Art is Work

Laura Slaathaug. Poems.

[lslaathaug]

Art is Work turned 3 today!

[lslaathaug]

Williams, Arizona.

Melted snow and dusty streets.

You and I had to stop.

We’re drawn to places

of power, like roadside

attractions. No matter how

cheap or quaint they seem,

they’re free of cliches.

Here it was, a shrine to

Route 66--even if it was

just a dirty painted banner

on a faded tan brick

gas station wall:

“LAST TOWN BYPASSED

BY I-40 ROUTE 66

WILLIAMS, ARIZONA

OCTOBER 13, 1984.”

You parked the rented car

on broken pavement.

You had to stop and take a

picture of the sign and

posed between

the parked Sequoia

and mud-covered pickups

You don’t know to

pray, but you know how

to pay attention,

how to halt and idle

in the exhaust of diesel fuel.

Really, what else should you

have done? Doesn’t everything

disappear too soon? What door

will you open now that your

sacred window is closing?

[lslaathaug]

Ten Things That I Thought of on Your Birthday

1. Your cornflower blue eyes crinkled and laughing, sometimes flashing like the storms you love to chase

2. Your strawberry blond mop that smelled nothing like fruit but instead of sweat and grime, clinging to your brow when you removed that Pepsi baseball cap

3. Easter egg hunts on your birthday, like plastic flowers in melted snow and you up trees and on the roof of grandma's garage

4. Rare compromises that built tree forts or wound up the tire swing until it bounced and whirled its passenger like a spinning top

5. When everything you did, I wanted to do too--whether it was rescuing the princess or flying an X-wing

6. Diddy and Dixie Kong headlocked and tangled in armpits, wrestling for the Super Nintendo controller or for the remote for the VCR until Donkey had enough and made them both watch Barney

7. The laughter of you and your friends from the basement or slipping around the corner, back when I said “Me too” and meant “include me”

8. Games of war crouched behind the couches when the only war you dreamt about was the one in Narnia

9. The cliff in Hawaii over the smoking volcanic ocean water and Mom screaming for you to come down

10. When you push me, like the dominoes you used to line up and watch devotedly as they toppled over, one after the other because sometimes general incivility is the very essence of love

[lslaathaug]

How do you keep going when your biggest obstacle is yourself?

When you have candles on your cake, light them. When you have confetti in your pockets, throw them. When the clouds in your painted blue skies turn to storms, reframe the canvas. When you can't take another step, take one more because soon you'll be able to rest. And don't forget--to breathe. Your hands will ache, and your bones will tire. You will walk away, but you must always turn back and try again. This is how you see another sunrise. This is how your steps become dancing and your silence humming.

[lslaathaug]

Up in the Air

He may praise me like

a breeze on a sunny day.

He may shriek as he

gets carried away.

He may slam the front door

and rattle the windows.

He may get swept up in a storm

of his own making,

but I've learn to stand in

the eye of the storm and

not be touched,

when to board the windows

and doors and wait in

the basement,

when to hop in my car and roll the windows down

and feel the wind in my fingers,

and when to look for that moment

when a child's kite cartwheels

through the air

and a proud father looks on

[lslaathaug]

Streets at Dawn

The only time the streets are paved

with gold is when the sun rises--

poor Dennis feels rich

old Marlys feel young

everything slow seems worth waiting for.

The birds fly north and greet the sky.

Over the streets the sun pours

like honey from the jar.

It's another day, and you doubted

you'd make it this far.

When the darkness feels too heavy,

your hands too empty,

don't forget that joy

comes in the morning.

[lslaathaug]

Sometimes your mind is too strong

and you want to break

the things you love

because it all seems to anyway

But sometimes the spark

of an orange sky

reminds you to hold out your hand

to the only kind of fire

that won’t burn

[lslaathaug]

there may be

miles separating

you from where

you need to be

and where you are now,

but don’t stop

instead

take another step

[lslaathaug]

You biffed it on the ice

outside your apartment,

and you landed hard

on your back.

Wincing, you looked up

to a crystalline sky of stars

over the dimly lit street.

You stayed there, lying on

the cold hard ice

and searching

the constellations.

Life does that, tripping you

into a space of reflection

until a person sitting in

his running car

reminds you

of where you are.

