The Poetry Marathon

Hope
Trifecta: sunshine, soil, and rain
Seeds
Luck
Labor

I live in the woods,
love the way sunshine slants
through breaks in the canopy,
and at the same time, long
for a sunny half acre
of flat land.

I work with what I have–
hope, and a dash of hubris;
raised beds, with carted in soil;
catch as catch can sunshine;
and too little or too much rain.

I choose seeds, not based on logic
but on the same hope and hubris
that I apply to the entire garden.
Sometimes,
With a little luck
and a whole lot of labor,
I harvest enough for a meal or two,
a few jars in the pantry,

before I head to the farmer’s market
where I harvest the real bounty.

I never was one for following recipes,
prefer, instead, the adventure
of trial and error.

I knew her when she was a kid,
remember when she and her brother won
the 4H Share the Fun competition
in McAlester,
her voice,
his upside down guitar.
They could sure put on
a show.
My three octave range
didn’t stand a chance.

It’s the show that matters.
That was my first lesson.

In high school, senior year
singing with a rock band turned country
for 4-H,
pretending to be Kitty Wells
on the Grand Ole Opry stage,
my friends and I went all the way to state,
sang in front of a crowd
at the Iba Arena.

When we got offered a summer gig,
the six of us,
Dad put his foot down.
His daughter wasn’t going to be
a country singer.

I put my foot down, too.
I wasn’t going to be a gospel singer,
the path he envisioned for me.
Our relationship was fractious,
And I somehow found the courage
to choose my own path.
I didn’t become famous,
but I still make music.
And I am still learning lessons.

One lesson has stayed with me,
Learned at the end of a show in Stillwater,
not long after her original band
died in a plane crash.
I shared
a few words with her,
saw the fatigue
understood the hard work,
the dedication,
the singular focus it takes
to be a star, still

I’d joke
or poke at a sore place in me,
that every time I sold a story,
a poem,
a feature in a magazine,
she’d made it to the pages
or the cover,
first.

But on that night,
I went home to my kiddos,
my four-year-old son,
my infant daughter,
and knew I’d made the right choice for myself,
and that she had earned,
had paid for, every accolade.

This year, in a book of Oklahoma poetry,
I’m proud to be included.
She’s there, too,
and we both deserve our place
on the page.

My new book, I’ve Got the Blues: Looking for Justice in a Red State, came out in early March. It’s a collection of my essays and poems published in The Oklahoma Observer. Almost as soon as the book arrived, I started cancelling plans to speak and sign. I also started rescheduling the poets invited to the monthly poetry reading I host.

A writer should be able to self-isolate, right? I have a nice husband and a loyal dog, but I’ve missed the gathering of poets and the art students who come to my husband’s studio.

Action has kept be going through the pandemic–a garden, canning, walking–but I’ve had trouble quieting my mind and even more trouble sitting to write. I’ve met deadlines, but I’ve written little poetry. I need this marathon to get back to my daily writing practice.

sharonedgemartin.com

If you were wondering, the painting on the cover is my husband’s work. Not only is he a nice guy, but he’s talented, as well.

You couldn’t have known that law school
was out of the question,
when you were Girl of the Month your senior year
and answered the question about your future plans.

No one told you, because your parents didn’t know,
how hard it is to pay for college
when you don’t know how
to navigate the system.

Your job at the Mexican restaurant,
just you and the owner on weekends,
paid the rent. The landlord’s garden
yielded turnips. You didn’t like turnips.

So, what’s a girl to do?
Get a full-time job, taking classes here and there.
It took another twenty-five years
to get your graduate degree,

find the job that you were meant to have,
teaching kids to read and write.
You couldn’t have known then,
that it was your calling,

something you might have missed
if you’d been more affluent,
if you’d had more information.
Luck.

I don’t believe in fate now.
You didn’t believe in it then.

Before the last moonbeam disappears
you’ve filled your canteen with water
and your thermos with coffee
and backed up the old truck to the boat trailer.

Never mind that I prefer to sleep in
on my days off, I’m with you.
We drive on back roads to a place you know,
and slip the boat into the water.

As the sun comes up, fog rises from the creek.
We cut through the mist to a deep hole
filled with old brush. We once found crappie here
and hope to again. But even if we don’t

it’s the day on the water that’s the thing,
the hush, the stillness, you and me
communicating without words, until
“Damn! Tangled again.”

Our temperate climate has grown balmy,
so maybe it’s time we head across the border
to Canada,
find a place where our children and theirs
and theirs and theirs can survive
for the next millennia or so.

Survival
of the fittest
or the fastest.
What it comes down to
seems to be migration and luck.

Note: The title comes from the novel, North, by Donna Jo Napoli.

Writing is a solitary endeavor.
Whether in your room or in a public space,
you are in your own head
creating worlds out of electrical impulses
and words.

Sure, you look outward.
You listen.
You even converse,
then take it all home with you,
or to the diner where you work,
your coffee going cold as you write.

Publishing is a social exercise.
What you wrote in private
becomes public. For a poet especially,
there are no secrets.

How do we navigate both worlds,
come to terms with the self’s two halves?

The blues!
Rock!
I loved the music
my parents called sinful,

so locked in, they were, to the idea
that only gospel
could carry me to heaven.

I gave up their gospel
for my music,
found heaven
in a wailing guitar.

Ripe plums,
a neighbor’s gift,
and all I can think of
is what do I do with these things.
Eat them?