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,
strain towards that bottom
where I might glimpse gray,
or mottled brown,
perhaps a shape
unlike rock or branch,
something undeniably fish.

It’s late,
and wearily, determined,
I step into the freshet,
tossing pail and net aside,
boots sinking into the thick
organic carpet
lining the raging stream.

Now bent-kneed, hunched,
all my senses joining
with the forceful rush of water,
I feel things pressing, jostling,
knocking on my rubber clad calves,

and I’m shivering, such a
cold day for fall, wondering
if I’m delirious or
if perhaps the catfish,
the crappies,
the brown river trout
have finally
come to call,
and

are they taunting,
or urging me to name them,
call them forth,
lift them from the frenetic fray
into the bright relief
of their afterlife?

I plunge my hands
into the frigid waters,
grabbing at any shape
I think I see,
pulling out stones loosened
by the swollen rush,
and hunks of half-composed leaves
still attached to their rotting branch,
and,

gloves now soaked,
I am tossing handfuls
of dubious treasure
up onto the hard earth

when,
hands numbing
from the icy wet,
my eyes go to an odd form
amid the shiny tangle
of cast off debris
trembling on the bank.

It’s a little crayfish
on his back, caught in the clog
of dirt and stone,
tail flipping uselessly
towards the white underbelly,
claws open,
the bright sun
turning tiny, stunned eyes
to shiny marbles
and

my purpose becomes tenderness,
compassionate curiosity
as I reach my wet gloved hands
under his small dark back,
scoop him from the tangle,
and right him
to meet the earth.

He pauses, stance wide,
lifts his impressive little claws
up and out
as if to say
come no closer,

and then he’s off, eyes
still fast on my foreign face,
tail flipping to scoot him
backwards into the river.

Peeling off those soggy gloves,
warming my freed and icy hands
with steamy exhalations,
I sense the little crustacean
returned to his wild waters,
watching from the depths,

and I want to
imagine him grateful
for the wake up call,
full of new appreciation
for his river, his claws,
his small, powerful tail.

I suppose I’m projecting,
because that’s what we
humans do,
dripping our fears and
hypotheses all over
the plants and animals
around us,

pulling poems from their hunt,
their flower,
stories from their mating rituals,
always seeking ourselves
in their purposeful, focused lives.

I am sated, spent, complete,
gathering my empty pail,
my soaking gloves,
heading for home.

–Melinda Coppola

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 of light and darkness. I’ve slipped outside my own skin and watched my ego, heart and soul dance around each other. Occasionally, one or the other of them has pulled a sword and declared battle.

I have written. I have made rough essays, and poems, and heavy, sticky globs of freeform observation and emotion. I have edited—just a little—for the book I am growing. I’ve tended to those in my innermost circles, human and feline. I have paid greater heed to the beings without form, whose presence I feel more frequently as time rolls on. I’ve shared some of those proceeds in my writing groups, yet I’ve not posted any of it here.

The year is nearly gone. In honor of the humble post, a more regular practice of which will help my first book come to form, I offer you this. You could say it’s a synopsis of what I learned in 2019.

Breaded

I have been the dough.

Amorphous, rising,
almost gladdened
by the beating down,
knowing I’d rise,
and rise again,

alternately loving
and resisting
the ways this life
has baked me.

Nearing sixty
I am toughening,
flatbread
bordering on plain,
dry cracker.

In truth
I long to be butter
melting into gold,
adorning the delicious,
softening the stale.

I want to be room
temperature slippery
salted sun, sliding
with and into—
not against—
the grain.

I want to please
the palates
of all the gods;
not just my human
beloveds,
but Stillness
and Poetry,

not just
Money
and Mothering
but Quirk
and Solace,

not just Editors
but Sleep,
and Dream
and Desire.

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
upon the tender earth.

Last week we bared legs,
dropped back into
the arms of summer,
the humidity raising sweat beads
that shimmered
jewel-like
on grateful brows,
like so much magic
against the backdrop of
autumn oranges
and reds.

Last night
a near freeze,
and the basil
is at the back door
begging to come in,

and I stand at the kitchen sink,
eyes glazing towards the window,
wondering which way to go—

out to walk
with the ever crisping breeze,
the optimism
of the sunflowers still smiling
and waving from the neighbor’s yard

or down, down
to the depths of the basement,
the underworld home
of a bin marked
Winter: Warm Things.

–Melinda Coppola

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 all those arrivals,
all that coupling and multiplying,
as some would have you believe.

The woman opens
her mail on a Tuesday afternoon,
receives her divorce decree.
The heaviness in her chest
isn’t simple grief.

Love has landed there
in her heart, and
hope will grow
in the places Love touched.

Afghanistan, a young
soldier has a leg
and half an arm blown off
in an IED attack.

