A Poem, a Bicycle, a Bird

The Rider
by Naomi Shihab Nye

A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.

A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.

Tweezers

The tenderness of my husband's hands when he removes a splinter from my skin (finger, foot) is so graceful that it disarms me every time.

A Lovely Word

Advect (v): A horizontal movement of a mass of fluid, such as ocean or air currents. Can also refer to the horizontal transport of something (e.g., ice, phytoplankton, even heat) by such movement.

(Reminds me of July
which reminds me of seabirds
which remind me of you.)

Week 17

So, I've gotta say, last week's post about the grapefruit scared the bejeezus out of me. To carry a plum or a nectarine in one's abdomen feels doable--pretty even; to haul around a honeydew seems almost obnoxious! Fortunately, the folks over at babyfit.com sent me a fruitless email this morning, looks like the baby will be measured in mere inches from here on out.

Anyway, inspired by little miss mel's entire line of belly shots, I've decided to start posting my own. (Yikes!). Here I was at ten weeks, going along my merry way (ladeedadeedadeeda).

And here I am today
(post-yogurt, Fiber One, blueberries, peach, tall glass of milk,
hummus, cheese, crackers and PB&J;
my appetite is voracious!):

As you can tell I haven't quite "popped" yet, but I'm definitely doing the whole "thicken around the middle" thing.

This baby is floating in a cloud of cupcake frosting--and from the little flutters I feel--he (or she!) couldn't be happier...

Summer Storms

I love when the day can't take the heat anymore, and the sky just opens up with rain. Sunday, C. & I sat in the car talking and waiting out the storm; yesterday, when the rain rolled in, a friend and I found an awning at a little cafe in the east village, and we pulled up chairs, ordered peppermint tea and scrawled silly poems on cocktail napkins.

The sun shone as the rain fell, and I thought about when I was little and how Mama Heaton said the rain falling while the sun shined meant the devil was beating his wife. Even now, it's the first thing I think of when I'm sitting in a sunshower. Oh, the devil's beating his wife again.

Strange how we take the words of those we love and carry them as mantras--heavy pendants that knock against our breastbones as we make our way from one ghostly town to the next.

Longing #624

Today, I might like to be here:You?

Reading Re-cap

So...Sunsongs was a smash.
Barnes & Noble was SRO, and of course, the kids got me weepy with their poems.

Here's Francesco, proudly displaying the final product:

Mr. & Mrs. Poetry themselves (yes, she sang!!!):

Ever-charming, John brought the house down with his rendition
of Langston Hughes's "Dreams:"

And sweet, sweet Dana finished it all up with this beauty:
Dana

My name means
love.
It is a heart filled
with happiness.

Dana. Dana.
Say it.

It is small.
You can hold it
in your mouth
like
a delicious apple.

Dream Interpreters Needed

People keep asking me if my dreams are more exciting now that I'm knocked up. The simple answer: not really. I did have the dream about giving birth to a bear, but beyond that, they've been almost painfully ordinary.

Three nights ago, I dreamed my former student, Britta, let me cheat off of her for our Physics exam. Thanks, Britta.

Then, last night, I dreamed I was in a wild game of Pictionary. My word was "lion." And lions I drew, over and over: lion faces and lion bodies, lion paws, lion manes. No one could guess. Finally, I drew an airplane and Africa and a jungle. The more I drew the further I got from the lion. I did that thing where you jump up and down and move your hands in circles to egg on the crowd. The bell rang; my time ended. "Lion," I said. "Oh," they said.

I can only marvel at what my subconscious must be working through...anybody wanna take a guess?

Water on Mars

Amazing Scientific Discovery

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(because once in every five thousand forwards you laugh)

Book Release Party!!!

Inspired by Pablo Neruda, my student in an ESL class at New Dorp High School wrote this poem in class a few weeks ago:

Ode to Anger

by Gulsen M.

Anger, black

with two mean eyes,

voice like an animal,

don’t come here.

Go away

to your angry world.

In this world

there is no anger voice.

Here it is just lovely voices

making you dream forever.

No.

No entry here.

Just exit here

for angry voice,

for two black eyes.

Just exit.

Forever and ever.

Go away.

You can hear it and many other gems at the Staten Island Barnes & Noble this Sunday at 2 o'clock when we release Sunsongs, an anthology of poems written by students from the Hungerford School. Hope to see you then!

Week 16 (Gulp!)

Your baby is now the size of a grapefruit.

Prepare yourself:
it will get even bigger.

