Sherry Chandler

Wow! I’m the guest podcaster at Safe Digression on the first day of National Poetry Month. I’m thrilled.

Safe Digression was, as far as I know, the pioneer of poetry podcasting and it’s a wonderful site. I suggest you visit it every day. I’ve added a link.

But this poetcasting trend is catching on. Check out this Safe Digression entry for a rundown on some other poetry podcasting sites.

“The only balm is fingers in the soil in the sun,” says Karen Koegler.

But there has been precious little balm in this Gilead during the month of March.

We hit 70 for the first time this year on March 30 and the weather guy said that’s the first time we’ve been this long getting to 70 degrees since 1970. So my children, who are 26, have never seen a March this cold.

I took a little tour of the yard on this gray cold morning. The Dutchmen’s Britches are just putting out little blooms, the Carolina bluebells are just breaking the ground, the trillium is just putting out leaft. In short, spring is nearly a month late in our North Yard.

But it is April Fool’s Day, which seems to be vaguely associated with the new year in ancient cultures, so perhaps a little foolishness will seduce spring into coming.

If you’re looking for a little warmth on this cold April 1, follow this link to toast yourself with art. Or here to see why the Kaing — that would be Elvis — and the Mona Lisa are toast.

Or remember how the Chinese love ping-pong? How about performance ping-pong.

All these links are courtesy of Donna Marder and various members of her extended family.

Gin Petty has been asking to see photos of the grandbabies but I hope never to have to approach them close enough to get pictures. To compensate, here’s a photo of Ursula, whom we suspect of being the mama. The foot is my husband’s. The time was June 2003.

“Ursula” means little female bear. My son suggested that I use this poem, because it is about a slightly larger female bear.

Skin Out a Woman

Callisto is a bear now.
Pigeon-toed, nearsighted,
rippling with muscles and fat,
she births, suckles in her sleep,
lives on human trash and honey,
fur too thick to feel the sting of outraged bees.

That string of nightingales, trees,
and bears the gods left in their trail–
was there no desire?
Can even a god make you into some
thing you don’t want to be?

When I rise up from the bed and
  must walk bent until
        my muscles stretch and
                I can walk straight,
I would be a bear and go on four legs,
rise only to nibble grapes from the high vine.

My father was a bear,
growling through my nights,
taciturn, given to sudden rage.
My mother was something lighter–
a mockingbird perhaps–fluttering,
singing through her days.

When I bend and try to rise and
    must wait until
            my hip pops
                cracking in its socket,
I would be a bear–no frilly apron,
no sweet-smelling garden with orderly borders–
throat-ripping big fat honey-licking black-fur
living in a cave full of rabbit bones.

—from Dance the Black-Eyed Girl