Flat shoes, good ankles, places to walk

New shoe Tuesday as another (older) pair moved from the walking category to the gardening category. I have two pair of snow boots: one a muck boot type, every weather, quick slip-on as needed and one a going to town boot. It is funny to say, going to town when you live in a very towny suburb on a cul-de-sac, but we grew up (for the most part) “going to town”.  Once when I had called Lawson Inada about coming to Klamath Falls for a reading, I mentioned I was going to town that day and we had a quick discussion on that particular saying. He asked if it was a hold over from Joseph and I said yes, but we do live outside of town so if you’re going in, you’re going to town, we laughed over it. He has the most wonderful laugh. 

But I’m talking about shoes. I have a pair of slip-on shoes that live in the basement, these are the emergency shoes so that I always have "shoes in the basement". Something needed in tornado prone country. Then I have two pair of shoes that are for everything else; by the back door I have a pair of flip-flops for quick trips in and out. I have more slippers than shoes. Truth be told I did just recently break down and throw out two pair that were wrecked: torn, nearly tread-less and fairly dirty from all the miles put on them before they shifted to yard shoes. I got my money’s worth. And yet I still felt I should have kept them longer – if I still had a river to swim in, they’d be perfect river shoes. Enough to protect your feet on the way down (to the river), no need to worry if they got wet and then quick drying; here, they were spider condos.

A few years ago, I was diagnosed with chronic tendonitis in both ankles. My podiatrist took X-rays, made a mold of my feet and I had inserts made to help alleviate the strain and pain. He also said “Never ever wear high heels again.” Which made me laugh because I hadn’t in years. And, so, I trundled about on sore ankles for a few years. The inserts helped. I learned to warm my ankles up before stepping out of bed, to take those first few steps carefully and to keep good flat-ish shoes handy. My tendons were even bowed out, it reminded me of something I’d read about racehorses with bowed tendons, like them I was never racing again. And then, in year three, in Belgium, I noticed that the pain was nearly gone. The knotty tendons and bow was, almost, gone. I blame the cobblestones and the steep up and down around Mons. The miles and miles of walking we did across Europe, the good inexpensive sitting in parks, the sloth pace through museums, the wandering along old alleyways and bright squares. Then too working at the library was 40 hours a week of busyness.

So now I have good ankles and good shoes and I’m ready for the next hill, the next bright dawn.

Here’s a river poem, this river was someplace I know I wore worn shoes to:

Imnaha

I know this river, know this river by the soles of my feet

river rock glass and sand. Know this river by the green depth
I swim through as fish. Know the shadows beneath the fallen
trees, waving like ribbon – sleeping trout.
I rise slick-headed like the otter, met that sunny day
he as curious as me and then we both dove
and I glanced the web foot waving.
This river, stuck down deep in the dry, dry canyon
purple rim rocks above the yellow grass
the river attracts green, trees shade by the bridge
swallows swirl and dive and the emerald dragonflies
bless my arms as I float downstream.
 

~~M.E. Hope

Morning in Zagreb

The barberry bushes around my house need to have a good pruning. Barberry have vicious thorns but seem to need little care, or at least they are happy with the care I give (nothing). Two varieties are planted around the house, one has leaves that run from dusty pink to burgundy and the other has bright yellowish green leaves. I’ve trimmed them but never taken the dead wood out. Last fall I found some articles online to guide me and I watched a few videos on You Tube and some gardening sites. Today I worked on just two. It was sunny and cool, with plenty of birdsong for background noise. I was distracted quite a bit looking at the three raised beds behind the house, the one is mine and the others belong to my next-door neighbor and she let me use them last summer. It’s just March and I have to remind myself of just that fact, nothing is ready to go into the ground at this time: nothing.

This morning I read a poem by A.E. Stallings from Rattle #70, these lines got to me:

“Even before the virus, these
Were nearly empty galleries,
But now we have these cluttered shelves
And halls of statues to ourselves.
Stickers on the floor, in Greek,
Tell us “Watch your apostasies”:
 
“Mind your distance,” so to speak.
But since the guards outnumber us
There is no nearness we need fear,
No tourists herded from a bus;
Here on the coast, the coast is clear.”

I’ve been in those museums that get less than Louvre-like traffic (and there are galleries in the Louvre that need some love). One morning in February 2017 I had the entire Mirmara Museum in Zagreb to myself. I remember wandering room after room and never seeing another being. After a few hours I’d covered about two thirds of the building and checked in with the front desk to ensure I could come back in after lunch with the same ticket, “Of course, Madam.” I walked down to the main square, Ban Jelačić Square, and met Jerry and we shared a sandwich somewhere and then I went back to the museum while he stayed in the square for people watching. When I got back the museum was packed, there must have been ten people around, but most were headed downstairs where there was an exhibition of contemporary art from Croatian artists. When I eventually got downstairs that crowd had thinned out. And the exhibit was really good, really good. 