Note to Self

Just because one can still squeeze into her pre-pregnancy jeans

does not mean one should continue to wear them in public.

Right, mama?

Yesterday, after having begged for an aisle seat (I'm pregnant, I told the gate agent, and I, uhm, have to pee. A lot. She smiled.), I found myself exactly where I feared I might: stuck in a middle seat between a whole bunch of elbows.

Yes, it was bad that a three hour flight turned into ten hours plane time (thanks to sitting on the Miami tarmac for three hours, "slowing down air speed to avoid weather" and landing in Philly "to refuel"), but I think all might have been manageable if for the entire ten hours I hadn't been subjected to this conversation by the mother and son in the row behind me:

Mom (wearing turquoise): Alex, you are such a good boy. I'm going to have to tell Grandma how good you've been.

Alex (around 5): I'm a good boy. Right, mama?

Mom: You are the best boy. Grandma is going to be so proud of you. This kind of trip is even hard for grown ups. Even mama is getting frustrated, but you are such a good boy.

Alex: I'm the best boy. Right, mama?

Mom: You are the best boy in the whole world.

Alex: The best boy in the whole world. Right, mama?

Repeat eight thousand times without even being offered a packet of peanuts, and trust me, you'd want to puke in your shoe too. Someone remind me in a couple of years that positive reinforcement need not be radioed to the world. Right, mama?

Been Fishin'

In Miami...

Sun feels good. Sand feels good. Be home soon.
(That might feel even better.)

Surprise Yourself

Last night I sat in an audience of about three hundred and watched my mother, Dr. Mary Thompson, deliver the commencement address for the GED graduating class of Joplin, Missouri. Well, I shouldn't say I sat. I stood, taking pictures, and making the kinds of hooting sounds I haven't made since high school Powder Puff.

You see, my mother happens to be the most amazing woman on the planet--dropped out of high school to marry my very charming hippie-at-the-time of a pappy, popped out my brother and me, and then, hey, heck, why not work full time at the Steak and Ale, get a GED and then crank out college in two and a half years so I can get through med school all before reaching the quarter of a century mark?
We were on the drive from Tulsa to Jo-Mo, and I was telling her how proud she should be of herself. I mean, I can't even mention her without gushing, and it made me a little sad because she told me sometimes her story embarrasses her. Sometimes, I wish I had just done it the ordinary way, she said. This from the least ordinary woman I've ever known.

Her speech had a recurring theme: surprise yourself. She told the audience, surprise yourself and everybody you love. She talked about how how everyone was so surprised when she decided to go to college and then everyone was so surprised when she changed her major to pre-med and how they kept being surprised as she succeeded over and over. All this and five children and great legs and a sense of humor that makes my abs hurt if I hang out with her more than two days in a row.

Anyway, it was amazing. And I've never felt prouder of anyone in my life than I felt of her last night. Here's a pic. Cody's grandmother (on the far left) was a few points short of getting her GED (she'll get it next year!), but that's what got this whole ball rolling. And then there's my mom, my little sister, me and my fab mother-in-law.
After the ceremony, we stood in the parking lot with the loveliest of Missouri breezes blowing and popped cake balls. Oh, cake balls...but that's another post entirely. Congratulations, mom, on such a beautiful job. Keep surprising us. We can only hope we might surprise you too.

Oklahoma

I never remember how beautiful it is

until I'm barreling down the highway at 80 miles per hour,
and the sky's so beautiful
it makes me want to pray and cry and roll down all the windows
to yell until my voice gives out.

(Or as seen here in the less romantic version...
simultaneously take video and talk on the phone.
Try that in Brooklyn!)

Nigerian Aftermath

So, I've finally gotten my life--er, I mean my hotmail--back. After five days of not being able to log in and whole lot of hullabaloo from the folks at the "help desk," I was happy to find about a million junkmail messages. Yes, I can get meds from Canada and claim my 75,000 pounds from the UK Lotto Board! Both with just a single click of the mouse!

Interestingly, I was also able to go to my Trash folder and see the responses sent by my contacts to the scammers. There was someone (thank you, Jason Miller!) who was actually concerned about my wellbeing; there were many who wanted to let me know I had clearly been phished. An old college friend wrote saying she had been on vacation and hoped all was well for me besides the Nigerian mishap; an old crush warned me of the lack of good prenatal care in Abuja.

