Saskatoon Poetic Arts Festival 2018

Hello, Precious Blueberries! So, here’s a thing that you might not know about me: all next week, I’ll be in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada, performing at the Saskatoon Poetic Arts Festival, alongside several very talented poets! Our heroine is feeling a little intimidated by her colleagues, but she is looking forward to learning so much from them. We’ll be up to all kinds of adventures: workshops, performances, group writing experiences…you name it! We’ll experience a performance and workshop by Sabrina Benaim, of “Explaining My Depression to my Mother” and Depression & Other Magic Tricks fame.

This is a tremendous opportunity for me, and it is one that I would not have had the privilege to experience were it not for the support and generousity of my incredible friends, lovers, dears, queers, and beloved anonymous fans. I am profoundly grateful to everyone who contributed to my YouCaring campaign (whose funding goal was met so quickly I didn’t even have time to make a blog post promoting it!). Plane tickets and other travel expenses are not cheap, and your donations have left this poetess humbled and grateful.

I will take lots of pictures, and I will be sure to keep you all updated on my adventures in Saskatoon!

Trees, Bees, & Babies!

Peace and Blessings,

Beth

 Photo Credit: Sherri-Lyn Finley of Little Bird Beginnings Doula Services.

NaPoWriMo Day Twelve

I have missed a few days of the NaPoWriMo challenge due to a combination of not feeling the prompts and Life “stuff”, but I’m trying to get back on the wagon. Warning: I’ve totally gone rogue. I’ll be posting things out of order and I’ll probably disregard most of the prompts.

Prompt 12/30: Write a Haibun

April Ice Storm

The robins are building a nest on the windowsill again. Their wings beat against the glass, a feathery knocking. The bathroom faucet is dripping, each wasted water droplet splattering the one before it, a wet smack. Snow from the April ice storm is drifting against the side of the building, wave after wave of whooshing, a ghostly echo of frozen beaches. In the bedroom, in this noisy silence, your rough hand gently scrapes up the white nectarine flesh of my thigh, leaving no mark and yet marking what is your own. Here the unspoken says what words do not.

Spring comes late this year
my heart races against your palm
flowers wait for warmth

 Is this your image? If so, let me know so that I  may credit you.

This work, “April Ice Storm” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day Eight

Prompt 8/30: Describe an Event that Can’t be Understood Literally

BabyNotBaby

In the end, we buried it in the garden.

She used the trowel and emptied the whipped topping container that was repurposed into a makeshift casket into the hole.

I said a prayer to a G-d that was as silent as Life’s potential cut short before us.

Together, we placed a rosebush to mark the spot where something almost happened but didn’t…

…and yet, it kind of did, anyway.

Is this your picture? If so, let me know so that I may credit you.

 
This work, “BabyNotBaby” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day Seven

Prompt 7/30: Write a Poem Where One Identity Contends or Discusses With another Identity

Warrior queen
crawls through forest,
single breast exposed,
dagger strapped to thigh,
calls for stags and wolves to be her companions.

Heroine needs no one,
rides off into golden sunsets alone
with naught but horse for companionship,
or
hides in thatched-roof cottages, disguised as hag living alone
except for spooky cats that come when beckoned by hands wizened by age.

Leather-tough and hard as nails,
princess needs no one to rescue her
when she slays her own dragons
and turn their hides into leather handbags.

But yet –
night falls.
Your arms open wide.
Suddenly,
warrior queen becomes tender lover
and lays down her sword and shield.

Is this your photo? Let me know so that I may credit you.

This work, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day Six

Prompt 6/30: Write a Poem that Stretches Your Comfort Zone with Line Breaks

“Bread plays favorites.
From the earliest times, it acts as a social marker, sifting the poor from the wealthy, the cereal from the chaff.” – Christa Parrish, Stones for Bread

There
can be
no
revolution without
bread.

They
keep us
hungry
to keep
us
quiet.

Steal
the
bread.

Is this your image? Let me know so that I may credit you.

 

 
This work, “Bread” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day Five

5/30 Prompt: Write a Poem That Reacts to Both Photography and to Words in a Language Not Your Own

Poem: 4 o’clock in the Morning

Language: Hebrew

Photograph: http://www.funcage.com/blog/interesting-facts-to-boost-your-general-knowledge-26-photos/

Gastrolith

At 4 o’clock in the morning, the river stones are cool and slick.
I hear the water lapping at them, waves tongue-kissing the shoreline with heavy breathing.
The crocodiles swallow the rocks, sliding them down their pink throats so that they can dive deeper,
And the crows gather them in their beaks to leave as presents for worthy recipients.
Somewhere, Virginia Woolf is collecting stones to fill her pockets, each rock clacking against the other, and I am listening to her hum her final tune.

