Praise at the end, for beginning there

A Prayer, Fertile

For all the beginnings
we cultivate from seeds,
lay to cradle in the richest earth,
give moisture with our tears,
our sweat and
handfuls of rainwater
like offerings to the deities
we name Hope,
or Light, or Fire of Creation,

I fall from standing
into some posture
that might be praise.

I kneel sinking
into seasoned earth,
fold my face
into the minerals,
offer my nose as home
for decayed corpses of beetles
and trees, musk
of the short lived creatures,
the remains of wildfires,

ashes of loves that didn’t last,
marriages that turned
their flowering heads away
from sun and plunged
broken stemmed
into that great brown blanket
to which all things return,
sacrificing their seeded
and petaled orbs
to the wombs of future loves,

making one with the source
of creation and destruction,
opening my mouth at last
to welcome fertile earth
and all I shielded myself
from and against,

and out come muffled songs
of dying love, their
notes traveling deep into the earth
and echoing back
as push for infant seeds
now traveling
up and up
towards the surface,
towards the light.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

Rocking the cosmic swirl

Rocking

It comforts me to know the old
couple across the street
just celebrated fifty years

in the same house. Fifty together years
with the home they perhaps chose
to be new in together,
a threesome of sorts,
their bodies joining brick
and hardened earth
settling and cracking
and pressing together,

adding more spackle
and grout
and laughter

with a child, then three more,
adding rooms
to contain the growing
and the mirth
and the tears
of those who were
fledged,
now gone.

When my soul grows weary
traversing tightropes—
such fast-paced, overloaded,
know-too-much times—
I look across the street,

to the wise and wizened pair
who are ever so busy
slowly rocking, in their old chairs,
on the porch,

and it consoles me to witness them,
soothes me to consider
the old ways of houses
and their people,
and the history of aged dwellings anywhere,
the ways these wood and stone
talismans seem to lean into
a wind or two that can elicit creaks,
groans even,

and their occupants
maybe know
they are being held up
by sagging floorboards
and crumbling plaster,
and the roof is losing shingles
fast as hairs on their heads,

yet they rock, and nod,
and smile
as if to say

where are you rushing to,
and don’t you know
all things fall apart.
We do, too,

so why not sit awhile,
give the swirling
sediment of your ancestors,
and the greening pollen
that falls from the trees
like stardust in the daytime,
a place to land.

See how the wind marries the light,
begets little particles of evidence
that you’re alive,
that others have been, too,
and ragweed and dander,
detritus of the whole cosmic swirl,

touch down on your arms,
have little dances
before they settle there.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

NOT ZEN, BUT NOW

Being present is easy when the blue sky moment is trimmed with green grass, when temperate breezes blow your hair back gently from your bright, clean face. You can hop off the worry train quickly in such minutes and hours. You can drop your baggage carelessly to the ground without so much as a glance towards where it lands, and feel your sneakered feet happy on some surface that may or may not be level. You can take the world and yourself exactly as it is, you are.

It’s jumping off in the dark that’s tricky, first opening your chest and reaching in deep for your courage and the faith that you’ll be welcomed by some surface, that you won’t fall and keep falling into some gaping chasm that opened in the earth while you were busy regretting and planning and being all sorts of things except grateful.

When the moment you are living in, the only one you have (which is all any of us have, ever), is a really shitty one by most measures, because you’re watching someone you love deeply (say, your child) suffer, and you can’t fix it, being present doesn’t feel like any gift you want to accept graciously, or at all.

We can know what we know, you and I, about the transient nature of pretty much everything; how all things pass and we are just temporary sculptures made of bits of stars and dust from dinosaur bones and the dreams of our ancestors. We can know all this and still want to do almost anything but be with the most painful parts of our existence.

And yet.

