Ekphrastic Poetry: Art Responding to Art

Special shout out to one of my favorite artists and friends, Tyler Hays. I used his watercolor painting for a poetry assignment this semester: write a poem responding to a piece of art. This is one of the few poems from my semester-long poetry collection that I can stamp with a gold sticker. I'm proud of it. Thanks for inspiring me with you art, Tyler!

The Thing About Wishes

by Heather D. Moline

The thing about wishes is that they come free

from genies

on birthday cakes

in a fountain full of pennies.

The thing about wishes is that they are bendy.

They squish and they squash into something

so unlike the something you wished.

Link pinkies with your wishes like a childhood swear.

Brush out the snarls and weave wishes through your hair.

Hold wishes between your fingers

like a flickering fly—

don’t pinch them too tight,

remember

they’re alive.

And just like the bugs you caught in the dark,

wishes want to flitter

and don’t live well in jars.

If given the chance, they’ll scatter and sneak

like crunchy red leaves hitching rides with the breeze.

Once they are snubbed, they leave you alone

with responsible, grown up things that you chose:

taxes,

terrorists,

saturated fats,

earthquakes and heartbreaks

and terminal disease.

The thing about wishes is that they come free

from genies

on birthday cakes

in a fountain full of pennies

but wishes will go if you wish them away,

swept up by the wind and the gray.

You should read this.

Check out my article for Credo Magazine! You can view it online at http://www.CredoMagazine.com - It is titled "Swallowed by Darkness" and appears on the home page.

A lot of really great things have been happening over the last few weeks. Hopefully, as soon as the semester ends I'll find a spare moment to write it all out. Just know that God is good, exams are stressful, and summer is near.

Hold onto hope this week. Thanks for reading.

So, I'm taking this poetry class...

Poetry is not my thing, I've decided. This semester I'm in a poetry class and most of the time I sit there, staring blankly, listening to everyone's intelligent responses to the works and feeling like all I've got is red roses and blue violets. The professor is one of my favorites, though. She is teaching me to appreciate the art. Despite my love-hate (mostly hate) relationship with poetry, I finally crafted a poem that I'm proud of. I think it's funny and honest and has a good voice. But let me know what you think...

P.S. Since poetry is always better when it's read aloud, read this one with gusto! (Every little bit helps.)

Woman Stoops A League, Or Two

by Heather D. Moline

He’s a good one by any reasonable woman’s standard.

His teeth are white

mostly

and only a little crooked with g a p s between the canines and incisors—

but surely nothing a little minor cosmetic tweaking can’t fix.

And he tells jokes. Good ones, even.

So good that he can entertain hisself,

laughing and spitting,

but only sometimes spitting on me.

He smooches fine.

Sort of soft or sweet or sticky-like.

I tell myself, be thankful—

you gots yourself a tame kind of man,

not a wild

kinky

lick your toes

kind of man that some women gots to handle.

And I suppose a smooch is nicer

than him jammin his tongue at my tonsils

like they’re his grape lollypop.

But sometimes I wish he’d plant a good one on me

like Patrick Dempsey or that Matthew what-his-name

in the movies

instead of smearing me with

them crooked teeth and fountain jokes

that are ‘posed to be just fine

by any reasonable woman’s standards.

My Little Brother

When he was a kid, Ryan was chubby and shy. He liked Kix cereal with no milk and chicken nuggets with barbeque sauce. If it weren’t for Mom, he would have eaten those foods—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—for the rest of his life. Unlike me, the child who would run off with any stranger who smiled, Ryan only trusted a few special people. He liked our immediate family, the neighbor boy, Sam, and the checkout lady at the grocery store who he insisted on calling “Grandma.”

When he was eight, Mom let him start taking violin lessons. In middle school he started taking guitar lessons. He practiced diligently and would accept nothing less than perfection from either of his instruments, a testament to both his determination and patience. His music gave him confidence, but not arrogance. Over time, his shyness disappeared completely. (Now, we can’t get him to stop talking!)

He graduated Salutatorian in high school, delivering an honest and humble speech. And although he is incredibly intelligent, Ryan isn’t one of those obnoxious students who get an A without any effort—he studied hard for his special spot on that graduation stage. But he would never tell you how smart he is. He isn’t proud, at least, not that kind of proud.

Smart and artistic, Ryan played almost every sport—football, soccer, basketball, and baseball. His baby cheeks were long gone. In high school, he dedicated himself to running and lifting to prepare for the baseball season—the sport he loved most. But he wasn’t an attention-starved-athlete. He cared deeply for people. I’ll never forget his freshman year when he went to basketball camp and conditioned with the team for months during the summer. Then, right as the season was about to begin, he made the difficult choice to leave the team. The coach begged him to stay, but Ryan had made his decision. He wanted to have more time to serve with the kids’ ministry at church.

Serving others has become a passion in Ryan’s life. I was reminded of this when I called to wish him Happy Birthday today. He is nineteen. I chatted with him from my Indiana Wesleyan apartment, while his voice echoed from his Spring Arbor stairwell. (I wish we weren’t so far apart.) I asked him about his presents. He told me that he was programming his new ipod Touch. I assumed it was the one he had been saving up for during the past several months. But Ryan explained that when the earthquake tore apart Haiti, he didn’t feel right about buying such an expensive item for himself. He gave all of his savings to disaster relief, instead. He went on to explain that after he had given the money away, he received his present from Mom and Dad—an ipod Touch, a complete surprise to Ryan. They bought it for him weeks before the earthquake.

