Desire

I want the cold stones to border

my winter garden, the grey rabbit

to haunt its stillness. I want the crow

with closed wings, its opaque caw settling

in the juniper branch above me. I want

laughter frozen in the lake ice, solid,

so the wind can’t run off with it.

I want to pile decay above the aspen roots,

watch the trunk bend and straighten,

survive. I want the window to believe

in transparency, to ignore the clenched fist,

the inevitable shatter. I want sun.

I want snow. I want the aged pinon

pressed tightly between by palms. I want

to be alone with leaves and birds,

bring doves into cooing at the edge of my hand.

I want sadness etched into the blue of sky,

so I can inhale it with each breath.

I want the green in each blade of grass

with its promise of rising, its new breath

against my bare foot. I want to lie

in the hammock with a book, with a beer,

with a single cloud overhead. I want

to feel the ornery breath of spring

though the willows and down my neck. I want

to plant lilacs and primroses next to a fence.

Text for poem "Finger Birds":

Finger Birds

I grew up in a kitchen

full of cutting boards,

the kind you pull out

and leave out all night with

noodles drying in chalky flour.

I’d sit under these, my sky

a wooden lid, my space

small and isolated, watching

the nylon legs of my mother,

her hem of blue gingham

move from drawer to sink

to stove and back again.

One Sunday, after church,

I crouched there with my sister’s

new white gloves changing

my hands to finger birds

that would flutter and dive,

and fly away the length

of my arm. I hid at knee level

from my mother’s eyes,

while my sister cried

into her own bare hands

on the back steps. With each sob

she peeled the wallpaper

away, strip after long narrow

strip, then fell asleep, her head

propped against the sepia swirls

of dried paste that my mother

had dabbed and brushed

to hold pastel ballerinas

in arabesque above our heads.

Now these women keep

tumbling from my dreams,

from my nightmares.

My mother calls to say,

but today she remembers

to call me daughter and asks

for the chicken recipe, the one

with vinegar and wine sauce.

I wonder if she still stares

into the Mulberry branches,

its berries faded to purple

smudges on the sidewalk,

as night crickets promise more

rain in their trivia voices.

I think it is time to go back,

to place my hands in the yellow

gloves, to scour her porcelain

sink, wring soap water

from dish rags, and place lemon

rinds and orange husks

with compost. I listen

to snow fall on snow,

several inches this morning,

this Sunday, that I planned

to set onions and coriander

slightly underground. I pick up

my leather gloves creased with black

soil, and pull their rough skin

over my knuckles, decide to plant

anyway, to brush snow away,

to slip shoots into loose dirt,

to pile straw over earth.

Text for poem "Pollen":

Pollen

The vine climbs up

beneath my breastbone,

weaves its wisteria

leaves

through my ribs. Bees

linger here,

from pistil to stamen

is how they gather

and spread

and fill blossoms

with possibility.

I hold an ace

up my sleeve, time mostly

and a field of women

gathering

words into envelopes

Text for poem "Voices"

Voices

It’s time to take my own voice

out from under the desk. Open it.

But once a voice like that

unleashes, it’s impossible to put away.

And the sounds are so unpleasant,

like fingernails on a blackboard moving

upward. And I know it would

eventually get away and find Arla’s

voice and Tina’s voice. We all

know what a problem a pack can

be, how it moves across the prairie

with its own direction picking up

strays along the way. Until nightfall

when people step out on back porches

to listen, how the howls soar and dive,

ricochet with their own momentum,

how the sky fills with liquid sound,

overflows and floods the empty gullies

with the pure rage of unrestrained water.

Text for poem "Changes":

Changes

My dog is a hurry in the wind.

My yucca is the color of coriander.

My bicycle waits for the daughter to pedal away, no hands,

flicking gravel just for the sound of rubber against stone.

My coal rides the last train past Long’s Canyon,

past Old Sopris Trail, toward sea level. Its whistle

aches with the names of miners: Armstrong, Lopez, Palamino, = Tatelini.

My knapsack of dreams waits under the bed; its long fingers

grope for passing ankles.

My church wears gold and never cries in its sleep. Its people shake = hands,=20

exchange peace, and cry the inconsolable tears

before vigil lamps and barefoot statues.