He begs to die,
but Love knows
the names of his future children,
keeps him breathing,
returns him to his fiancée.

Love stood by as three
different cancers thrived
in your father’s body,
and when it was
at last time
for him to go,
it was Love
who took his soul’s hand
and guided him home.

—Melinda Coppola

Temporal Tryst

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, meaning “seize the day while trusting as little as possible on what tomorrow might bring”.

Tomorrow

In a daytime dream,
the kind of interlude
I once slipped into
and out of
as easily as frog to pond,

and as shiny,
with the slick
lubricant of youth,

I met some Truth.

Down by the river,
it seemed,
among the broad
skunk cabbage leaves
where I knew fairies
peeked at me,
or napped,

though to catch them asleep
is a very rare thing indeed,

I tripped upon a root,
and stumbled into something,
a large shape-shifting cloud,

more like a swarm
of stingerless bees,
or a waft
of waxing hummingbirds.

I tumbled in,
and seemed to hover there
held aloft
by all that buzz and dance,

and in that dream
of separation, day
from night or young
from middling,
or me from you,

I opened my lips
to introduce
my self or selves,
time traveling grandaughter
of the Fae,
or some Balkan equivalent,

and found no words in me,
only a throat full of ears,
a heart shaped
basket
of listen
and feel
and know

and so,
the thrum and verve,
the sparkle and mumble
of nebulous dance and buzz,
passed over and under
and through me,

as if I were sponge,
born porous and light,
unknowingly poised
to take in and on,

and transform
and wring
and give forth,

and this amorphous
toss of effervescence
had wafted out
to meet me
in that dream of day,

to gift a message
and task me tastefully

to go forth
and make story
or poem
or song,

and tell you,
tell you all,
that I met Tomorrow,

and that she never lands,
never stays,
never quite arrives.

–Melinda Coppola

Hearing the Ocean in a Tea Cup ( again)

The Sea, the Sea

I met the Pacific in 1982,
she in her blue-green majesty,
and I, in perpetual denim,
my words untested
and eyes
not yet jaded.

For twelve months,
hundreds of days,
I lived so close
I could sense her depths
by the movement of
fine hairs on my forearms,
her salt
with my inexperienced nose,
yet my feet
did not once taste her.

Atlantic and I,
having been casual friends,
revelers with no commitment
over some
six decades,
we are in each other nonetheless.

My DNA swirls in the belly
of an east coast fish,
the curve of a shell,
and her pungent saline
melds with my own,
runs the rapids of
the rivers of
my veins.

Past mid-life now,
considering commitment,
I can picture us,
the sea and I,

like good neighbors,
best buddies,
my watery body
and hers
heeding the same moon’s pull,
witnessing
the gull’s winged dances

against every sky’s first light.

–Melinda Coppola

Pentimento

pentimento
noun
pen·ti·men·to | \ ˌpen-tə-ˈmen-(ˌ)tō
Definition of pentimento
A reappearance in a painting of an original drawn or painted element which was eventually painted over by the artist

The canvas: my face in the mirror, fifty eight years familiar with this world.

Five or six, roaming like the free-range child I was, I caught the sharp end of a rock that soared from an older brother’s slingshot. He didn’t mean it, don’t think he aimed at me, but the impact was hard, and the flesh below my left eye tore, and years later my mother said,” We probably should have gotten you stitches there.”

It’s faint now, a sleeping crescent moon at the top of my cheek. Grace that it didn’t hit my eye, methinks. Pure grace.

Pentimento.

Seven years old, my neighborhood friend
Chrissy rammed a big branch end into the tender space between my nose and my lips, that little grooved path that caps my cupid’s bow.

I’ve since learned its name is philtrum, and no hard feelings, but the game we were playing tattooed a constellation of broken blood vessels across my upper lip, and dotting towards the tip of my nose.

Pentimento.

At twenty nine I had some of that lasered away. Safe for the pale philtrum, not so for the tender lip herself, and so I carry the permanent memory of that day as some big red blotches across my lip. Lipstick never covers it completely.

Pentimento.

Teenaged and beyond, the blackheads landed on my nose and built whole neighborhoods there, and some pimple friends moved in to join them. An anxious one I was, and I discovered the simultaneous relief and delight of squeezing all those things.

So many years later, I can find a few little craters, and small dark lines that seem to drag one pore into another. Not enough so you’d notice, but my nose reminds me I lived through those times. And survived.

Pentimento.

At forty five the crinkling started. The skin at the outer corners of my eyes led the way.

Vertical lines across my forehead came a little later. Layering and playing with texture and color, nature gently added grooves. There are smile lines, and the little cupped channels below my eyes that trace the outlines of darker circles there.

Pentimento.