And yet, in time and over days colorful or washed out, through dark, thick nights and between joy sandwiched by crusty miseries, our capacity to sit with it all increases. It might be imperceptible for a long, long time, and then one day you mirror gaze and your jaw drops. There it is, your shiny heart, visible right through your tender skin, and it’s drumbeating and voluptuous, stretched out by all the exercise of crying and breathing and laughing and coping. It’s huge, in fact, and strong enough to hold you and everyone you care about, and even a few you don’t. Right about then you might remember that you’ve made it through absolutely everything so far, and even the thorniest ground doesn’t feel quite like a match for your deceptively tough lower body. Then you sit right there in that moment, and maybe you don’t feel tempted to pretend to be elsewhere at all.

And so.

And so you get up in the morning and pour a hot cup of something like tea. You drop in soy milk that turns the tannic liquid the color of hope. You wake your kid, even if she’s been up ten times in the night, and begin. You begin because it’s the only real choice, and maybe this day you stick around for more of the moments than you did the day before. You don’t zone out as much, or numb yourself as often. You don’t project, or regret, or try to edit what hasn’t even been written yet. You face what arises without censure, because you know and keep knowing you’re strong and wise and sober enough to sit or stand or slow dance with any given moment, be intimate with it, and then let it
let it
let it
go.

–Melinda Coppola

 

Per Annum

Every year, now, around my birthday, I feel a tug to write something, employing words to mark the privilege of completing another ride around the sun. This year’s efforts came in the form of a love letter to my life. Here, below, is an edited version, and though it’s all between me and me, I wonder if you can relate to this need or desire to mark the years somehow, to catalog your journey. Do you write a song, or journal? Do you collect things; a feather, cards, ticket stubs, remnants of days you rushed through, moments you think you’ll never forget, yet know you might?

Dear one,

Last Thursday, we woke to the beginning of our 57th year together. It feels like some things need to be said. Probably nothing I haven’t said before, but I find that I tend to forget things more frequently these days. You, too?

Look, we’ve had our challenges. We rarely seemed to measure up to what the world expected of us. I know that’s just a perspective, but then, so is everything else in life. Conjecture, presumption, supposition….call it what you will, but the truth as I know it is that there isn’t one single way to describe the truth. Everyone sees things their own way, depending on their circumstances, culture, upbringing, It’s the simultaneous bane and beauty of being human , I suppose. But there I go again, digressing. It’s something I’m really good at, at least on paper.

There were times I wished we weren’t together. I’m not proud of this, but I am really, really grateful that you didn’t give up on me.

There were times I belittled you, comparing you to other lives. I know this is a common thing people do, but I also know now it is extremely unhelpful. We get what we get, don’t we? It’s how we look at it, what we do with it, how we react to it, that matters.

There were times, too many to count, that I was blind to our abundance, our cup spilling over with blessings. Now we live in a world that has perfected the art of showing and telling the endless and collected horrors and incivilities and the ways we harm each other, the ways in which we hoard while others starve. Now, it is impossible to ignore the inequity, and it feels criminal to imagine we lack a single thing, you and I, or that we should not be grateful and share generously. Perspective.

At nineteen, I knew my life would be one grand adventure. I’d travel, and give birth to poems and stories, and mother them with a loose and loving abandon. If you’d been clairvoyant, and told me I’d all but neglect my writing, for years and years, throwing it just enough scraps of food to keep it hanging on and hopeful, I’d have been horrified. I’d have told you, in no uncertain terms, how confused you were, and how unfaithful.

I could go on, dear Life, and on some more. I’m good at that, remember? But here’s the gist, here’s the heart of it: I love you. I love the way we’ve unfolded together, warts and scabs and miseries included. I loved our adventurous young adult years, and I’ve grown to love these plodding middle years, too. I love the way I’ve evolved; once a fearful, quirky teenager who knew she didn’t want children, and now a mid-life woman, quirky still, whose days are saturated with mothering, and it’s nothing like I imagined. Things so rarely are.

I love the patience and tenacity you’ve modeled for me, helping me grow my own. Also, Life, I am so grateful for the way you’ve pointed quietly to the journal, the keypad, over and over again without lecturing, allowing me to find my Poet’s voice again. I respect the way you just know we are going through the landscapes we must, with the company we need, at the times we should.

I will never abandon you, dear Life. I know we are in this together, for we are nothing without each other. And here I am , down on my sometimes achy knee, asking you for your hand. Here I am, promising, promising to make all kinds of love to you, with my whole self. Here I am promising to be true to you, which means being true to me, for all the days we may be gifted in this flesh, this venue.