At 4 o’clock in the morning, you are silent as a river stone,
your breathing like the sound of water rushing downstream.
I want to caress your edges,
finger the chips and cracks along your surface.
I want to place you on my altar with my other treasured and sacred possessions: feathers, shells, and plugs of tobacco,
but you lay in bed next to me, your back to my face.
I wonder if I bring you stones like a crow, lowering my head in deference, spreading my wings into a graceful bow,
if you would eat them like a crocodile to keep a part of me inside of you,
and if they would weigh you down like Virginia’s coat.

Photograph by Michael Pike, copyright 2007.

This work, “Gastrolith” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day 4

Prompt 4/30: I Didn’t Like the Prompt, So I Did My Own Thing

 

If I could only speak to you
without crying like a child,
you would see that I am a woman
worth coming home to.

Is this your image? Let me know so that I may credit you.

 
This work, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day Three

3/30 Prompt – Write a List Poem

Recipe for a Balm that Soothes Heartache:

cocoa butter
lavender
calendula
rose petals
beeswax
Nag Champa incense
Billie Holiday albums
Pablo Neruda poetry
rose quartz
fresh figs
unsent letters
ginger tea
warm baths
salty tears

 Is this your image?  Let me know so that I may credit you.

 

This work, “Recipe for a Balm that Soothes Heartache” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day Two

2/30 Prompt – Write a Poem that Plays with Voice

 you were made for sphagnum and sap/bits of bark and bogs of peat/silver fish in brown lake shimmering/berry stains around the mouth/while naked belly sits on generous lap/you are a feral child barefoot on ancient escarpment/leaves and twigs in matted hair/loon call echoing your heartbeat drum/

I live in a world of pavement. The hot asphalt melts the rubber soles of my shoes, and I rush through constant construction to get from one job to the next. My temporomandibular joint aches from clenching my teeth against the sound of concrete being drilled and my crotch sweats from being confined in pantyhose eighteen hours a day. The streetlights are my stars.

come away love/ splash in rushing rivers/rut in rich humus/antler velvet sloughed off on tree branches/birch paper peeling in gentle breezes/moose grunt and firefly glow/your fire crackles and snaps/taste the smoke/

I am a professional. I am a productive, contributing member of society. I eat my meals with a fork and knife. I take medicines for my acid reflux. I drink water from a bottle. I stay clean. My television and my cell phone tell me the seasons, the weather, and the temperature. I make car and rental payments. I grow tulips in tight rows each spring, making sure the colours complement each other.

do you ever find your heart filled with a longing that can never be satisfied?

Is this your image? Let me know so that I  may credit you.

 
This work, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

NaPoWriMo Day One

1/30 Prompt: Write About A Secret Shame

 (I)

The sun has just barely begun to paint the sky fiery colours
when she,
stretched wide
and gasping,
births a vibrantly pink 8-pound daughter.
I wipe the blood and shit from the baby
and help her to her mother’s breast.
Later, during the taxi ride home,
I realize the fragrance in the vehicle is coming from me –
Sweat, amniotic fluid, placenta, and colostrum.
I am scented with the feral odours of Life itself.
My body has never contained Life.

(II)

A group of us meet in a busy coffee shop,
our conversations interrupted in short bursts of steam from the espresso machine.
She gently passes me her sleeping one-month old son –
Precious parcel, generous gift, little lovebug, angelic award.
I trace the whorls of his ears with my fingertip,
stroke each tiny digit,
and marvel at the miniscule eyelashes that lavish his dark-blue eyes.
Amidst biscotti, lattes, and genial chatter,
I wipe my silent, salty tears from his face.
No one notices.
When she takes her baby back,
The emptiness of my arms is so heavy.
My body has never contained Life.

(III)

Autumn leaves crunch underfoot and a sapphire sky canopies the earth.
The taste of wood smoke and black earth is in my mouth.
I sit on a park bench, reading a collection of poetry,
the sound of shouting children at play filling my ears.
Parents circle the playground,
observing, interfering, interacting.
They call to each other, identifying themselves by their children –
Timmy’s Mom, Ethan’s Dad, Mackayla’s Mommy.
A friendly father – Marco’s Papa –
plops down on the bench beside me and asks jovially,
“So, which one is yours?”
I vaguely motion to a cluster of youth making sandcastles nearby,
and immediately leave the area, forgetting my poetry book behind.
My body has never contained Life.

 (IV)

Another pregnancy announcement.
Another birth attended.
Another birthday celebration.
I’m not jealous, I tell myself,
as I hand baby after baby back to their parents.
I’m not sad, I tell myself,
as I donate a stack of baby blankets lovingly collected over years to the thrift store.
I’m not resentful, I tell myself,
as I caress round bellies and guide swollen breasts to hungry mouths.
My body has never contained Life.

(V)

“We never spend time together anymore”, I write a friend.
“You always seem to be too busy for me.”
She writes back, “I’m creating precious memories with my family. You’ve never had children. You wouldn’t understand.”
My body has never contained Life.

 

 Is this your image? Let me know so that I  may credit you.

This work, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.