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

Inch by Inch

Dear small band of loyal readers,

I’m pleased to share that my poem, Reset, has placed second in the Light of the Stars poetry contest sponsored by Lone Stars magazine, and appears in the Spring 2019 issue. Printed literary journals are becoming less common. More and more of them publish exclusively online, which is, of course, much less expensive. Lone Stars is a paper poetry journal, published in Texas thrice yearly as an offshoot of another paper journal called Conceit, which publishes monthly.  Neither of those has an website, which is why it was an especially nice surprise to receive a check in the mail for my second place win! A modest check, to be sure, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been paid for a poem.  Publishing poetry is a many splendored thing, but financial gain is not usually recognized among the glories.

A nice boost for a dreary Monday morning!

 

With gratitude to you for reading,

Melinda

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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Morning is mostly a prayer

It’s been over a month since I last posted here. The reasons are many, but I guess it all whittles down to this: not blogging begets not blogging. I’m here now, though, offering this poem I wrote last month. It was a rainy November, indeed.

Undone

Honestly, it was the morning sky.

November sun, rare this year,
knocking at the edges of the earth,
sending up flares—
pink, yellow,
that soft peach tone
peculiar to pre-winter,

and my dawn-clear eyes
drew to the window
and beyond
and then I wasn’t really there
in the kitchen, not quite,

like some long bony hand
reached in and through glass,
pulled me through
and I slipped from carpet to deck
without shattering,

or maybe I did stumble to the door
and unlock, and step down,
and feel the leaf-lined decking
against my calloused soles.

No matter how,
I got there,
was there,
right there
with a grace that is
the invitation to stop.

And stare.

And occupy a moment,
allow my edges
to soften

and begin to expand
and take up space
so there is only moment,
not me
or sunrise
or window
or cold,

and that was my detangling,
my daily decision
to keep tender hold
to this life
as if it were orphan
and I, some great full breast,
was made to receive this
tiny bawling thing

delivered new
each break of morning,

and shape it with my hands,
and be all things nourishing,
and love it well, as it was made,
before releasing it
to its own
destined wind.

 

-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

RESET

Reset

This morning came twice
to meet my wan welcome.

There was pre-alarm
almost-dawn
when my eyelids were
leaden, fingers numb
after some sleep asana,

and there was no joy in me
to power the muscles
to coax the bones
to shape themselves
around some idea of upright.

Half hour later
my hand rose instinctively
just in time
to palm the clock’s head,
pat the button down before it shrieked.

Second chance at fresh beginning,
and the light in dawn-streaked sky
lifted my lids and held them
open like a daisy, an offering,
a demure directive
to stretch already
and rise to meet
the God
in everything.

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

7 AM, Redux

Dear Reader,

I’m so pleased to share my first of three finalist poems from the Songs of Eretz poetry contest. Though I didn’t win first place this year, each finalist poem is eligible for the Reader’s Choice Award.

Steve Wittenburg Gordon, the Editor of Songs of Eretz, published the poem and the following commentary on the site today:

Readers Choice Award Contest Poem: “7 a.m.” by Melinda Coppola

Editor’s Note:  Nominees for the Songs of Eretz Readers Choice Award have been or will be published/reprinted in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review every weekday from February 19 to February 27.  Vote for your favorite in March by sending an email to Editor@SongsOfEretz.com.  The winner will be announced in April and receive a one hundred dollar honorarium.

7 a.m.

I entered your room quietly,
with loving stealth,
stood inches from where you slept
curled into the warmth of your sleep nest,
pausing one round moment
to take in the sight of you, just
to hug you with my eyes
before we began
the ritual we’d perfected over
two decades of mornings.

There we were
in our assigned places,
me leaning gently above,
you just beginning to stir
as I sang you awake.
There were your hands
reaching for my hair,
first right side then left,
like always, like a touchstone
to remind you it’s safe
to be awake and alive.

Pink walls and ceiling, pastel rug,
whispered, made-up song,
you under soft
layers of things;
assorted spreads, a quilt, some blankets,
one embroidered with your name
and the date you debuted,
a gift at birth from a relative
on your absent
dad’s side that met you
once maybe, whose name
I’ve quite forgotten,
who is surely long dead.

I flash-mused on what she’d feel,
this nameless giver of named blankets,
if she could ghost unseen
into your bedroom, this morning
to see what you’ve become.