Let’s be what you’ve always known we could be—a helper, a blessing, a teacher….and do what you’ve always known we can do—make poems, and art, and stories, and keep guiding a special young woman towards her own life, which will someday be untangled from mine. Let’s take the raw, rough dough we are offered and throw in yeast and punch it down and let it rise, punch it down again and trust it will rise, be transformed by the heat of all the fires and become something that will nurture, and nourish, and sustain.

Happy Birthday to us.

 

–Melinda Coppola

So many ways to say it. Be Here Now.

 

 

 

 

 

Between

Opening the red door to a new spring day.
my feet greet crumbs of last year’s leaves,
dotted with recent, light green pollen
all swirled into the little cove, entry
that guides me into and from
this place, this home,

and they rattle a brittle kind of music
together, new and old,
crunchy and soft,
before I even lift a sneakered foot
across the threshold.

There it is—a word, a season, a sound;
threshold, May, music,
and my mind goes to all the beginnings;
friends welcoming grandchildren,
my niece with a new Master’s degree,
and last eve, baby bunnies
shaped like promise
against the lovely, later dusk
in the front yard.

A poem, a sign,
seasons bumping up against
each other, and my mind
goes to all the endings;
one woman struggling with reason
in the wake of her husband’s suicide,
another, across the world, daily grieving
her young daughter,
who would be nearly eight now,
taken by a disease deemed too rare
to fund research for a cure.

Endings, beginnings, the seasons
tireless with their lesson plans,
and somewhere between
the celebrants
and mourners,
the rest of us keep forgetting
to be alive while we live,

and the wind keeps
reminding us—
breathe, breathe,
this too shall pass,
you too,

so be urgent with this
moment, press your face
into the grass,
let the musky earth
fill your senses,

get dirty
get wet,
leave the laundry
for another day.

 

-Melinda Coppola

Poetry, Autism, and Statistics, Oh My!

Hello!

I’m happy to share that  my poem, Autismville, won the Songs of Eretz Readers Choice Award Contest, and another of my poems, 7 AM, came in second!  If you’d like to see the official announcement, you can click HERE   If you voted in the contest, thank you, thank you!

This is an international contest, so it can’t be just my little ol’ cheering section of friends and family that helped this particular poem to win. Maybe the results reflect a growing interest in learning about autism, but I think it’s as likely that it mirrors the increasing numbers of people receiving the diagnosis.  More and more people know someone who is on the autism spectrum, and perhaps that means that lots of folks can relate to my poem. The latest National Health Center for Health Statistics data puts the autism stats at 1 in 36. Yep, that means that, of every 36 children alive today, there is one who fits somewhere on the autism spectrum. There are many arguments, many opinions about the true prevalence of autism in the US and worldwide, but there is no doubt that the numbers have risen dramatically in the last few decades. Bink was diagnosed in 1994, and my early, frantic research at that time placed autism at 1 in 10,000 people. I think the stats were actually more like 5 or 6 in 10,000 then, but my first information resources were library books and her first pediatrician, and neither of those sources was quite up to date.

Sometimes, people ask me why I think the prevalence rate has increased. My answer has been the same for the last decade or so: I believe it’s a combination of factors. This thing called autism is an umbrella term for  a collection of symptoms, and I believe there are multiple influencers. More children are being diagnosed, and at earlier ages, but that only accounts for a part of the increased numbers. I count vaccination schedules, genetics, environmental toxins, in utero exposure to certain maternal illnesses, medications administered to moms during pregnancy and/or birth, and lots more in varied combinations. Too, because I am a spiritual person and I believe we are all here to learn certain essential individual lessons and to share our unique gifts, I sense there is an element of fate involved. Note: in some corners, them’s fightin’ words!  I am not here to argue with your opinions or defend my beliefs, so if that’s your impulse, take it elsewhere, please and thank you.

