but in a break

breaks underfoot
moment comes over
birds fly
together
loneliness escapes
at a stoplight gaze
across from--
peace of--
piece of--
mind--
art--
forms
glides
disperses
turns around
all in the dance
back
forward
together
soar again
unison
find
that place
in place
never looks
like what you-- thought
it-- would
when-- you-- first started--
to break

SONNET XVII [NERUDA]

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.


I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving


but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

[Pablo Neruda]

by any other name---

these past two weeks i've been helping one of my students write an essay on helen keller. i've been really inspired as well. both of us have been inspired. writing on and off the essay topic, inspired by the persistence, the strength and the courage of helen keller and the details that surround us, those that we walk past and never notice, and the ones we stop and think about with respect to helen.

we were taking notice of the small details around us -- sight -- sound -- words spoken -- songs -- laughter -- rain -- conversation -- shadows -- with new eyes we saw the sounds and heard the words. the other day at the cafe where we meet i told her just to take a few minutes, look around, and see what was there. next thing i knew, i tried to talk to her and she held up her hand, mumbling something to indicate that i shouldn't bother her. she was very busy scribbling something down. "oooh you're gonna loooove this" she squealed with delight as she was writing. in about three minutes, the 11-year-old girl who came to work with me in september and told me proudly "i hate writing" had written this poem:

What Helen Should Have

the sun on a rainy day,

people in the café,

a look in a good book,

the way the cloud sway,

that’s what i see today. 

then we were on the phone this afternoon finishing up her essay that's due tomorrow and we --sidetracked momentarily-- were discussing the performance of the school play willy wonka and the chocolate factory that she was in last night. she started counting for me, the number of roses she received after the performance,"i got a lot of red ones... and some pink... and-- "

i heard her telling me the colors of the roses, yet underneath, my mind wondered as it was already composing this next bit that i've now finished writing below......




the roses as helen knew, as i hold them in mind.

they were never yellow, never red, nor pink, purple, white or speckled. they were r-o-s-e-s spelled in hand. they were never admired from afar, or on the kitchen table, never seen from the window. they were touched, learned from fingertips and palms, yet as far as i can see...

the smell was as sweet, perhaps sweeter, but more dangerous to the touch-- causing pain without warning, a disguise, enticed, by the pleasing scent above the stem... nature's silent way, to illustrate for helen, to warn, that nothing sweet can be held, can touch without moments of unexpected pain t-h-o-r-n soft petals at fingertips release with the breath of dusk into helen's trusting palm p-e-t-a-l. under her bare feet on the grass, the rose petals tickle helen with secrets as they fall one-by-one but she doesn't notice as the petals fall from her rose, from her fingers to the ground and touch her feet and the toes that hide in between blades of grass, never knowing a color of greenest green, or yellow petals at her feet.

the fragrant petals just fallen in the air faint perfume lingers in her nose, in her fingers that believe they will once again reach out and grasp-- and bring light to her face. she reaches once more, not knowing that what was once there will never be, has fallen at her feet, and thus believing and trusting--  the prick on her finger from the thorn of what remains from the beauty of what was once, of what was just-- of what was lost-- aches, unexpected blood unseen, and sudden movement away from uncertainty, the blood-stained finger and her hand brushes past the bush where red roses grow and the scent turns her head familiar, new, and knowing now, and trying once more. reaching higher this time with experience, for if one reaches higher, with more caution, perhaps the soft scented object of desire will come into hand, gently reaching with certainty-- seen or unseen-- pain will be avoided, not forever, but in this moment.

and not knowing the richness of the iridescent crimson glimpse of that red r-o-s-e she gently caresses in her palm, she knows. bringing her nose, her eyes, her lips, to the open petals that welcome her; and no one hears her laughter, but her laughter, and roses, fragrant vibrations fill the air, and roses are experienced, not seen, their colors are touched, embraced, fallen and held, never peach or violet, crimson or yellow. delicate p-e-t-a-l-s blush with fragrance. laughter paints the roses colors vivid as your presence, feel them bloom in season-- in turn-- in pain-- in palm-- in faith-- unseen lessons love tangible in essence unexpected detail the r-o-s-e as sweet, by any other name---




chantal--raquel--helen

BAM! x 5

yesterday one of my beloved writing students abby brought poetry homework (oooh, a struggle for us) to our session. her assignment was to write cinquain poems, so we persuaded her 4th-grade sister pyper that if she learned this poetic art form now, then she could easily pass 7th grade, and we started counting syllables into a new and different (for us haiku natives) formation. according to abby cinquain poems are 5 lines (cinq) built with: 2 syllables, then 4, 6, 8, then 2. i didn't get a chance to copy her poems down before she ran off to music lessons.

