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

BEGIN AGAIN

BEGIN AGAIN “Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth that around every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning, and under every deep a lower deep opens.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson Begin again is the dry brush dipped

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FISHING

Perched on the frost hardened bank of the wide, cold river, eyes intent on the rushing water, dark and high, I notice the greenish brown river grasses, rooted hopefully in their muddy beds, in a permanent lean as the current pulls them forward, and my eyes train between the reeds,

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Brown Girl Hair Has Left the Building

Bink loves girl hair. For the uninitiated, this translates to long straight hair hanging down, on a female of any age. Preferably, the hair should be visible equally on the right and left sides of her head. I’ve had long brown hair for 25 of my daughter’s 27 years. At

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My Bread and Butter

Hello, dear blog. Hello, faithful tribe of readers. My neglect this past month stems not from writers block, but from posting block. Yes, it’s a thing, one which might even merit capitalization. Posting Block. I have spent mornings and nights in awe of the earth’s revolutions, the comings and goings

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Imagine the Harvest

Mercy What if we had drills, not just for disasters, fires and hurricanes, not just for active school shooters and any possible terrorisms both foreign and domestic, what if we had rigorous training in kindnesses: how to recognize them incoming, start a volley with the perpetrators. Imagine preparations for frequent

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My Daughter, the Foodie

Bink loves food. In fact, her relationship with it goes far beyond what tastes good and satisfies her hunger. She loves looking at cookbooks, finding recipes on the computer, and watching cooking shows. The painting subject she selects for her weekly art class is often something edible. The paintings on

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Turn, turn, turn, turn

OCTOBER October is like an unplanned drive, the roads back country and meandering, the other cars occasional, a determined deer or quicksilver squirrel the biggest hazards, and then just like that the road widens, and thickens, a harsh unnatural line slicing the middle, asphalt and buildings erupting like an acne

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In Plain Sight

Deus Occultatum Love sparks and cells cluster, forming flowers and rainstorms, people and evergreens, calling bees and grasshoppers to song, squirrels and deer, to dance. Love lifts the paintbrush to the canvas, parts the lips of the singer, fills the page with poem. Love is present everywhere; not just at

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WALKING

At twelve, thirteen, fourteen months, when most children begin to walk, or make a show of pulling their soft wobbly bodies to stand, you were content to sit and rub the carpet, watch the fibers grow fuzz beneath hands you didn’t seem to know belonged to you. A plump child

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