[lslaathaug]

Interesting, What Remains

of what people remember about us,

the only parts of us that may have long lives

like the stars blinking and waking

as night closes in. You long to

rearrange the stars and write

down the names of whom you loved,

so the whole world won’t forget

even if the ones you named do.

You need to learn to let go, they’re right,

and you’re not even sure what

you’re holding onto,

because the stars

won’t let you hold them.

So, you find a book instead,

the pages heavy with memories

of where you’ve walked

and the parts of you you’ve lost.

But you hope to stop and light a

candle before you eat

and hope those you know

will follow it like Polaris

to your table. They’ve come far,

like you, their bodies worn

and broken but dutiful.

This body of yours, owes you

nothing, not even

the parts that hurt.

So eat and be done,

let go of your lightning

and rest while the clouds roll

over the stars.

(Heavily inspired by Melissa Stoddard’s poem “Fascinating, the Parts of Us”)

[lslaathaug]

You get a text at work

Your girlfriend has sent you

another photo of the sunrise,

but it’s of white sculpted trees,

hazy fog, and pink horizon

over a field of blue snow.

You know where this is,

this one patch of tangled trees

hiding a barn and farmhouse

before giving out

to open plains, apartments, and strip malls.

Every morning she passes this spot

on her way to work or

when she comes home to you.

You jokingly call it Owl Pass

and ask her if she wants to get a

pet owl. She thinks owls would

make terrible pets, and you

agree because they can never

be apart from their owner

without becoming stressed or ill.

Well, let’s get one. It’ll give me a

reason to stay home and write, she says.

She’s joking.

And later that night she

pulls out the kind of pants you like

off the rack. With a touch she smooths

them, healing them of their wrinkles.

In the morning you reach for her,

relieved that she was still there.

She quotes, Attention is

the beginning of devotion,

and when she runs her hand

through your brambled beard,

you can’t help but agree.

[lslaathaug]

Waiting for the storm/snowpocalypse Geraldine currently and missing the summer sunflowers and faraway mountains. They keep telling us that the weather conditions will be crippling and that this will be a storm to tell our grandchildren about. That’s a big deal for a year that has seen many storms.

[lslaathaug]

You’re better at showing love;

I’m better with telling you, “I love you.”

Somewhere in the middle we meet.

I’ll tell you how much you matter 

in the grandest of terms, and you’ll 

show me in the tiniest of ways. 

I’ll describe the Milky Way 

as an ocean of lights

reflected in a tea cup,

and you stop the car and

point up at the real thing.

[lslaathaug]

All of your poems

come to you in your sleep,

lined up in little rows.

Scraps of paper,

rows of text,

letters jumbled

into incoherency

like a tongue-spoken prayer,

from your heart only God could

understand. Van Gogh

dreamed his dreams

and then painted them.

You write your poems and then

dream them—

if words were art, maybe yours

would be “Sunflowers”, yellow

and churning

returning to you with each chance

or “Starry Night” blue cyclic

yearning for perfect light

Or a self-portrait, still but buzzing

with particles and piecing eyes

of who you were

in that moment—

and these flights of fancy

may find you in your sleep,

but some day, dreamer,

you will be awake

and dangerous.

[lslaathaug]

Home

-The morning light through the curtains, a bright rectangle on the bedroom floor, a white furry face in mine

-A hungry meow and the metallic clink of kibble hitting the bowl, the whistle of boiling water, the crinkle of a tea bag

-The feel of a muscled furry body wrapped around my ankles, my bare feet on cold laminate floor, a warm ceramic cup of tea, bread dough sticking to my fingers

-The sweet spicy aroma of cardamon, the yeasty scent of rising dough in the oven, that lemon fresh smell of soap

-Viscous honey and spice, a blanket of buttery flaky bread, the baptism of cold sweet water

[lslaathaug]

Mourning Ritual

The sun said to me this morning,

You have to break.

You have to change.

For your sake, the world was shaped,

and you are stardust and ashes—

the fuel for the dawn

that must come after.

[lslaathaug]

God took his time on us,

purposefully with each detail

down to the smallest hair on

our heads, so that we could stand apart,

and I can see my face in your face,

my hands on hands stronger than mine,

my feet in shoes that have walked further than mine.

When I think of love, I think of arms that resemble mine

giving me more love than I can hold

but just enough to give away.

Grandmother, mother, sister,

what world would exist

without you?

Happy International Women’s Day.