Friday, January 27, 2023

gearing up for february stories

Greetings, all. I'll be joining Laura Shovan's February Poetry Project again this year, and the theme this time is STORY.  So here's a little story for you:

Once upon a time at a small liberal arts college in Connecticut, a boy from San Francisco and a girl from Richmond met when they both signed up to be editors of the literary magazine, The Cardinal.  The boy did fiction and the girl did poetry, and they both did each other found themselves in love.  From the university library where he manned the circulation desk for his work-study job, the boy passed the time typing notes to the girl on withdrawn catalog cards. From the psychology library where the girl womanned the circulation desk for her work-study job, the girl passed the time perfecting her artsy poet handwriting in notes to the boy on bad copies of reserve articles.  

Eventually the boy realized he belonged back on the West Coast studying Japanese and writing novels, and there the romance could not but end--but it lived on in the layers and layers of catalog cards, annotated poetry drafts, literary magazines, dorm-door notes, mix-tape track lists, fratority party invitations ("VORTEX: The Party That Really Sucks") and letters from California---

ALL OF WHICH THE GIRL SAVED, because they, like the first books she ever read and the first poems she ever wrote, were some of the layers of paper that built her, word by word, line by line, page by page. To let any of that paper go (whatever it may say about the essential core of the girl, even now) would be to disappear, she feared.

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Here's a second version of the story:

Once upon a time a woman, who had moved from her old neighborhood to a new one but continued to read the listserve from the old neighborhood, noticed a post that read, "Hi all- this is a notecard I found on my lawn. Seems to be someone’s special close communication. I will leave it on my front porch bench for the owner to pick up."  The post included a shadowy photo of a library catalog card with a typed note that began "HJM'Dear--How do? I sold 32 Cardinals today. Fun."

With a shock the woman realized it was she in the photo, she in the note. The finder of the note was her close neighbor, 3 doors up. The last days of the move were cold and windy, and during one of them, as she excavated boxes stuffed with paper saved for 55, 40, 35 years and, sobbing, put three-quarters of it into the recycling bin, this one little card--a musty, precious, 2-dimensional snapshot of a moment in 1982--had blown free of the bin and landed in her neighbor's yard. The woman downloaded a copy of the photo and thanked her neighbor, asking her to recycle the card once again.

Without the wind, she wouldn't have remembered.
Without the neighbor, she wouldn't have known.
Without letting go, she wouldn't have learned that even without that piece of paper--all those pieces of paper in her possession--she is still her self.

This is a cascade poem of the kind being written this week by the ever-inclusive Poetry Sisters.
 













Grateful to Jan at Bookseedstudio for hosting us today with the overflowing (how could she help it, having that name?) Sharon Lovejoy alongside. Wishing everyone safe and peaceful last days of January.



16 comments:

  1. I'm crying. I loved the poem on its own, but it is so much more with the two stories.

    I, too, have tearfully recycled boxes full of paper layers of identity: letters from first loves, artifacts of teaching, records of a cancer journey. I'm feeling your poem deep in my soul and reminding myself that "even without that piece of paper--all those pieces of paper in her possession--she is still her self."

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  2. I am so tender to nostalgia these days, Heidi, and this story! Oh my goodness. Thank you for sharing. And for your poem, too. I love the subtle shifts, the subtle breaking of the rules and patterns. Way to cascade!

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  3. Peeling back the layers to what was and what is now is sometimes so hard but also a kind of freedom, isn't it? Your stories, your life keeps the layers saved, an entry into the poem with a strong voice, ending with the poem of joy.

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  4. Such a HadToBe intervention - of that one wind-blown treasure & attentive neighbor who didn't have to post that! I am appreciative of your paper collections, your heartbeat connections to them & this special cascade poem that is naturally, kismet.

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  5. [ returning, so you know, wonderful Heidi, my words are unintentionally Anonymous, above!]

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  6. Oh, cousin.
    How lovely and heartbreaking and heart-building all over again. Here's to the essential shape of a soul, papier-mâché composite layer upon layer.

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  7. Oh, my. That story--so wonderful and dated in the very best way. Wine that's aged to a date of celebration. I love the saving and the letting go. Of course you are still you...but the discovery of that is wonderful!

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  8. Thanks for your powerfully sensitive poem. I love the transformation and subtle changes in form too, and your stories–"papier mâché" is so perfect for those long built layers…

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  9. Heidi, I loved the construction of your Cascade poem and the way you innovated in the process of writing it. The slow unpealing of pasted layers and the implied patience of this task shines through. The use of personification works so well. I draw the analogy of how humans reveal themselves in a similar manner. It seems we have an avalanche of cascade poems being shared- and I am enjoying them immensely.

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  10. Oh, what lovely stories -- those pasted layers that we can strip back to reveal. I'll be thinking about this for awhile.

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  11. Oh, Heidi. This. "ALL OF WHICH THE GIRL SAVED, because they, like the first books she ever read and the first poems she ever wrote, were some of the layers of paper that built her, word by word, line by line, page by page. To let any of that paper go (whatever it may say about the essential core of the girl, even now) would be to disappear, she feared." How I can relate. And how I love your cascade poem and the line "stripped by the wind of letting go." I feel buffeted by these winds while simultaneously exulting in peeling off some paper. What a powerful post. It brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for the stories, the poem, and the sharing.

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  12. The stories! Gah! Well, they made me tear up. And your poem "she flays me layer by layer." Nice!

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  13. This whole post is a cascade---from story to story to poem, all feeding into each other... Every bit of this slays me. Most things I can recycle or pitch, but paper? I save so many scraps of my written life "for reasons" and complete "unreason." Once, I discovered a poem in my archives and searched for who wrote it...and... (you guessed it) it was my own...an old layer of me, discovered by now me. We are papier-mâché, both fragile and strong, and you illuminate that here so beautifully.

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  14. Wow, Heidi, this is an Academy-Award-winning-movie-book-you-can't-put-down-poem-post. So much memory. So much transformation.

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  15. Your post is magic, Heidi. I've gotten rid of a lot of people in my time, but I felt this poem in my bones. Those layers of paper, the layers we read, we wrote, we gifted, they not only make us, but they are us. And yet we can only carry around so much of ourselves from home to home. Thanks for sharing this story with us!

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  16. Oh, Heidi, this made me cry! The stories are both so touching and the *poem*! I am unmade.

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Thanks for joining in the wild rumpus!