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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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

 

 

In praise of song

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SONG STORIES

You open
your mouth
and out pours
a river
carrying the rhythms
of fluids—
blood and lymph,
tears, synovial.

It is current, and source,

keeper of memories
and the stories
of your ancestors,
and mine.

Song is the lilting thing
passed down
from breast to infant lips,
from old warrior
to young hunter,

and passed on
lover to loved,
cricket to cricket,
across the fields
and through forests.

It is the play of wind
between mountains,
the Earth’s drumroll
pre volcano.

Song is the ancient
chants of the native peoples,
sacred contract
between the land
and the beings She
once welcomed,
and now strains to support.

Song is the chasm,
the lightening, the divide
between keepers of light
and keepers of darkness,
and those being born,
and those who are dying.

There isn’t a breaking dawn
without the heartbeat of earth,
the symphony
of wings rubbing together,
of claws scampering
up and down the trunks
of trees whose leaves
make whistle

out of breeze.

There isn’t a dusk that settles
without the howl of coyote,
the barking of prairie dogs,
rattle of snakes,

and the sea
with her incessant breaking
and pulling back,
giving rhyme
to the arrivals
and departures
of tides, and storms,
and stones.

Song is the hum
of all life,
natural and now
created—the talking
screens and the bots,
the drones
and the buzzing wires
that link us
and divide us.

Space,
that ultimate infinity,
was once thought silent,

but now we know
it’s out there, too—
the Song, wild and
roiling in the
gravitational waves,

bouncing
between howling
planets
and whistling
gasses,
celebrating the spaces
between things.

 

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

Receiving the darkness

The word solstice was born from the Latin sol ( sun) and sistere ( to stand still). 

 

Solstice, winter

This darker interlude
could be a meditation,
a reckoning with the deceptive
nature of time.

The exacting practice
of being present

is to show up
for each round moment
as if it were everything.

This is what might save
me, or us—
the stilling to receive
each bundled particle of time,

and if we get really quiet,
and keep the flame behind
our closed lids
fixed on the darkness
before us,

we notice it is leaving
at the instant it arrives.

In truth
there is none such transition,
no arriving, no departure.

It is all a single stroke
of paint
on the mortarboard
of existence.

 

“ It’s all the same f—-ing day, man.” —Janis Joplin, sage disguised as an addict with a glorious set of vocal chords.

As a child, I noticed the shortened daylight only well after the length was returning to the days. Think late January in the northeast US, when the sun slips away almost a full hour later than it did when winter knocks proper on the door. Once I recognized this pattern in myself, it became metaphor for oh so many things.  If it’s mostly always getting lighter just when I notice the dark, then surely I can and will sing right through.

-Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

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

Natura Illustratio

Nature is a picture book
of wisdom and example,
an illustrated guide
to how we could
arrive, and live,
and die.

Take, for example,
a leaf in spring.
It draws from mother tree
the energy it needs
and not a drop more,
grows to the edges
of its vibrant
green potential
without once demanding
bigger, more, better.

The leaf in summer, deep
green and selfless,
offering shade and sustenance
without complaint
to the winged
and the crawlies,
the scamperers and
the two leggeds.

Leaf in autumn
clings until
the time comes
to let go,

and then it drops
without struggle,
allows itself
to be ushered downward
in gravity’s tender care,
right on time,

content to rest under snow,
yield to dank invitation
to become fertile carpet
warming earth,
no misgivings,
no regrets.

 

–Melinda Coppola

 

 

 

 

SHE and DOE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a few years ago that I found myself meandering in a quaint little town in western Massachusetts, about two hours east of home. I saw the sign, which read, simply, THRIFT. As a a fervent fan of space and simplicity, I practice de-cluttering my home and head regularly. I’m quite aware of not accumulating more things. Even so, I turned towards the door of the shop, reminding myself that it can be a very good thing to be free of an agenda.  Like many of you, wandering with an unhurried pace is a novelty in my daily life.

I was on a personal retreat for a few days, a very welcome respite from my 24/7 role of caregiver to Bink, my adult daughter with special needs. This big chunk of alone time was (and is) rare and precious in my life circumstances.