I told Ryan that I was proud of him for sacrificing his hard-earned money for people he had never even met. But he shrugged it off. In his mind, it was just a small thing. He was just doing his part. (He’s probably embarrassed that I am even telling this story, but I don’t care. I want to brag about my brother. I told you, he’s humble.)

Ryan is currently studying Youth Ministry and Psychology at Spring Arbor University. He wants to help others for the rest of his life, and I know he will. I couldn’t be more proud of my brother and the man that he has become. It is clear that God is at the center of everything he does. He might be younger than me, but I look up to him in many ways (and not just because he is a foot taller than me.) I love you, Buddy. Happy Birthday. I’m so glad you’re my little brother.

Ho Ho Home

This morning I made the drive from Marion, Indiana to Toledo, Ohio, singing along with the Trans Siberian Orchestra and Bing Crosby. ("Ho Ho Ho and Hit the Highway," my newest ipod playlist.) I can't believe that the semester is over. Like, seriously over. As I reflected on all of the papers I wrote and pages I read and tests I took and coffee I drank, I wasn't sure if I wanted to scream from joy or cry from exhaustion. So I scream-cried, not caring if the WalMart truck driver could see me. I made it. The semester is over. I worked harder than I've ever worked, and it felt good. Tiring, but good.

When I got home, I gave my G6 a well-deserved oil change and watched court tv and napped on the couch and helped my mom with the no-bake cookies (a reasonable cookie for me and my horribly-inept-domestic-abilities to tackle.) Christmas break has already been wonderfully relaxing, and it has only been a few hours. I'm taking the next few days to fill my lungs with cleansing, deep breaths because I know that the parties will start soon and I will be in a perpetual sugar-cookie coma until January.

I'm thankful for the break--even though I know it will go fast. I'm thankful for how God has brought me through my busiest semester so far. Thankful for the laughter from friendships. Thankful for the comfort from family. Thankful for my own bed. Thankful for this time of year and the Savior who loves me unconditionally.

Me In 10

I couldn't sleep last night because I was inspired. Every few minutes, between midnight and 2 a.m., I flicked the switch on my bedside lamp, squinting as the room filled up with harsh light. I couldn't risk losing the words. I've learned, after years of writing, that you have to capture those kinds of thoughts quickly. They are like lightning bugs. They flash and sparkle momentarily, but they will disappear if you don't cup them tightly in your hands or cram them into a jar--I like to think of my little red notebook as my lightning bug jar.

I know that my husband doesn't particularly like it when I have inspired nights. But he likes me a lot, so he has learned to sleep through the chaotic lamp show. He's my number one reader. He reads everything I write--even the bad stuff. I'm not sure if he has read any other books since college, so I believe him when he says that I'm his favorite author.

During the day, I'm a mom. I drive the kids to school and baseball practice and boxing lessons--yes, I gave in. They are boxing now. My husband says it's healthy for little boys to let out their aggression in the ring. I still think it's a horrible sport, if you can even call it a sport.

I read cookbooks and write my bi-weekly column on my laptop in the car while I wait for the boys to get out of practice. It isn't the most glamorous life, I know. I don't have a real office, unless you consider the desk in the basement an office. I dress up once a month for conferences or book signings, which is a nice escape into grown-up world. But most of the time, I'm just mom with a ponytail, proofreading pages for my new book when I have a rare minute.

The writing life isn't as fabulous as I thought it would be. After college, I had to write a lot of silly magazine articles and devotional blurbs to help pay the bills. But I reached my ultimate goal, I wrote my first book before the age of twenty-five. It was good. It had a cute cover. My parents were proud and stockpiled copies in their basement. When I read it now, all I can see are the typos and cliches. Sometimes I am my own worst critic.

After that book, I continued writing magazine articles, which led to a column assignment, which led to more book proposals. So now, here I am, writing my fourth book, waiting to pick up the boys from baseball practice. I'm a wife and a mom and a writer. I'm not famous or rich, but I am wonderfully happy.

Written for a Fall 2009 Sentence Strategies assignment: Write about yourself and your daily life as it might appear 10 years in the future.

God in a tube

Sometimes I like to be tube-fed my spirituality. I like the way it casually oozes into me on Sunday mornings or in chapel at my small, Christian university or during the five-minute “Faithful Friday” readings from a well-meaning professor. Allowing the nutrients to pass through me, I sit. I wait to feel something about life again. I wait, craving fullness, disappointed when I can’t remember a sermon one hour after it was pumped from the pulpit. It must have leaked out of me, I think.

The Protestant Reformation was about a lot of deep, theological things. Things I don’t fully understand. I know that Catholics were tired of paying a lump sum to their local priest every time they sinned—a bogus scheme called Indulgences. I know that priests were corrupt, stealing money, sinning sexually, paying for power. But I know that the most important thing about Martin Luther and his 95 Theses was that people were demanding to feed themselves again. They were ripping out their mindless-spirituality food tubes, taking ownership of their soul’s health.

I believe that Luther broke free from the church partially because of its corruptness but also because he realized that it was numbing him. When Luther and his crew of rebellious Catholics spit boldly in the face of religious tradition in the 16^th century, I guarantee they never imagined Christians in the 21^st century who would return to lukewarm living on purpose. But in many ways, I think we have.

If I’m honest with myself, I am comfortable letting others do the hard work for me. I like it when my pastor researches recipes, prepares the meal, serves it to me, in 30-minutes, on a TV tray. It’s much easier than trying to sauté, poach, bake, stir, measure, or grill something for myself. While I know that meals in a tube don’t make me stronger, I still fight the urge to be a passive follower of Christ. Sometimes I make the effort, rustling up a nutritious meal for myself. But sometimes I still settle for mush through a tube.