Of Rubic’s Cubes and Rainbows

Red conjures thoughts of blood.
Orange, the hues of flame.
Yellow, an aegis of sun.
Green, the daughter of rain.
Blue sings the music of rivers.
Indigo’s voice is ink.
Violet causes quivers
of rapture. Or so I think.

Leslie Schultz

Yesterday, I awoke with ideas for two poems, so I wrote and posted them both. Today? Nothing! Nothing of my own, anyway. Later in the day, yesterday, I had been working on an essay on another poet, Amy Clampitt, and I awoke with her work long, intricate sentences in my head.

So, with today’s NaPoWriMo challenge in front of me, I went to an idea notebook that Julia made for me. It was my Christmas present in 2009. I found this as the first entry, made on April 10, 2010.

“Red is the color of blood.
Orange is the hue of flame.”

I remember when I wrote this little scrap. It was when Tim was driving and I was gazing out the passenger’s window at the fields along Minnesota’s Highway 52 on our way to an art gallery in Zumbrota called “The Crossings.” The next day I transferred it into my pristine new book and promptly forgot about it for six years.

One of the things I love about working with words is that I just never know how (or when) a poem will jell into something with shape. Whether I am figuring out my own new thing or marveling at someone else’s creation, part of poetry’s pull on me is that it appeals to the crossword puzzle part of my brain. Better, there is never one right answer. Always many right answers!

Until Tomorrow!

Leslie

Yellow Slicker

I put it on, and the floppy hat, too.
The arms hang way past my hands.
We each claim our place at the railing—
Mom, clinging tight to squirrely little Kurt,
Karla, calm and watchful, and Dad,
stowing his science fiction in a dry pocket.

Kitty is safe at home, fed by a neighbor.

The sturdy tub begins to rock,
drawing nearer and nearer.
The approaching roar
is like the vast silence
and heavy dark
a mile under the earth
in Carlsbad Caverns. It was wet there,
too, but here, the whole world
is made of water and the water
is singing, is pouring its stinging
notes, needles made of mist,
each one a tempting siren
calling me closer to the dark adventure
the song of my life.

Leslie Schultz

Finger Exercises

I dream I am speaking to the mother
of a dark-haired girl.
The girl, seven or eight years old, is crying.

She doesn’t believe it.
How can practicing the flow
of her handwriting compete

or help with her dancing.
Distraught, her tutu shakes,
there in the barn, where we gather.

Oh, yes, I say. It’s true.
Scientific research. Amazing—
when the littlest finger moves,

muscles fire in the legs, too,
run neural music up and down
the whole body, like wild fire.

My words quiver in her ear, tickle
those tiny internal cilia.
Her smile breaks like a tsunami.

She reaches up for a large sheet
of foolscap, dips the steel
nib into the inkwell.

I, who could never dance,
clap as the flowing blue swoops
and curls across the page

like a dancer on a spotlit stage
reinventing each timeworn move anew.
I tap my foot, my silk-and-steel toeshoe.

Leslie Schultz

Until Tomorrow!