Look, it is critical that research is funded and continues. I really, really hope science can at least find a way to ease or eliminate the most difficult manifestations of autism, like self-injurious behaviors, seizure disorders, inability to communicate, and utter lack of safety skills and self-protective impulses. But my beautiful daughter is here now, and that’s where the bulk of my attention and energy flow. As her mother, there is much I can do to make her life easier and better. As a writer, there is a little bit I can do about raising awareness and perhaps helping people understand the magnitude of the challenges Bink and so many others face. As founder and teacher of Yogabilities™, I can help people with autism and other disabilities in my community feel a little stronger, more balanced, and more flexible, and I can help them learn some basic and portable stress reduction techniques.

You’ve probably heard a few different quotes from some really interesting people like Voltaire, Confucius, and Shakespeare, suggesting that we not let perfect get in the way of progress.  Our allotted time is short , and doing nothing will change nothing. When Bink is struggling with something, we go over (and over, and over) her strategies. I’m trying to teach her that there is always something she can do to help herself.  Expanding on that, there is always something each of us can do to help others, including people with autism and their families. What seems like a little can feel like a lot.

It begins with acceptance, and a desire to understand a very different way of being. When people are curious about Bink, I don’t interpret it as rudeness. I’m glad to answer questions, or suggest ways they can engage with her.  It continues with respect for all people, including those that don’t talk, and those that flap their hands, and those that spin, and those that don’t make eye contact. That means the Neurologist in that top rated hospital could’ve handed me his written assessment, rather than reading aloud his list of her supposed deficits and offering a bleak prognosis, while she stood at my side, taking it in. That means the waitress in the restaurant could ask Bink what she wants to order instead of asking me what she’ll be having, as if she isn’t there. If Bink can’t answer, I’ll step in, but please, waitress, treat her like the adult she is.  That means the dad in the CVS could reassure his little girl that she can tell Bink her name when she asks, rather than averting his eyes and turning away, which teaches his daughter to do the same in the future.

When in doubt, assume competence, do unto others, and be kind. Little things, big impact.

Stepping off the soapbox now, and signing off.

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NAMED

Someone asked me

 

What is your name?
To name is to make known,
to specify, enliven, color in,
to make dimensional.

My surname: Verdant. Given name, Green and Round.
Given by me, to me. Green Round Verdant.
Or is that what I long to be?

My name is often She. She plus Who.
She Who Sings, She Who Creates, She Who Loves.

Define me, please, by what I love,
If you must define at all.

Being Gemini feels like
a delicious excuse to be myriad things,
many Shes, and so I introduce
She Who Flowers
She Who Avoids
She Who Storms.
She Who? She Who Knows
She Who Knows Much
She Who Knows Much about Little.

My name is Skin, warm and well-used,
mapped with roads of veins. Rivers of stretch
mark the spots where I expanded
to include more than I ever
thought I could, maybe
more than I should, so perhaps,
this She is named Adaptable.

Almost Crone.
That, too, is mine to claim.
She Who Softens into Aging, She
Who Welcomes the Amorphous Opening Nature of It.

That last one should be illegal, far too long.

Hungry. My name is Hungry for What?
Am I Too Hungry? My name is
Tell Me The Shapes of Your Hungers.

Yesterday my name was Tight.
Not Good Enough.
Not Enough. Never Enough.
My name was I Have Nothing Worth Saying.
May I Please. How May I Please?
May I Please, Please.

Towards tomorrow my name is Santosha,
short for
May I Be Content.
May I Be.
Content.

 

–Melinda Coppola

The Beach Stones

The writing prompt was clear and simple: “Today, write about an object that magically transports you to a different mood, a different state of mind, or a different time, filling your life with instant wonder, curiosity, or delight.”  My response was unequivocal:

 

When I am freed to walk a stony beach, my heart transforms herself into a fluttering bird. Her wings beat out a simple song against my rib cage, the bony bars of which expand with the gift of incoming ocean air. Tap tap tap, and then she is gone—soaring, a silent gull alone, surveying the riches of smooth, rounded stones that adorn the sand below her.

Further, I am always privileged to be among them, those smooth old stones that have been tossed and rolled and juggled by the ocean and the years. Spending time with these life forms—for they are very much alive— is a form of grace, a vitalizing and soul saving interlude in the midst of the everything else-ness of continuance in this body, in these times.

