lists/poetryetc.html. and anyone interested can join from that url. To contact the listowner: Alison Croggon These pages are designed, maintained, and hosted by Rebecca Seiferle, the Editor of The Drunken Boat. To email. 
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