pyper, hesitant at first about counting so many syllables, ended up staying with me an extra hour and we had a fantastic time breaking the nature rules (oh ya, also according to abby these poems are supposed to be about nature... **unless you're an action-packed little girl named pyper) so pyper and i broke the rules of nature creating action haiku, uh, sorry i'm so accustomed to typing that word, i mean, action cinquain, which included such elements as a sequance of the word BAM! "exactly 5 times" and even an extra syllable at the end, breaking the rules one BAM! at a time.

BAM!
  

BAM!BAM!

   
BAM!    BAM!
her action cinquain will be featured in our 3rd issue of the newspaper that i've created for the school. issue 3 is based around FLASH! stories, poetry and comics. and somewhere in there, in the middle of pyper's whether report (yes, spelled whether) she will suddenly break into it with, "--FLASH!-- insert poem here" and there you will find the action cinquain. i will consider posting it here before we get the next newspaper issue out. because, well, i do realize that this blog and that newspaper have entirely different audiences... ;)

now that i've totally made it impossible for anyone, especially myself, to follow with a cinquain even half as exciting as miss pyper's action-packed-5-BAM!er, here's one i wrote at breakfast today.... and now that abby's taught us about this new pile-up of syllables i think we'll be seeing more of them in the future, though i can't promise we'll be sticking to the rules, naturally, so i'll throw in a BAM! at the end just to wake you up.


window
closed to outside
garden only think we
know what breeze trapped in metal screens
whispers



BAM! (as promised)

 

x c

more photos on my flickr

[photos : by c]

but... by the time- and we-

rush by they and you : same 
never the-- too late-FLASH- : 
-moments are when we--


[haiku cut out from a longer poem i wrote last night, will put the whole thing here shortly....]
x c

 flickr

can only give them the seeds...

next time i'll share some of the magnetic six words from the kids... you know, the words they were busy writing while i was throwing these seeds at them :)

x c



ps more photos of the kids on my (not-so-updated) flickr

pieces

i had the kids writing six word stories with magnetic poetry at friday's newspaper meeting... but of course i was right in there writing with them! more to come...

in winter hanging bright spots of color in darkness from blog entries scribbled

in time like oranges
in winter hanging bright on
dark clouds and strong leaves




 ..•.

in time like oranges
in winter hanging bright on
dark clouds and strong leaves

fall.


•

.


at once -- rough winds or ready

.



fallen. sometimes the sweetest fruit-- winter.


.•.


hi.
after a long absence (i've been scribbling down all my blog entries on papers ..easier on the head to stay away from the computer screen.. and i've been caught up in typing kids' stories and newspaper when i do get on the computer, and so i've never gotten to typing my stuff here, but you know i've been writing, and still making entries, how could i not....?) nevertheless, in the midst of darkness (literally) and worsening headache today,

i bring you: one haiku two ways, •and with an extra syllable• and two six word stories that i stitched together.

the other day i was struck by the brightness of the oranges in my backyard, glowing on the tree in the bareness of winter when the surrounding trees seemed to have literally given up. but the oranges were there hanging strong in the wind and rain against the dark clouds, and i'd never really considered how they hang on there, through it all, (thick skin i guess) and still give us the sweetest juice through the shortest days of the year, and all winter long. At times we hear this loud •thump• from outside as another orange --rough winds or ready-- falls from the waxy leaves of the tree and hits the deck, fall. and still the other oranges cling cheerfully to the tree, the bright oranges embraced by the (ok, yes, not so common in california, but we still have winter) dark grey of a cloudy ominous sky. it was there before me the other morning ..this image.. as if i'd never noticed. and yet i enjoy the fresh and plentiful orange juice every winter. and so i hurried inside to scribbled down this haiku.

