The Heat: A Poem

The Heat

Pixie hair wilts

on moss-covered trails 

Long bobs dampen

on sandy stairs

gardenias cut

through

bitter beet air

sugar in tepid tea

Melissa McCarthy

slices  

Sandra Bullock’s

pants.

A bunny runs

into a bean

fence

and dies.

How and Why to Write a Poem

I'm face with a writing group again--finally! We've been on hiatus for a few months because all of us had such busy lives. With travels, moves to different cities, and classes, we all felt too overwhelmed to block out time for even our virtual meetings. Now I need to write a poem.

As you may have noticed, I'm using this meeting as the reason for my creative writing. So the first way I write a poem is to have to! Meeting a deadline is my best and most effective reason for writing. One of the few friends I share my work with laughs at my process. I may only have a few hours until our meeting, but I feel obligated to have something to share and find it somewhere inside me, sometimes just in time.

Another way I write is to walk. When I'm at home or work I'm occupied with way too many tasks. It's only when I leave the house on foot that I can clear my head and discover impressions, memories, and images that move me emotionally.

Usually, though, poems I write respond to tiny everyday experiences: throwing scissors into a compost pile by accident, smashing a spider on my bed, watching a hawk out my window, or learning to water an orchid. I used to write about big ideas, mostly showing my adolescent skepticism, but now I find solace in the everyday. I leave the big ideas to my academic writing.

Today I think I might consider writing about a black snake that slithered out of one of my garden beds or the bunny that got caught in my green bean fencing or maybe even the heat. I've been writing quite a bit about the heat in this blog because I hate it so much. I sweat. I don't perspire or glow. And my hair usually looks like I just got out of the shower every day during July and August.

So that's a start. I write because I have to and write while I walk and write when something tiny sparks an emotion.

The Heat Part II

Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy starred in a movie with that title, but from what I could see, neither one of them cracked a sweat. In one scene, McCarthy slices off Bullock's pants and opens up her shirt, so she looked more attractive in a night club, but none of these changes seems at all connected to the temperature--either outside or in.

For me, the heat means temperatures rising into the 90s and humidity levels closing in on 100%. As damp as it is, we'll never reach the dew point of 72. It's 10:30 at night and 77 degrees with 85% humidity according to my weather app. The claim is it feels like 77, but it feels like 85 to me, since I'm sweating on my patio while my dog pants at my feet.

Hot summer weather should bring back fond memories and usually does--long evenings at the grandparents in Bellaire playing slap happy and rope swing and (later) spin the bottle. Or weekends at the beach during those months at Grandpa Joe's, trying to surf but mostly chasing after the board and wondering why the locals sacrificed one to the waves. Or even afternoons beside the apartment pool for the first three years I taught high school, diving in when the neighbors left and swimming 50 short laps before dinner.

Now my garden soaks in the sun. Japanese eggplants lengthen. Tomatoes start to ripen. A third bean crop grows close to harvest. Tiny peppers form at the end of tiny branches. And finally the squash and melon transform flowers into fruit. But I sweat, sitting on my patio wishing for a cool evening when putting my hair down didn't mean taking a salty bath.

Touring the Doudna Fine Arts Center with Teachers

Doudna Writing Crawl: Long Dwight Tour

One of the things I discovered as I walked with our group of writing project teachers is how respectful they are. Our first year, Jim Johnson gave us a tour of Doudna. I’m not sure if the building was open or in-process, but his too was extensive and revealing, taking us backstage and showing us art spaces. As an artist himself, he was able to talk in detail about how equipment was used in each studio. Dwight, on the other hand, primarily works in the theatres, managing multiple events. But I'm getting away from my original point. During that first year, several of the teachers tested the acoustics in the recital hall, singing on stage without embarrassment. This group is quiet and well mannered, making their mark only with the hand prints they added to one of the smaller copper walls—with Dwight’s permission. 

I know I should remember what Doudna was like before 2008, but I’m not so sure. I do remember what the library was like before it was renovated—whenever that was. Before they opened up the atrium in Booth, students and faculty browsed books in dark crowded stacks seemingly organized like mazes. It sometimes took me minutes to find my way out of the low-ceilinged spaces. My heart rate increased, and I looked around for potential stalkers as I rushed toward a stairwell. Now I wonder how accessible any of those stacks were. I suspect a wheelchair bound person would need to order his or her books in advance, so a librarian could retrieve them.

I only experienced that process on research trips, either for archival materials about Mary Austen in the University of New Mexico library or microfiche articles by journalist and novelist Fanny Fern. One of my favorite parts of my Fanny Fern research journey was discovering how much she liked and believed in phrenology.