My very favorite, however, was this gem from my mother-in-law:

Nicole,

I am here to help, you must leave now and make your way South down the Niger River any way you can till you reach the town Oguta Owerri, at the train station there will be a locker number 77 use you birthday dates for the code to open the locker there will be a ticket in your name going to Port Harcourt , you may have to hitch hike (be careful just a little bit farther) go to a coastal town named Opobo, there will be a small hotel called Nigeria Suites in the lobby a handsome Peruvian man in a red shirt with NY Yankees logo will meet you to give you the $4000. I know you are good for the loan we will settle up in July.

Love Paula

Brilliant, huh? I love this woman! As far as I can tell, no one forked over the big bucks, but for that, I'm still willing to forgive.

Jawbreaker

Today, I want to make a jawbreaker out of the world, one of those that got passed around in fourth grade, the huge ones that you put into your mouth and just sucked on and sucked on, and as much as you wanted to bite it, you couldn't, but hours later (or what seemed like hours) you'd pull it out, and there between your sticky thumb and sticky finger, it'd be something else entirely--leafgreen or deeprose or pomegranatepurple--and you'd put it back into your mouth-- maybe small enough now to puff up your cheek--and sitting under the blue sky, under the roof of the school, under the stars on the bulletin board, you'd wonder what on earth that jawbreaker could possibly turn into next .

A Rainy Poem in a Rainless Week

Rain towards Morning
by Elizabeth Bishop

The great light cage has broken up in the air,
freeing, I think, about a million birds
whose wild ascending shadows will not be back,
and all the wires come falling down.
No cage, no frightening birds; the rain
is brightening now. The face is pale
that tried the puzzle of their prison
and solved it with an unexpected kiss,
whose freckled unsuspected hands alit.

One of those Weeks

Lots of rain checks;
not a lot of rain.

Week 14

Surely, your baby is now larger than a peach.
Unfortunately, your email has been hijacked by
a couple of low class hackers,
so you never receive the Babyfit fruit-of-the-week email.My money's on an apple, but, heck, it's anybody's guess.

Not in Nigeria II

Okay, so now, after my initial shock of "waking up in Nigeria and being confused and needing money," I'm feeling terribly violated. It's like something I really loved has been taken from me. AND "they" changed my password AND "they" sent the email to like a thousand former students who probably already think I need to be institutionalized AND hotmail refuses to write me back even after my frenzied STOLEN IDENTITY PLEASE HELP emails AND I've become A SUDDEN SLAVE TO ALL-CAPS.

Man, I need a cupcake.

Not in Nigeria

Some of you may have received an email from "me" this morning
about my botched trip to Nigeria.
Though it looks fun:

I'm not there.
Nor do I need your $3500 (though if you have it to spare, I'll take it.)
The good news is I haven't seen the ole hubs this amused in years.
All morning he's laughed; he may have even slapped his knee.
The Nigeria phishing scam? he says.
You're the first person since the '90's to fall for that!
Alas...

Realization

It's been years since I've seen anyone walk a tightrope.

Cat Sweat

When I was nine, my mother brought me to New York City for the first time. On that trip I received a pair of shoes almost identical to these (sans hearts & deer):
I wore them until they had holes in the bottoms, and then I taped them up and wore them some more. Even more important about that trip, however, was the night we went to Cats. At that age I wanted nothing more than to be a dancer (slash movie star slash doctor slash horseback rider) and there, on the front row of Broadway's longest running musical, I sat in awe.I loved the cats, wanted them to come closer to me, to crawl right off the stage and snatch me up by the nape of my neck and take me into their little hovel. I'm pretty sure I held my breath the entire show, and towards the end, as if in answer to my manifold prayers: it started happening. Rum Tum Tugger danced his way downstage and was so close to me that if I had been brave enough I could have reached up and grabbed his perfect tail.

Music pounded through the room, and Rum Tum began a wild succession of Foite turns. The world spun around us, and in a moment that in my memory is slowed down almost to a stop: a single bead of Rum Tum's sweat flew off of him and onto me.

My wrist shined with wet hope; I brought it to my mouth.

A more germaphobic child would, of course, have found this repulsive; a less delusional child might have just wiped her wrist on her jeans, but me, I took it for what I believed it was: a sign, a glorious sign. I was, I reasoned,--by way of sweat from this curious cat!--destined for greatness.

I mention all this because for the past three days I've been running wild all over the city with mom and my little brothers and sister (happy birthday, madeline!): I'm just hoping that somewhere between the Beast and Coney Island, Central Park and Soho, Legally Blonde and Rice to Riches, Times Square and The Statue of Liberty one of them got hit with the proverbial cat sweat. Trust me, it feels good; I've been riding this wave for a long time.