Displaying items by tag: embodied writing

In 1865 Mark Lindsey and his wife Bithiah Savill Lindsey, Handcart Pioneers of 1859, homesteaded a quarter section;built a home, dance hall, museum, lunch arbors, a bathhouse fed from a spring in the ravine, planted gardens, made swings, giant strides, whirligigs, greasy poles, croquet and baseball grounds, sold soft drinks, homemade ice-cream and cake. Admission: Adults 10 cents, children 5 cents.

The first time I read
of the playground’s founders,
I was so taken by their list of rides,
I forgot how they got here. Marveling
over whirligigs and greasy poles,
let alone Giant Strides—
Maypoles with chains and handles
instead of ropes and flowers.

People running
in long dresses and stiff pants,
running until lifted into orbit, running
until their hair is loosed
and their clothing
no longer
a burden—

Can you see
Bithiah flying?

The First Playground
was just blocks from my house.
When I read the plaque again,
I see them walking here,
pushing their handcart
wearily across Wyoming.
The company of 1859,
is not remembered like ’56,
for two hundred and thirteen lives lost.
Only five died in ’59.
But by Devil’s Gate
they had run out of flour
and by their rescue at Green River
they were famished.

As they settled here in Salt Lake,
some of the company
laid out farms, some
labored to construct the temple.
But Bithiah and Mark
built a playground.

So I like to imagine the Lindseys
with a well-worn dance floor,
lunch arbors laden with grapes,
a crowd of neighbors cheering
at the crack of a bat—

Their pantry perpetually
full of flour,
to make the cake
which is moist and good
and frosted, if Bithiah likes frosting.
Ice-cream from strawberries grown
near their spring, made with cream
from a cow they know by name—

And sometimes at night
after closing the park,
they gather with their friends
in the moonlight.
Bithiah takes off her bonnet
and Mark nods.
They take hold
of the Giant Stride
and start to run

soon, pioneers are flying—

and if
and when
their feet
touch the ground
they run
until they fly
again.

I admire a white pattern
to find it’s sculpted
from my own bones.

Drawn to the birch home
of my uncaged ribs
I touch them once
to remember.
Then again
to question.
With a slight tug
at the finest
I test its attachment—

If I remove this rib
nothing would be missed.

I could take it
and make something new.
I could remake myself
from myself—
something, I once believed
only god could do.

This poem was written collectively by 16 participants of the Embodied Writing class held at Art Access Gallery on April 4th, 2016. We loosely employed a method inspired by the Japaneese form of Renku.

There is room for you
where I once grew honeysuckle
and sipped from the stems

the air is still.

I will miss the unborn
apricots this summer
roots of the tree in me
my green heart aches with songs.

Rooted in this life so deeply how do I brave the change?

next to my white paper cup
a blackbird of spattered paint
looks up at the wooden beams

nebulae burst
I may never have children
electricity enchants me

paint spilled everywhere
evidence everywhere
time marching past
I obsess over lost
and found

they have a purpose
like flying buttresses
these porous ivory ribs

she moves freely
under the gaping archway
my closed throat aches

bodies crave touch
soft and warm
opening
my mind is freed
the wind has done its job

when you come home
open the patio door,
I’ll be listening still.