There is nothing that brings me such pure, unadulterated delight as a chunk of time with the stones, which rest against the sand like diamonds sit in their jewel box , upon velvet.

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

Many Singularities

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stephen Hawking,
having passed away
a full fifty one years
post predicted demise,

has left us trails,
breadcrumbs.
Not random,
because nothing is
haphazard as it seems.

Rather they are beaded,
strung together
on some
holographic ribbon
run through holes
patterned in multiverses
of black velvet,

and I’m already poeming
a proposal
that each patient,
upon a presumed life
shortening diagnosis,

be presented with
Stephen’s curriculum vitae
and
for good measure,
a collection of verse­­,
(the non-rhyming kind),

to further impeach
the arrogance
that moves mere mortals
to issue proclamations
of allotted time,

as if anyone could ensconce
one star from its constellation,
give it nothing to reflect
back or upon,
and foretell its singular light
in years.

Stephen, leaving breadcrumbs,
round clues to square
the life he left behind—
two wives, three children,
a dozen maps with two sided arrows
pointing to where
we came from, where
we might go,
a dummies guide to
how to flourish
despite, or with, or even because of,

also left a hundred doors
open to the curious among us,
which should mean everyone,

and he gave language
to the way an atheist sparks
a deeper appreciation of God.

It’s all in how you label it;
accident, plan,
gift, curse

it’s all up for grabs in a universe
where everything is sacred
or nothing is.

Melinda Coppola

What is the definition of a poet? I think we are interpreters of everyday sights and sounds and interactions, enabling more people to experience the sheer miracles that surround us and live within us. Stephen Hawking grasped things most could never comprehend, yet his named theories and observations captivated millions. He was a brilliant physicist, yet also a poet in his own way.

 

Deliverance

Remembering my father

1.

The night your own
difficult breath awakened you, your lungs
spent from trying, and you sensed your heart,
that grieving well, slowing almost imperceptibly,
and your legs and arms refused command or
even suggestion to rise or sway
or go into the spasms you’d become
accustomed to, and your eyes opened only
slightly and your vision went grainy                                                                                                                                                                         like the silent films you remembered in some
distant part
of your collection of impressions, and the pain,
your pain which had become such a familiar presence,
first a nemesis that kept you riveted on the joints,
the muscle fibers, the mechanics of inhalation and
bladder control, then a graduate course that taught you
the location of your liver, your spleen, taught you the
intimate ways of the dying body, the ways of dying
with cancers; one, two, three kinds of cancers and kept
you faithful to your medicines;
two every four hours of the blue
one pink in the morning, the small white which accompanied every meal
when you could eat, the large ones, difficult to
swallow, that you could never remember
the why for…

2.

Did the pain lift and the light blur as you finally
let go the idea you’d ever, in that sad old body, heal?
As the resistance dropped, did you see them all at once,
the welcoming angelic beings as they opened
their ethereal arms to claim you? Did they come
together, in a circle, or did they grace you one
by one, enfolding your brittle bones as they reached
inside to help you glide out? Did you,
I ask, feel that peace as golden light flood
your dimmed perceptions, did you
groan before you let that last, stale breath escape
your windpipe, did it feel, as you left
like sweetest relief from a too-tight shoe?

3.

On your deathday, as we grieved, did you scan
the paths your travels had worn, did you revisit some
moments longer than others, did you regret?
Did you send comfort in each
sympathetic call, touch, hug, did you
make sure the children still laughed and
did you lift us up and sweep
away any traces of old
anger, unfinished business, that we might
remember you pure and silver, the flash of humor
in your Albanian eyes, the sage advice, the
bad jokes you carried in your well-worn pockets?

4.

We are all assigned an entrance and an exit,
or maybe we choose the exact moment and
the circumstances of our stay.
I waited out long nights and in between
the ordinary moments of days full
of toil and pleasure, greeted you at long
last in my own quiet heart finally echoing
all the questions, the answers glowing
in the dark, having been there all along,
like stars.

-Melinda Coppola