Podcast #7 -- Beth Cavanaugh

The first time I heard her read, I told Beth Cavanaugh that I wanted her to come to my house and read to my daughter. Someone quickly shot back that they wanted Beth to come to their house and read to them. I agree. Beth reads wonderfully -- and writes even better. I am pleased to share three of her poems with you. I know you'll enjoy them -- let Beth know what you think.

Waiting Up for You

11:59 PM
I ‘m waiting up for you.
I turn on the porchlight.

12:00 AM
I curl up alone in the oversized chair,
Nestled beneath a comforter.
The lamplight softly caresses the pages of my book.
My eyes move over the words,
But there is no meaning.
The seeds of worry are taking root
Growing quickly, wildly.
But I calm myself and think,
You’ll soon be home.

12:01 AM
My book slides off to the floor and my page is lost.
I leave it there, not caring.
My silent footsteps are heavy
As I enter the shadowy kitchen
Searching for comfort.
Warm smells from our family dinner
Just a few hours ago still linger.
But the aftertaste does not satisfy me.
You’re still not home.

12:02 AM
I drift from dark space to dark space
Until beckoned to the dining room window
By silvery white curtains bathed in moonlight.
My trembling fingers pull back the silky softness,
And I press my face to the hard, cold glass.
My restless eyes scan the sleeping street,
Eager for lights.
Meeting only shadows.
Why aren’t you home?

12:03AM
The faint glow of car lights
Crawls hesitantly around the corner.
Creating a dance of light and gloom
Upon my face.
They pass silently,
Leaving me devoid of all light.
Where are you?

12:04 AM
The pain of worry in me is so intense
That I labor to breath.
My exhausted body is hungry for the sleep
That my over-fed imagination will not allow.
Uncle Patrick’s friend was murdered when he was 10.
Stolen from the bowling alley in broad daylight.
His bike and headless body found three days later.
What’s happening to you?
Out there.
In the dark.

12:05 AM
The passing car has stopped
Its engine hums quietly
At the end of the street.
The passenger door opens
I hold my breath.
My eyes strain to identify the dim silhouette
That runs back up the street.
The door opens and
The sweet life smell of you fills my world
Your youthful brilliance explodes into the hallway
Pins prick my eyes and stab my heart
As I offer a silent prayer of thanks.
You have been delivered safely to me once again.
I emerge from the darkness as you say,
“Mom, I’m home.”

Class Reunion

It came in the mail on an ordinary day,
Tucked between magazines and bills to pay.
A small white envelope that filled me with dread,
Before it was open and even one sentence read.
The postmark was from where I’d lived as a teen,
I was fairly certain what this must mean.

I opened the envelope carefully with an anxious breath,
The letter inside began Dear Former Classmate Beth,
Come join us for memories and a laugh or two,
Bring the hubby and kids with you.
Hope to see you in late July,
Please be so kind as to reply.

Please reply? What should I say?
This was only three months away!
Who was going that I’d want to see?
Would I have to face snotty Mary T?
How would I get by butt to be small?
Did I even want to go at all?

Should I say yes or throw it away?
I decided to think on it for a day.
It might be fun to see the old school,
And former classmates dorky and cool.
Hear the old songs that we all used to know,
Oh what the heck, I guess that I’ll go.

The days flew by and I ate less and less,
Struggling to squeeze into that little red dress.
Hair that’s always in the wrong place,
Was waxed and plucked from ears, nose, and face.
My kids looked at me as if to say,
When I’m old I’ll never act that way.

It was time to return to the roots of me,
To dreams of what I wanted to be.
The crowded halls full of Wildcat pride,
Going to class with friend by your side.
The flirting, the gossip, the secrets we’d share,
Wait, was I sure I wanted to go back there?

The day had arrived and it was time to go,
What am I doing? I demanded to know.
My stomach hurt and I suddenly felt queasy,
Facing former classmates was not all that easy.
I opened the doors to the old stomping ground,
And was wide-eyed at what I found.

The jukebox was blaring, there was beer free and cold,
Who were all this people that looked kinda… old?
Buff Steve was now flabby, and Ed had no hair,
Sue had wed Jimmy, big surprise there!
Horny Pam was prowling, Paul was a drunken mess,
He kept trying to look down my new red dress.

Beth, over here, I heard someone say,
Relieved I turned and looked the speaker’s way.
Marybeth was waving and calling my name,
Seeing my friend I began to feel glad that I came.
I saw other old friends, Kath and Mary,
Suddenly things became a little less scary.

I weaved my way over, saying hi as I went,
And talking to other old friends for a short stint.
Uniting with my best friends at last,
We laughed and reminisced about the past.
We kicked off our shoes and danced wild and free,
My best friends, my husband, my children and me.

As night turned to morning and we started to leave,
My husband tugged gently on my left sleeve.
Over there, he pointed, gazing across the space,
I looked where he pointed and saw my enemy’s face.
Blonde Mary T, the biggest snot of our class,
Was still a snot but with the biggest ass.