The shop was crammed full of everything I could imagine a thrift shop can hold; quilts and vases, books and jewelry, furniture and tools and clothing. Toys, rugs, artwork, decorative tchotchkes, lamps CDs, and vinyl records all vied for space on the haphazardly placed shelves and tables. I made several loops around the store, noticing new things each time. It was on my last lap that I spotted her, spotted them, half hidden behind some dirty old pots and a breadbox.

I was immediately drawn to the creamy ivory color, the smooth texture, and the way the woman was kneeling and offering her hands to the doe with the chipped ear. My heart flooded with peace, and I felt this sculpture to be the perfect symbol of the life I long to embody. The kneeling woman radiated serenity and compassion as she connected to the female deer, who is herself a symbol of gentleness and heart energy. I clearly had to adopt them, the she and the deer, no matter the cost.

I slowly moved the objects that kept this beautiful duo half hidden, and lifted them to my chest and into the light. To my surprise, the price on the bottom of the sculpture read $22.95 I bought it and wrapped it carefully in the blanket which stays in my car for Bink, who uses it for comfort in the passenger seat.

I returned home after my few days away, feeling replenished and calm despite a number of daily phone calls and text messages while I was away. Bink was quite anxious with me gone, despite the competent, loving care of Superguy, her rather amazing stepdad.

I carried the sculpture around the house, trying a few different locations, asking the newly adopted ones where they might feel most comfortable. They ended up on a shelf in my home office, where woman and doe continue to radiate a deep and perfect peace. Each time I look at them,  I am convinced they were sent to me as reminders from Source that all will be well, and I take a wild and hearty comfort there.

What about you, dear reader? Are there a few special items that hold great meaning for you? If you were moving and had to select just a few non essentials, what would they be? I welcome your response here in the comments section of this blog, or via email.

-Melinda Coppola

 

Thalassophile’s Lament, August

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That place I left
my last glass of calm,
tabled and shimmering
like the Sun himself had reached
down and swished his mighty
steamy hand in its
vitalizing quell,

the place I leave
against my will,
bits of devotion
and enthusiasm dripping
from my fingers
onto sand which absorbs,

absorbs so nobody
except I would know
I was there, ever

and always resisting,
resisting the pull
towards fall,
responsibilities,
the reckoning
that bruises my hands

as I grasp, try, hold,
lose grip,
the salt air
and the light
which illuminates my delight

like nothing, no place
ever has,

 is always by the sea,
by the sea.

 —Melinda Coppola

 

The art that blesses my listening hands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making Art with Beach Stones

My home hums with them–—
the smooth and rough,
pale and dark,
striped, speckled,
some with lines,
or bits of mica
mesmerizing the light.

They number
in the thousands by now,
populating table
and bins and buckets,
lining mantels and
perched on shelves,
all holding the sea,

having chosen to be plucked,
over years,
from their temporary,
sandy homes on beaches,
Massachusetts mostly,
with a Rhode Island minority,
a Florida few.

They called to me as I strolled,
or else I spied them first—
glimmering with sea water

having just rolled in
with latest tide,

or perhaps half buried
among their brethren,
co-habitating peacefully
in their transient villages

along a shore dotted
with shells broken and whole;
scallop and clam, oyster
and the thin,
pale yellow jingle shells,
the occasional smooth sea glass,

strewn with the crunchy brown or
slippery green salty seaweeds,

among seagull leavings
and the remnants
of humans at rest and at play—

and I asked the stones permission,
waited for yes,
cradled them
with my work worn hands,

guided them
into my cloth bag or
scratched bucket.

My home hums, perhaps
three thousand stones,
alive
as you or I,
just vibrating slower,

and they answer
as I approach, as I
hold, inquire
with loving intention,

as I invite them into art forms,
cairns,
ancient and new,
stacks and lean-tos,
bridges and
little families
all supporting one another.

We try one side, then another,
collaborate to find
balance

and then,
then we pause
breathe
feel,
and I wait for their final yes
or not this one, not now.

Together we make magic,
my humble hands
aligning each stone,

knowing
with all my six senses,
when I hear

yes. Right there.
We are perfection now.

 

-Melinda Coppola