and sitting here today in darkness, i remembered it. and you, and this.... and it's been so long since i posted any of my writing, and some of you are so good, so loyal about contacting me and checking on here, or encouraging me, and i don't always respond right away, but i answer in my head, i've composed great responses in my head! and those words from you are my oranges, and you know who you are, and it will get better, and i always say i will try but then life-- and then life--

but i will try.

and while looking for spots of color in darkness--
x c

to fall leaves

--changing only as the leaves, falling, flying, turning, 
moving with the wind and against it
across empty parking lots searching, lost, but
just having fallen, again every season
find these colors fading and now and again--


rough winds disturb the poetry of the leaves

--they go with it thus,
let it take them far,
it has they'll fall, they have,
hit the pavement lightly,
lose sight of what was as it
wrecks havoc on what was coming into view
from above and despite-- and at the will
at the whim of your capricious nature--
like the seasons i've known them all

and at times i've even loved them
loved the rain loved them in that rain,
wind at times has changed direction,
and changed-- and
fallen-- still and standing
up against the wind, grasping on
to every last second of fading daylight

to fall, having fallen long ago 

and again and leaves to fall here

amidst fall and caprice-- and

the leaves fall, and the leaves change color,

and leaves--

change the color darkness seasons evolve

and wind, and nights and you become colder

and wind and color and early dusk and--

leaves-- and leaves-- to leave-- and fall--

to fall

•••

all photos by : c (my flickr)

(been super busy with the newspaper will write more soon!) 

x c

the weight on my shoulders : now in color

the other day i bought that orange purse
the one i was wanting
the one that was too expensive.
and i don't know--
yet
why or how--
because i know
clearly i know--
an object
a purse
can't change the world--
but merely hold the money that
won't buy you happiness--
but somehow--
the other day i bought that orange purse
and the weight on my shoulders is now in color

photos : by c
(more here)

science is the new black (now a series)

so until my smart science sister has that science blog of hers i told you about up and running (yes it's still in 'development' phase) i'm going to do my own version of vague-she'll-laugh-at-me-science-ish posts until she finally can't take it anymore and gets so embarrassed for me that she just decides on a title for her authentic science blog, registers it, and writes her first entry (which, by the way, i encouraged her to write about when she recently explained to my parents how to make a home-remedy disinfectant using a bottle of vodka-- or at least-- that was the story they gave me when i found the empty bottle of really old vodka on the kitchen counter, that's what they claimed to have used it for.)


and since science is the new black, today my vague science-ish topics will be as follows :
(because i personally believe that in science organization and lists are probably important)

• the book my sister is reading
• a quote from darwin (that i got from my sister)
• the effects of medications on creativity (a personal anecdote from yours truly)



the book my sister is reading right now sounds fascinating, i'm actually dying to read it. and that never happens when she's reading about proteins or cells. this book literally combines our two passions, our two ways of looking and thinking and understanding, our two worlds of thought-- literature and science, poetry and uh-- you know-- science... just kidding. but seriously it sounds like an clever and involved book that she will read slowly and digest every detail and i will read sentence by sentence and get such inspiration with each sentence that i'll stop to write for a day and them come back the next day to read the following sentence. the book is called proust was a neuroscientist by jonah lehrer a young writer who has now got my attention. i'm going to pick up this book in the next few days.



next on our agenda is something i keep thinking about, and she (my sister) keeps thinking about -- and i'll let you think about it now. it's her 'status' online, a quote by darwin. read it. over and over.