I smiled suddenly from ear to ear,
High school reunions were nothing to fear.
I saw the people I cared about most,
And raised my glass giving my alma mater a toast.
I went home secure about the friends I still had,
And able to say, High School’s over, and I am glad!

Where I'm From

An accident in a dark, secretive place
A moment’s uncontrollable passion
The wrong answer to a prayer.
What possible grandparents do not want to accept.
A problem to be handled and a decision to be made.
A childhood stealer
Destroyer of freedom, and dreams of the future.
A lifelong reminder of shame
I am a lust child, not a love child, a lust child.

Podcast #6 -- Joy Casey

Joy shared this piece, an excerpt from a larger work, with us last week on her 26th birthday-- it was so powerful that I asked her to read it again. I love the way she reads. I wish I could describe the way it works -- but I can't. You're just going to have to listen for yourself. Enjoy.


excerpt from Midwest farmers daughters really make you feel all right

"Weeping Joy"

We thought it was hilarious, my brother and me. Mom didn't. We were appalled at the injustice of Ashes the cat lounging on the family room chair when Goblin couldn't even come in. But our incomprehension didn't change the fact; it was back to the barn for Gobby.

When Gobby was a small, he was 150 pounds of creamy Charolais-cross. A marginalized beef half-breed, he was nonetheless my baby. He would thrust on his gallon sized bottle so hard he'd knock me over my nine-year-old frame. Of course, it's not hard for someone big to plow down someone small.

I thought he had been abandoned by his mommy; truth is, he had been taken away by my dad. But now he was my baby. He slept in the first stall of our weathered gray barn. His days were spent lolling in a green gold pasture. For entertainment, he would run from us for hours when it was time for his bottle and bed. With gritted teeth and tightened jaw, I would curse him in my mind and love him in my heart. He really was my baby.

After blizzards and spring buds, summer marched in through wheat in waves of gold. It was time for fair, my first fair, and I knew that I was cute. I pulled up Gobby's neck and poked at his toes, just like a good mommy. I brushed his hair and sprayed his tail. Batting my eyes, I allowed a friendly farmer boy to trim Gobby's belly for me.

I don't know where I placed in the competition, but I know it didn't matter. We were headed to the ring. Suddenly I was not cute. I was a monster lurking in a brutal farm life truth. I couldn't look in the mirror, so I flipped my switch. At the back of my heart, beneath the hopes and dreams, I have an emergency switch. When the status is code red and I'm facing the destruction of my world, I flip the switch. With ferocious efficiency, my tears dry up. The heavy steel walls of my heart collide shut, smashing any tenderness left in the way.
I pulled and tugged Goblin\'s lead rope latched to his blue-green halter. I couldn\'t look into his damp brown eyes. Manipulating the buyers with my blue button-up shirt with little pink flowers, tiny white boots, and sweet smile, I was disgusted with my father. After the ring had emptied itself of the animals, my baby and I walked in. Money came flying. Old men were flinging their bids into the air, and I was a ten-year-old prostitute. I turned my head away and locked my heart. A few minutes later it was over.

A weathered gray farmer was there to take my baby. With him, my Gobby would find no home. Two weeks of grief staining my cheeks, I knelt in shame before the old farmer. My dad assured me the man would take care of him. I scratched and clawed and cried to hold on to this comfort, but I could not deny the truth. I, his second mother, would walk away. My baby was headed to slaughter. With fraying braids plastered to the sweat upon my neck and an indelicate spray of purple feathers atop my head, I was a lost little Indian child mounted by a cowboy hat.

Podcast #5 -- SCWP

The Southern Colorado Writing Project was eager to share some of their work when I pulled out the microphones and explained the concept. Here, for your enjoyment, is one of the best daily logs I've ever heard -- an old-style revival meeting, complete with call and response. Following the log, three of the project's teacher-consultants share their professional papers about writing and what it means for them and to them. (Bonus -- near the end of the track, one participant creates a blog while he's waiting to read his piece!)
Enjoy the podcast, and, as always, please share your comments here so that the authors can get your feedback!

Podcast #4 -- Megan Baker

Live, from Studio P, it's Megan Baker! In this podcast, she reads two pieces, reprinted below. Like what you hear? Tell her -- leave a comment in this post. As always, if you're local and you know of a piece that we should be podcasting, be sure to let us know. If you're not local, and you're listening to our little contribution to the podcasting community, please drop us a line and tell us how we're doing.

The Nest
Magpies have built a
nest in the pine
north of the house.
A basket for all their
eggs. It takes
forty to fifty days,
according to Ehrlich. Forty to
fifty days I watch them gather
sticks, flying up hill
to sage and
mountain mahogany, south to the neighbors’
poplars, down to
service berry. They work
next to each other, parallel
play. My arms would
just reach around it top to bottom,
this strong C of sticks poked and
pulled into place, an intricate and
sturdy basket, lined with a cloth,
cradling steamy bread.

The neighbor cat, a soft, orange
tiger, wanders the slope
to the west. He’s a Science Diet cat.
Not lean. Doesn’t need the
mouse he’s stalking, but can’t
avoid the gut force compelling him -
do this thing.

