Tiger

Someone saw fit to sew
From fake fur a jacket,
Orange and black stripes,
With a hood and ears,
With a tail, too, and then
Left it in a thrift shop
Where it hung in the window
Like a second-hand zoo.

One January day I stopped in
And bought it, thinking:

Just what this city needs,
With its long colorless winter
Putting us all in a coma.
A bit of the tropical sun
Filtered green through
A dense, wet canopy.
A bit of the chattering
Cacophony, warning
As a predator passes.
A bit of that fear that
Wakes us up to alertness
And appreciation of 
Every moment that we are
Alive. Only the fittest will survive.

So watch out, you!
I've turned into a tiger,
And I'm prowling around town
In my new jacket. Growl!!

by Lori Martin, 2002
(photo by: Paul Goldstein; http://www.telegraph.co.uk/men/active/10751945/What-its-like-to-run-a-Marathon-with-a-tiger-on-your-back.html)

Shoes

Expatriate - I have lived in Scotland
Long enough that the shoes I brought from home,
That fit so well, have worn out pounding Glasgow's pavement.

In the process of trying to find a pair of new shoes,
I discover how poorly I fit in here. The foot of the Average Scot
Is a good inch narrower than the foot of the Average American.

Or at least I assume this from the size of all the shoes I have tried.
I have not, in fact, come close enough in eighteen months here
To an Average Scot to find out.

And I think to myself - I bet our feet are the same.
But like hanging the wash on the radiator,
Walking in rain like it's not raining,

Fixing broken things with "out-of-order" signs,
The Average Scot suffers through ill-fitting shoes with pinched feet
Simply because one hates to complain...

Here is the sinkhole of homesickness amid shoe boxes -
Oh, I long to speak and not see the polite look of incomprehension.
I long to listen and have some inkling of what has been said.

I long to be my old, unselfconscious self,
Not this pinched person I have become,
Trying to fit into this other place like one of Cinderella's sisters.

I want to go HOME.

Really, I just need to pick out a pair of shoes.
I'll be fine.

by Lori Martin, 2003
image: https://www.flickr.com/photos/imarr/371886209

BOWERBIRD

In National Geographic I read about the Bowerbird
Spending years of his short life collecting trash -
Shattered bits of autoglass, bendy straws, rodent bones, pop tops, et cetera -
And with this stash of garbage, he begins to weave.

A carefully flattened gum wrapper
With split sequins and lost lego
Become silver and gems sparkling
In the dusty desert sun.

Colors alternate in pleasing patterns
Blue comb, white button, blue clothes pin, white bottle cap.
He has a natural eye for symmetry
And an ear, as well.

He composes a song to accompany his visual art
With voice and instruments of his making
Clink - a penny on stones
Swish - a coffee stirrer through sand

Rehearsing his song, rearranging his elements,
His life is spent weaving
An elaborate bower to woo his Beloved.

Surprised

I realize that I have just learned from this bird
About God
and myself.

We all create beauty for the sake of love.


by Lori Martin, 07/2010

National Geographic article: http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2010/07/bowerbirds/morell-text.html

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO WRITE POEMS

(image: Throes of Creation, Leonid Pasternak)


I strain against an insistent rhythm,
Beat my brain against the padded cell of my skull,
Dive into a sucking sea of words to struggle,

Until the ecstasy of inspiration chokes me,
Until my breast bursts and I can inhale,
Until I am breathing it in and out.

Blood and water mingling down my side,
I drown in revelation and start to write,
Emptying myself of the sounds and meanings.

I give birth in the desert with heaves and cries
To my precious lonely baby.
She lies, naked and despised, but alive.

Do I lift her to my practical breast,
And raise her to be something? Or what?
No - I just hope someone who cares will find her.

I wander away, praying for another birth,
And To feel again the exquisite pain
Of writing another poem.

by Lori Martin, 6/12/15

FLORIDA SUNRISE


There was only one cloud in the sky this dawn,
Pink and small in all the blue-white-blue.
She peered over the edge of the earth turning
And saw that cosmic flame first. She burst
Into a flamingo glow, glorified by what was to come.
She is only one small cloud, pink in the blue-white sky.

by Lori Martin

Iona Abbey

image: http://tvrfan.deviantart.com/art/The-path-at-night-Updated-73067995

(I wrote this in 2002 on Iona, after attending Compline (night prayer) in the Abbey, and experiencing the walk to and from.)

Blind -

Pressing embrace of darkness,

Eyes straining for a hint of path,

Feet feeling for gravel,

Trembling.

I fear, but yearn,

And finally find my way

To the sanctuary.

Silenced -

Breath caught in holy wonder

At the whisper of a voice, words

That Breathe in

The wind

Through cracked stone.

And finally my heart cracks open

To hear.

Stilled -

By the weight I feel on every

Inch of my skin - you pressing in,

Spirit of matter,

You pour

Over my edge,

Flooding me full

To bursting.

And here is my prayer.

Guide in the Dark Night,

Voice on the Breathing Wind,

Full Weight of all Creation,
Let me stay. 

by Lori Martin, 2002

Night Sails

image: http://www.cgvector.com/tag/child/

I have decided to make the bedroom

My vessel and cover every flat surface

In blankets and pillows and 

Teddy bears.

All the everyday clothes shall be tossed. 

I will wear only ruby red gowns from now on,

And, of course, when it is cold,

Fuzzy socks.

The light-switch shall always be off. 

I will keep an ever-charged flashlight

For under-cover reading and 

Shadow manufacture.

By day the window shall be shuttered. 

I will blot out the sunlit world and all 

Its un-strangeness, and make the 

Dark everlasting.

By night I shall throw open the window. 

All the air out under the moon must be

Let in with its breathing breeze and 

Impish gusts.

I will follow a path of stars strewn and 

Sail my ship of cushions out

In vast magic dreams.

Anchors away!

by Lori Martin

6/2/15