"it is not the strongest species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the ones most responsive to change"

charles darwin

and lastly, since we're discussing neuroscience and change, we can touch on the recent happenings in my headache saga. this new treatment i've been on (aka the reason for my blog absence, twitter disappearance and unprecedented block of the writing kind) is an anti seizure medication, the latest method in migraine prevention. but here's what i've noticed. (other than the obvious side effect of losing my thoughts in mid-sentence-- everything just goes on pause--- the ideas and words evaporate and i completely forget what i was saying) it's as though it has literally stopped the 'seizures' of thought, of passion and inspiration in my head. let me insert here, poetic surges of inspiration and passion and thought, because other things like focus on work and developing curriculum for my writing students has increased, productivity and creativity in this area has expanded, but where, i keep asking myself, are my desires to immerse myself and wade out too deep in poetic words and flashes of haiku that stop every other happening in the world, every other thought, poems that come over me like-- (see this is where the words would have come over me, or simply flowed from my fingertips and metaphorically showed you the arrival of the poems, instead, there's a pause--- a slight hollow buzz) or perhaps i'm putting too much pressure on myself and i'm still in the adjustment phase. i know. the words are in here, but perhaps a seizure of words isn't so bad every once in a while, when all of a sudden i fall down because this idea hits me like-- well like-- well-- you know--

the first in the science is the new black series : here : the beginning of the end some might call it, my sister might call it etc...

x c

why isn't it just a waste of time

the answer in your
hands puzzle pieces-- if this--
or-- this-- but you know--


haiku : by c : chandeliers on the floor
photos : by c : flickr

blink-- you'll miss it

photos : by c

the sun set sky blushed
over busy streets wires crossed
birds sang traffic-- slowed--

in this light--

photos : by c

in time-- in words in
silence --in every hour years
light dark eyes and will---

missed chances :: express :: train de nuit

.

:: missed chances taking you
where you belong
on an old train found with the one
you'd never dreamed of
until today ::







:: until today
you'd never dreamed of
on an old train found with the one
where you belong
missed chances taking you ::




.




image :: train de nuit the new chanel N°5 film
mirrored poem by moi :: more here on my new blog

knew all along

that i would always
remember that you'd always
forget----


::







photo :: carla coulson
andrew crane :: painting
haiku :: moi

more of my haiku
::
here

x c

and this..

the poetry of everyday, every day.
#sixwords


::

::blue sweater haiku::

the bright blue sweater
lightens my dark exterior
don't always wear it



::blue sweater #haiku series::

my haiku :: here
julia galdo :: image

window curtain danced

:: heard the whistle of :: the train in your eyes open :: window curtain danced ::



more of my haiku::chandeliers::on::the::floor::

image :: leigh :: jkl designs

the girl, the boy, behind the shadows

chantal by cristian el chico de camisa morada

so my friend cristian likes to walk around with his camera and take pictures of everything and then never share them... i am now forcing him to slowly share them on my blog {until we get him on twitter or flickr or his own blog} today we came up with the name 'el chico de camisa morada' for obvious reasons, he was the guy sitting with me in the cafe, the guy in the purple shirt, and there it was, he had a name, he just needed to stop hiding behind the shadows and the camera and share his work!

so while i was forcing him to get in the light... i decided i would make him write his very first haiku ever, while sitting at the table with me in the cafe. each of us would come up with a haiku to accompany this photo, and as cristian came up with the words 'the girl behind the shadow' we would each use this in our own haiku. long story short... the cafe closed, and 'we' hadn't finished yet ;) ;) so we sat in my car in front of the cafe for the next hour or so, finishing up the haiku. i told him if my 12 year old students could do it, so could he, and after mumbling some excuses about english not being his first language, it all came out very well....

the dark secret life
the girl behind the shadows
lived-- reflections--

by cristian el chico de camisa morada
{his 1st haiku ever}


that road not taken
the girl behind the shadows
hiding-- could have been--

by chantal the girl behind the shadows

then i got back home and on twitter, where i've been encouraging other friends to write haiku, a game of sorts that i've started with @Dr_Wes called #haikutherapy where he's trying to build his haiku-writing stamina and so little by little we write together. he writes the first line {5 syllables} then i take it from there. this has proved successful and therapeutic for the both of us. a few minutes after i returned from writing or rather forcing cristian to write, i had a line waiting for me on twitter by the good doc himself: superficial talk. i couldn't believe how well this would fit with cristian's second line, and thus the following haiku was born::

superficial talk
the girl behind the shadows
never said a word

by @dr_wes, cristian & me
{collaboration is a beautiful thing}

chantal by cristian el chico de camisa morada



:: out from the shadows he will come slow but steady 'el chico de camisa morada' ::