I watch the cat, watch the
nest, link them in my mind.
He’d have to climb 15, 16 feet up
that tree to get them.
He couldn’t do it, but
I clear my head of magpies,
nests, eggs. Everyone knows cats
are telepathic.

Megan Baker

June 2005

Baking A Poetics

I practice the poetry of
quickbreads
the kind that don’t need
yeast no
kneading no rising no
punching down no
waiting to rise again.
When I bake I want
results:
cream the butter sugar fast
beat the eggs
whisk spices into
breathless batter. My mind is on
nothing.
I only know I’ll have a heavy
sweetcake soon.
And after do I take
the time to sprinkle
something through a doily,
make it pretty? We’ll hack
it up and eat it
anyway. Even the words
p o w d e r e d s u g a r
sound slow and I want to
eat it now.
Did I ever have
the patience it
takes?
Not since
age 11 when I baked with
Granny who told my mother I was
lazy.
Not lazy so much
I think
as wanting the task
done. By the time I write the
leavening’s already happened.
I’ve punched this dough
of pumpkin bread and poetry and
maternal judgment down two or
three times
today. It just looks like
quickbread.

There’s a difference between her
batter and mine. Her rounded anger
waited in the bowl,
exploded like a tiny snore under a
floured fist. Mine resides on the
page, butter melting thin across this
pecan-spackled slice.
She saw my sudden
flurry, its unleavened product and
declared me
unfit for real
baking. Granny couldn’t
see me knead the bread
inside my head.

Megan L. Baker
June 2005

Podcast #3 -- Lorynda Sampson

I think you'll really like Lorynda Sampson's work. Recorded in a makeshift studio with great acoustics (read: my downstairs powder room) during our Friday potluck, her work is very personal, but I found myself nodding in agreement as I listened. Her writing really hit home. (Yes, that is a pun, but not a joke -- you'll see what I mean when you listen to Lorynda.)
I hope you enjoy this podcast -- please tell the author what you thought by leaving some stars and wishes in the comments section of this post.

Podcast #2 -- Kim Donegan

Today's podcast features Kim Donegan, a high school math teacher. She's reading a piece she wrote in response to today's teaching demonstration. Enjoy the piece.
Here's a direct link to the podcast. Please give Kim your feedback by leaving a comment.

Our First Podcast -- Megan Freeman

Below, you'll find a direct link to the CSUWP's first podcast. Over the next few days, I'll be posting more information about what podcasting is, how you can subscribe to podcasts, and the free software that you can use to make a podcast and receive them right on your home computer and in your MP3 player (although you certainly don't need an MP3 player to listen to podcasts).
Our featured author today is Peak to Peak Charter School's very own Megan Freeman. She's reading three poems on the show. Below, you'll find the full text of her poems. If you'd like to be a featured author on a future podcast (I'll do them every day that we've got a volunteer. Or I'll volunteer you.), simply ask me and I'll get you recorded.
Enjoy, and congratulations, Megan. Good stuff here and a great first podcast.
Here is the direct link to the podcast. You will need software capable of playing MP3's to hear it. I like ITunes or Windows Media Player. (They're both free.)

Darwin

Ears are shrinking.

With each generation
people’s ears are getting smaller.
The oldest members of the population
have the largest ears.

Ear lobes used to hang down and away
from the sides of the face.
Now they are attached.
New babies’ ears slope gently into their cheeks
with no space/no dangly skin.
Perhaps that’s why people are finding
other places to pierce?

Uncle Bud could fold up his ear
and tuck it
into his head.
It was like a deformed knob on the side
of his bumpy bald skull.
Then he’d growl and
exhale tobacco breath laughter
as we watched
enthralled and terrified.

“Count to three!” he’d bark and we’d
leap out of our skin, practically peeing with fear.
“One, two, three,” we’d say
with what little breath we had.

Fwuap! His ear would explode out of his head
as his yellow teeth grinned and
he wheezed with pleasure at the execution
of his best trick.

satisfied silence

she reading her novel
me reading her hand

pink chenille in the early mornings and
olives in the guacamole

cross stitch and postage stamps

if she’s an acquired taste
I’m a connoisseur

discerning ear
exacting brain

my only onliest mother
sending me London Fog and goose down
in the icy January of the break-apart

holding me up with her ether

no doormat here
only a fortress of loyalty

heart broken in many tiny shards
repaired with duct tape and ferocity
a mosaic
of good intentions and questionable judgment

Lioness of my pride.

All I Want For Christmas

little wolf cub
pushing lisped syllables
over naked pink gums

sharp incisors
pointing out
the absence
of the anchor teeth

apples gnawed on like sugar cane
sticky-lickable cheeks

milky spoonfuls of corn
shaved from the cob

dedicated tongue
earnest conversation
made somehow more dear
urgent
compelling
by the gaping
victory of your little body

I see you, little wolf cub.
I am listening.
I am paying attention.

New Blog -- For Podcasts Only

This blog serves as bascally a dataset to use to create a feed for the podcasts produced by the Colorado State University Writing Project's 2005 Summer Institute. Please check out the main blog for the CSUWP, where there's lots of interesting and useful teaching resources and writing ideas.