That late February it was quite warm and most of the days were sunny. We were sitting in King Tomislav Square enjoying the sun on our final day, watching people and dogs and birds when I took notes on this poem:

 
Morning in Zagreb

The man eats & eats & eats
unpacking & repacking his bags.
He unfolds & refolds, sorts & stacks
placing coins, bills & food
into smaller bags. The sun shines
warming a February day & he hangs
his dirty coat on the park bench.
He is still eating. Now he unpacks
a carcass – chicken, rabbit? – & slices
meat from bone. He pulls the soft bread
from a loaf chewing hard. He never stops
eating. Occasionally he throws pigeons
bread, but he keeps the crusts, stacks
& repacks them & then continues to carve
at the meat on the small body.
When he no longer has food enough
on the skeleton, he throws the whole
thing into the grass where two pair
of hooded crows stake claim. The man
has not stopped eating. He has a beer,
he cleans his knife & he tears more bread.
The man eats & eats & eats.

  

 

"When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid."*

Over the years I have indoctrinated Jerry to poetry. Like a lot of people who went to US public schools, poetry was something that was touched on occasionally and had a tendency to carry the labels classic and good even though we did little more than parrot what was needed for a test. (Prufrock anyone?) Those words had zero to do with our lives and the poets had little to do with us, [they] being primarily old, white men from other realms of the world; worlds nothing like ours or our parents. Of course, over the last two days the world has been awash with poetry, or poem, thanks to the radiant Amanda Gorman. What every writer, and reader, of poetry knows is the power of one poem to inspire and to make you search for more – more poems, more poets, more poetry that gives voice to what so many need to hear, wonder about, what touches us.

Jerry has gone with me to many poetry readings over the years and he has found poets among my friends that he enjoys (quotes!); he has his favorites and also he is a fan of Sunni Patterson, Joy Harjo and his new favorite poet, Amanda Gorman. He judges poems/poets like this: “She’s no Bette Husted.” Or, “Paulann Petersen is safe.” Or, “Peter Sears would have read him under the table.”

Ms. Gorman was appointed to the National Youth Poet Laureate during National Poetry Month in 2017. I remember listening to her poetry then knowing that we would hear more from her, and didn’t we? Here is a link that takes you to her poem to read for yourself or listen to. (* this post's title is a line from The Hill We Climb)

Be safe, be kind. Here's a begonia clipping that has finally bloomed. Light and beauty!

"What shall we not perhaps get over,..."*

 

The cats we have had as roommates and designated yard guards over the years: Comet and Sunspot (roomies), Phil (both, until he lost yard privileges), Kiki and Jackson (YG), and now Ursula and Zora, definitely roomies. Briefly we had a cat with us in Klamath Falls named Captain Jack (because of his eyeliner) who would have been a yard guard, but he was with us only as long as it took to look for who he belonged to -- no one claimed him -- and then I had him vaccinated and neutered. He left us shortly after that, as Jerry said with that kind of welcome why would you stay. Today I had to take Ursula to the vet with a condition we can only say is tied to her lymphoma diagnosis back in September. She’s also lost weight recently. She’s now on prednisone and she seems to be in no pain, she is still active and vocal and in charge. She of course was insulted by getting placed in the carrier and whisked away to the vet, blood taken and all those strangers prodding. Due to COVID protocol I was not allowed in, so that added to the indignity. But Ursula forgave me and we curled up together after lunch and took a short nap together. So now the time of Ursula. Ursula to spoil, Ursula to hunt down the sunny spot in the house, the best place to watch birds, the extra food that Zora will not get as she doesn’t need the extra food; we just got her weight stabilized. Just over a year ago we said goodbye to Comet. Now we will fill Ursula’s days, Zora’s. Damn these fur hearts and the holds they have. Be safe, be kind.

Here’s a poem by Quinn Baily from The Currents of the World (Homebound Publications, 2020) Thank you, again, Dragon for the book.

*Luck by Carl Phillips from The Tether

"...the lost ones, growing into the never-heard-of." *

Today was a day of worry and sorrow. Worry and sorrow for the world, the country, people I love, family, friends and my dear fur hearts. Outside it was blustery, I put out extra seed around the house for the birds and spent the morning trying to catch up on a couple of poetry blogs (both available along the right-hand side of this page) Deborah A. Miranda’s Bad NDNS and Devin Kelly’s Ordinary Plots: Meditations on Poems + Verse. I get both via email and will tell you that Miranda’s was very hard to read, I had to take breaks, her most current email sent out a number of older posts, all of which deserved extra attention and time. Posts that do a James Bond thing to my heart, I say shaken and stirred. Kelly’s, I like because it reminds me to slow down and really look at the poem, also I’m being introduced to a number of new poets – new to me.

That there is poetry available, no matter the subject matter, that one can swing through, right now, is a luxury. One I will hoard. As the world burns, as truth has to fight for air and light, as sad old ideas continue to come out of the shadow, out of the dark, out of the grave to ignite those who can only own this power, this delusion. I will continue to turn to poetry. Not as shield or a room to hide in but as a way to help me to talk to or consider what the liars are saying, to learn how to counter their arguments, their untruths, their twisting of language and logic. It will be like writing a sestina every day or a 100-word essay made of one syllable words, none of which you can use twice. (I did this once the topic was poetry, but it was a long time ago when my mind felt more nimble.) It will be like creating an epic poem on how to share the world and how it was never, ever just yours no matter what the history books or nights around the fire with your monochrome legend says.

Here is a poem, Nightriders * by Yusef Komunyakaa from Night Animals (Sarabande Books, 2020)