My dust gathers on surfaces.

My socks soak in bleach.

My towels snap with wind.

My cornbread palms are creased with dough; the lint

of memory clings like flour and water.

KATIE'S LESSON PLAN:

1. If you were going to present your artwork to a classroom of=20 k-8
 students, how would you introduce the piece that is on your = Virtual
 Chautauqua website?

I would give some background = as to=20 how the poem came to be written.

Change: I was considering moving = away=20 from Trinidad when I realized
all this place meant to me. Although = the poem=20 was rooted in nostalgia, I
wanted to express the uniqueness of the = area in a=20 poem.

Desire: I strongly believe that we must take time to "lie = in=20 the
hammock" and let our thoughts drift. This is not being lazy, but = it=20 is
allowing our right brain to exercise in an otherwise very left = brain=20 world.


Finger Birds: I saw a little girl in church playing = with her=20 new white
gloves.
I was intrigued at her fascination with her = hands and=20 decided it
would have to find a way into a poem.
   =
Pollen=20 & Voices:  These two poems were inspired by my = female
students and=20 colleagues who write about many obstacles they have had to
overcome. = These=20 obstacles were usually linked in some way to being = female. 
 
=20 2. What else would you tell them about the piece?
Change: As in most = of my=20 poems the images are linked to the natural world as
well as the=20 domestic.
 
Desire: These image came from observations in my=20 backyard. 
 
  Finger Birds: From a telephone = conversation=20 with my mother who has
Alzheimer's I was reflecting back to my = childhood and=20 some of my first
memories of her. Again these images are related to = the=20 domestic as well as
the natural world. 

Pollen & = Voices:=20 Again these images are related to the natural world
as well as the=20 domestic.

 3. Is it relevant to some broad theme or genre or = culture? (for example
 a style or feeling) -what we're looking = for are=20 keywords that will help
 classify "stages" or rooms in the = virtual=20 performing arts center
 
Changes: "Images of a seemingly = disparate=20 nature"
In other words, these images may appear unrelated as they = deal=20 with
a wide realm of experiences. However, I worked to link them = through a=20 sense
of place.

Desire: "Repetition" I used repetition to = create a=20 sense of urgency.
"Appeal to senses" Although these images appeal = primarily=20 to the
visual, I constantly try to appeal to all five senses in my=20 imagery.  

Finger Birds: "Narrative" This poem takes = the form=20 of
telling a story about my childhood and its link to my = adulthood. =20 Again I
worked on appeal to 5 senses.

Pollen & Voices:=20 "Comparison" These poems both use comparison either through
metaphor = or=20 simile of the natural world to the feminist world.

4. Virtual = Chautauqua=20 has a large focus on education. It is important
 for  us, = working=20 with the project, to make the websites relevant to what the
teachers = teach.=20 There needs to be an obvious connection to math, or
 history, or = science, or language etc -a basic school subject. What, if=20 any,
subjects relate to your art and how? In other words, how do = you=20 think your art
could be used to teach specific curriculum=20 issues?

Changes: This poem is related to a sense of history in = the making=20 or
 perhaps more aptly called current events. Coal mining is = moving out=20 of
 Southern Colorado in my life time. This affects me=20 personally. 

Desire: I see a relationship to both art and = music in=20 this poem. (See above comments) An art or music student could = collaborate with a=20 poet. Or several artists could do an interpretation of the same poem = through=20 visual media.

Finger Birds. I think this poem is related to a history of self or=20 "memoir".
It works to reflect and document the contemporary world I = live in.=20 If
students begin to explore and recognize their place in history=20 through
writing about their contemporary lives, they become more = interested=20 in past
history.

Pollen & Voices: These poems relate to = the=20 political or gender studies.
Students should be writing and = discussing issues=20 that affect them.

 5. What questions would you like the students/audiences be = able=20 to
 answer about your performance after they view the=20 sight?

1. What details or "appeal to the five senses" do you remember=20 most
clearly from these poems?

2. Why do you like or dislike these details?

3. How do these poems relate to the author's individual life = experiences?=20

4. How do these poems relate to an audience on a universal level? =

5. How does contemporary poetry differ from your preconceived views=20 of
poetry?