Sometime between then and fifty, one side of my mouth shifted downwards. It has the oddest effect, like half of each lip is larger, and the drooping side disappears into itself. Sometimes, I paint on lipliner to even it all out.

Pentimento.

Around fifty I began to notice that the skin was slowing way down. Once pressed and imprinted with pillow or a hand propping chin or cheek, she wasn’t so quick to plump back into her former texture and shape. Sometimes I carry the pillow lines until lunch, and I’m an early riser.

Pentimento.

The eyebrows have thinned. Some come in white, and there is a vacant patch in the thickest part of the right one. Sometimes, I pencil in some dark to seed that bare spot. Often, I don’t. The white hairs? I usually thank them for visiting before plucking them away.

Pentimento.

There are some random dark splotches over the cheeks, above the lip.. They call them age spots, I call them places of interest. I don’t cover these, though I wonder, sometimes, how many more will arrive, and if I’ll care.

Pentimento.

Face as canvas, and the mirror shows me the privilege of a longer life than many are given. On close inspection I find layer upon layer of sad and happy, hurt and scared, content and growing wiser. I find hope and despair, and lots of letting go, and a glaze of peace on top of it all.

Our small eyes

Perchance

Perhaps nothing begins
or ends,
not exactly.

The field mouse knows
the tall grass
to be her world.

We say
morning comes,
and yet
it is always
somewhere,

just not in the very front
of our small eyes.

The trees are wise.
They know everything cycles,
seed to sapling,
strong trunk reaches skyward,,
and wind-felled trunk
becomes home for owl
and mushroom,
then fertilizer for forest floor.

Last night
something gentle
grasped my hand,
and I turned towards my partner
who wasn’t there.

Perhaps death
is neither end
nor beginning,
and that
which we name loss
is just a shift
beyond our modest
range of vision.

I want to think
my father came to visit,
or one of my grandmothers.
just to reassure,
just to say,
in Albanian—
which they wanted me to know—
just to say
It’s all going to be alright.

 

_Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

Love is a Rendering

Love is a Rendering

 

Telling you how I love you
is like trying to find things
that haven’t been said
about the ocean.

My hands prefer to paint it—
affection, water—
sweeping, striped backgrounds,
turquoise and deep
salient greens,
silvery whites frosting
every liquid peak,

and there’s the sky
hovering above the seas
like a mother,
cooing and cajoling
smoother, smoother now.
You mustn’t tip the boats,
or dunk the sailors.

On the shore, wild
coastly rocks, and
the dark of cast-off
tree limbs
adding interest and balance
to the composition.

Further inland,
I love you like new snow
frosts the grass,
like blue melds with ebony
to make the nocturnal sky
sing midnight,

like the way those
ensuing wee hours test
the nerves of first time
campers
in their thin tents
along random pieces
of the Appalachian trail,

but fear doesn’t win,
dawn always triumphs,
breaking their sleepless faces
into chapped grins
as they whisper
I made it through I made it through
nothing will get to me or you.

 I love you like that.

Our word is song,
lilt, flow.
Our word is comfort,
as in I knew you
before you were born,

before you were separate
from the great meld
of souls waiting to enter
their chosen bodies,

and someday,
when I need to go,
please don’t say
you lost me.

Know, instead,
that I live on,
around you
and beside you,

in your first
waking thought
as you chide the cats
for meowing before dawn,

and as you rotate the dishes
just the way
you know
they told me to do

and as you bless your gums
by flossing frequently,
and gratefully,

as you pull
all the way over,
leaving the phone
in the car
so you can stand and stretch
and take in the sunset.

That little rustle
you’ll barely hear
could be autumn leaves
swept along the dry ground
by the wind,

or it could be me
whispering
be present,
be present.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daisy Bell

I’m showing my age, and proudly, when I ask this—do you remember the sweet old song called Daisy Bell?

“Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer, do/ I’m half crazy all for the love of you…”

Those lyrics and that tune lodged itself in my memory when I was nine or ten years old. I can clearly visualize my Aunt Gloria—a professional singer in her day—leaning over the metal cage in my living room and singing that song to Daisy, my little blond guinea pig.

I’ve always loved the simple flower with the unassuming face and the heavy Latin name of Bellis Perennis.  A recent prompt about flowers in a writing group brought forth this little poem:

DAISY

I invited a Daisy to sit with me
under the shadow of a splendid green tree.

The flower politely declined my invite
to rest and converse in the cool filtered light.

Shade, she said, is not my friend.
I’ll lose my petals, my stem will bend.

Give me the sun on my upturned face
and I’ll blossom and multiply all over the place.

Daisy, said I, it’s clearly true
you are my favorite, my favorite is you.

No deception, no thorns, could possibly hide
in your bright yellow head, or your petals so wide

Your beauty is honest, and simple, and true
as flowers go, Daisy, my favorite is you.

 

–Melinda