Would it be grief
for all the ways you’ll never be,
the way you arrived
with unseen challenges,
diagnoses not yet named,
a baby who would remain,
in many ways, a child?

Would it be curiosity,
your differences intriguing,
offering perspectives
she’d never considered
while alive,
tapping on the doors
of her phantom compassion,
awakening a deep patience,
a human reunion with her own
estranged otherness,
the selves she, while living, shunned?

I hope she would be filled
with the color of pure delight
as she saw you still loving
her decades old gift,
for its essential pinkness,
its enduring softness,
its well-named comfort
in the place you call safe,
in the place you dream,
in the place you are perfect
with no one there
to tell you otherwise,
in the place you dream.

 

Poet’s Notes:  My young adult daughter lives with Autism, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and a great deal of anxiety. She is a stranger to the ways most of us learn to survive and thrive in a confusing world. Her vulnerability is a big concern for me, yet she is finding her own ways to cope and to calm the sensory storms any given day can present.

E’s pink room, and her bed layered with soft blankets that echo the colors of the walls is a place of refuge for her. The rituals that we’ve created give her structure and comfort.

In this poem I tried to capture the tenderness of a morning moment before I sang her awake, when my eyes went to the monogrammed blanket on her bed. I imagined the giver joining us in spirit in that pink room, seeing that baby blanket. What would she understand from this scene?

About the Poet:  Melinda Coppola has been writing in some form for nearly five decades.  Her work has been published in several magazines, books, and periodicals including I Come from the World, Harpur Palate, Kaleidoscope, The Autism Perspective, Spirit First, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Welcome Home, and Celebrations.  She is an artist, yoga teacher, and mother to an amazing daughter with special needs and enjoys infusing the work of her heart with her voice as a poet.

Coppola nourishes her creative spirit with singing, early morning walks, collecting and making art with beach stones, cooking, spending quiet time with her husband and daughter, and communing with her cats.  This poem was first published on her personal blog twenty four may on April 20, 2017.

CONSORTIUM

Superguy is a very private sort. I am too, in my way. There are times, though, when things need to be said, out loud and in public.
In a time when stress and fear seem like national pastimes, love ought to be celebrated, and shared. Happy Anniversary, Superguy. You make my heart sing.

Consortium

Up before you,
I hear your shuffle
down the morning hall,
the clearing of your throat,

and my head turns
of it’s own accord, trained
by years of practice,

and I’m looking for your face
turned towards mine,
your ruffled silver hair
catching the morning sun,

and that slight nod of your chin,
the quiet grunt
which I know is your
Good morning,
I love you,
you mean the world to me.

You’ll head towards the kitchen,
seeking hot tea, which I
will have made for you,

and on the way you’ll
greet a cat
or two, or three,

and then there will be music:
your spoon in the green mug,
the refrigerator creaking open,
the muted pop of the soy milk carton
perhaps the crinkle of wax paper,
the bowl chiming a welcome
to the shredded wheat,

and I may or may not rise
from the couch or the Yoga mat
to hug you,

and I may or may not
give voice to that
which blooms inside my heart
when you enter the day in my sight,

that which, even now,
after years, after miles,
after challenges we couldn’t have foreseen,

sings the sweetest song,
Good morning,
I love you,
You mean the world to me.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

Love letter to the morning

Love Letter to the Morning

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There is much they don’t know. Our history,
the ways we cleaved together and then peeled apart.
How you went on without me, blithely,
and I mourned you even when I didn’t name it.

It. The mourning morning, the real morning that
happens between 5 and 6am. I deprived myself
of your inspiration even when awake, then,
gave myself over to the brooming and grooming of my paperworked life.

Like a wife; I’d
married it, you see. The computer, the bills,
endless spin of record-keeping for this one and
that one and those ones.
A rushing stream of ones
and zeros. Ones and zeros the sum total of dead hours
with a glowing box that sucks the senses in and into it,
out and out of me. But you, but we

Prevailed! How could I stay away too long?
You are bejeweled, bedecked with sparkling dew,
your siren song a chorus of birds and bugs seasonal,
their auditions the sweetest breakfast in my ears. Your
fragrance is a heady perfume of mystery and promise.

This heart leaps and sings
each and every time you appear,
like you’re coming just for me,
with an invitation for the daily
private showing, darkness disrobing
to reveal pre-dawn and dawn,
the sky a many-hued tapestry,
cool breeze a healing balm, and
aviary symphony,
delight for waking ears.

–Melinda Coppola