Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

About My Blog

I started this blog to quiet the voices in my head and heart that have been whispering and cajoling and sometimes yelling at me to write more.

This is a space where all the parts of me—mother, poet, wife, lover of beach stones and furry creatures and frequent toe-dipper in the river of song, Yoga practitioner, and teacher and she-who-cooks and she-who-makes-art and she-who-loves-silence, where all the parts of me can come out to play.

I started this blog to keep myself engaged in dialogue with my soul. If what I write interests you, educates you, moves you, …well, that’s a beautiful bonus.

Most Recent Blog Post

Anxiety, the unwelcome house guest (who never seems to leave).

An older painting I did of Bink stimming at the beach.

 

Agita

Sometimes I think there four of us
making a life inside this sweet gray house.
Add the felines,
we make a quirky octad.

There is the me who is I
poet, I mom, I carer for everything
and everyone who moves
within this circle––
the him and her, the furniture
which claims no gender please,
no polish, just a cleanish
dry cloth and a bit of appreciation,
the felines who purr and hiss
their love and judgement
direct and pure,
the glassware that tells me daily
how it desires to be placed
within the cabinet.

There is the he, who is he
who shoulders that which I cannot,
who is he who knocked on my heart
and wouldn’t leave
even when I didn’t open the door.
He who loves
the her and me.
He who is so funny
and tender
behind the stray F word
and under all that huff.

There is the she that needs
so much, so often, the she
that tears things apart-–
not to destroy, but rather to
discover what’s inside,
the she who cannot be left
alone, who can tell you exactly
the date in 2001
when that mean teacher dragged her
and screamed at her so loud,
so loud it burned her ears and forever
branded such a sound as red fire screaming.

The fourth is Agita, who is the shot of speed
startling her brain into flight,
who pushes my she down a spiral stair
and I can only follow.

Agita inserts herself into everything,
turns the stakes to high,
mars even a calm beach vacation
with worry, obsession, and fear.

Some say autism and Agita are married.
Perhaps so
but I’ll never stop hoping
she leaves without looking back,
leaves without scarring,
leaves and never, ever returns.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read More Blog Posts

Why Poetry Matters

I’m so pleased to share that my poem “Nobody” was published in Thimble Literary Journal today. You can read it by clicking on this link: https://www.thimblelitmag.com/2022/08/09/nobody/ My writing process is anything but logical. Sometimes it feels as if the poems begin as embryos planted in the unseen folds of my

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BE EVER SO KIND

In my nearly 30 year journey parenting my child with special needs, I’ve had much time to reflect on the juxtaposition between How I Thought Things Would Go and How Things Have Gone. How Things Are.  I revisit memories of child-me, teen-me, very-young-adult me, and wonder—what if she knew how

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The Visitor

  In the dark, a baby fox hoists her short legs one by trembling one up the steep stairs, tripping the sensor light as she reaches the back deck in a sharp-eyed heap of gray brown fur. She toddles, adorably unsteady, across the width of composite boards, circles metal table

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Slack Satori

satori \ sə-ˈtȯr-ē n (Buddhism) Zen Buddhism the state of sudden indescribable intuitive enlightenment  [from Japanese]• Hmmm. Tell a creative (poet, artist, musician, sculptor) that something is indescribable, and chances are they will receive your words as a delightful challenge! I’m happy to share that my poem, Slack Satori, was

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The Color of Swans

Hello out there! The blog has been quiet this summer, but I’ve been editing and submitting work to a wide range of literary journals. My submissions practice has been haphazard and sporadic over the past ten years. I made a commitment to send out a lot more work this year.

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A Little Bullish

I know, I know. Much is not right here in the world. We conjure and raise up hatreds and fears born of misconceptions. We bow down to profit and convention instead of the goodness in each other. We make wars, first with ourselves, and then with those we call other.

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She Runs On

She Runs On and On, and On   A whole lot of nothing happening here in the Department of Creation of New Poems, and so I sat down with DETERMINATION and began to write, the way I used to write before I knew what “good” writing was and before I

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Hello Out There

Hello, As a very part-time Yoga teacher (and former studio owner), I maintain a separate email communication list for my students. There is a little bit of cross-over; a handful of my students (or former students) also subscribe to this blog. I’ve never sent the same email to both lists,

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Sixty Unplugged Minutes with my Love

I used a text to carve an island from a Thursday in two overloaded lives. I typed 10 to 11 Walk with me. Moose Hill. I meant Come. To the refuge down the road, the one where boardwalks hover over murky waters in which juicy clusters of grape-like frog eggs

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