Call for Submissions: Where do you dwell?

For teachers on sabbatical, submit poetry or prose on this question: Where do you dwell? Read my previous post on the Emily Dickinson poem though you don't have to write about that poem specifically. Email your writing to me: denise.galang@gmail.com.

Dwelling on Dickinson

Emily Dickinson poems are as exciting as New York City. A journey through one poem is like a journey through any neighborhood in any borough whether it be Red Hook or Randall Manor. There is the familiar: I know there are blocks with sidewalks, streets with painted crosswalks, stop signs, rushing pedestrians. Then there are the surprising and often contradictory details that are unique to each place, a conflation of times - medical workers in scrubs vaping outside Richmond Hospital, hybrid vehicles rolling over cracking, cobbled streets outside Fairway. In the poems - heavens, lead, funerals, frigates, words not ascribed to specific places or times yet characteristic of her writing; they are familiar markers. At the same time, the words turn into new avenues of perception and understanding.

Dickinson wrote 1,800 poems, also know as fascicles because she made small, sewn books of her poems. There are 250-300 neighborhoods throughout the 5 boroughs. There is much to explore in both. While the fascicles can be explored anywhere and anyplace at no cost if there is wi-fi, they are complemented by local victuals and libations.

As I usually do, I love and appreciate my city. Especially now, with so many islands, cities, states ravaged by forest fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes. I am grateful to be in a place with currently functioning infrastructure, where despite lingering summer heat and an imminent mayoral election, there is relative calm, a positive, collective energy where people are fundraising and collecting donations to help the many disaster areas. Yes, there are daily lacerations inflicted by Trump’s tweets and general vitriol. Which is why it is so important to find ways to breathe love and understanding wherever we are.

Right now, my love for Dickinson is helping me forge my way through the milieu of wreckage, helping me find a safer yet not necessarily saner space to dwell. In her poems, the architecture is so layered and complex, yet it retains a facade of simplicity. Just a few narrow blocks of words yet so much room to stretch in.

The poem I have been wandering and getting lost in is #466:    

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And for an everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

The first stanza is a breaking down of walls in a positive and non-destructive way. “I dwell in Possibility - ” is the only certainty we all have. All homes are subject to weather and time, but there are no barriers or restrictions to possibility. But how is it “fairer” than prose? All writing can express possibility. Does she mean prose as the opposite of poetry, that poetry is a “fairer House than prose”? Or does she mean a more philosophical meaning for possibility? There are many possible ways to explore these first few lines. When I connect these to the last two lines, I begin to think of possibility as art, writing, creation. Her “narrow Hands” can gather Paradise. Our hands can gather Paradise; this can be tangible as a pot of udon noodle soup for the family or an article on climate change supported with a multitude of facts, something that can be food for the body or soul. It can be something that requires much more time and resources to gather, such as the rebuilding of a devastated home or town.

To me, this Paradise is not some promised perfection after death or an illusion not to be trusted. It is the possibility of change and revitalization. Human possibility can only be “impregnable” if we imagine and believe in it. It is something we must collectively work toward, something we need all of our Hands to gather. This requires more than just dwelling. It requires breaking down walls and roofs and false foundations, so we can see one another, our needs basically the same. We need to be looking around us through numerous Windows and work to make each life in each dwelling more of a Paradise, a more awakened place without walls.

Living in New York, I can see “everlasting” possibility. I have seen this city shrouded in smoke after 9/11 and under a deluge after Superstorm Sandy, and while people have been traumatized by these events, there has also been an outpouring of action to help those affected by these events. Every day, I see people who speak with a myriad of accents and in several languages all walking the same streets and riding the same buses and trains. I am energized by living in a city where every second, someone is making something possible, making a life better for someone, helping someone. This is the Paradise I dwell in.  

My Daily Affairs

Last night, I sat on a cushion to read The Enlightened Heart, edited by Stephen Mitchell. A thumb-size flowery bookmark led me to read this poem by Layman P'Ang

My daily affairs are quite ordinary;
But I'm in total harmony with them.
I don't hold on to anything, don't reject anything;
Nowhere an obstacle or conflict.
Who cares about wealth and honor?
Even the poorest thing shines.
My miraculous power and spiritual activity:
Drawing water and carrying wood.


I love the phrase, "miraculous power"; it makes me wonder if I have such a power, if we all do. How would I end this poem?
Perhaps:
- driving this Prius and carrying kids to school
- filling up water bottles and thermoses and packing lunch bags
- loading up the trunk with bags of groceries and unpacking them in the kitchen
- putting down the paper to promptly pick up the kids at dismissal
- reading a book and bring a mug of chai to my lips
- sitting seiza on a cushion in the attic zendo, who hears my breathing?

Sitting in a Cafe on a Weekday Morning

No bells signaling the start and end of a period
Just the short, guttural spurts of the espresso machine,
Etta James crooning At Last through ceiling speakers.
I watch the line of Red Hook locals,
Young women in cropped wide pants and sandals,
Men in shorts and Converse -
Finding caffeinated sustenance in this
Art Deco inspired polished space.
A voyeur, with the liberty to look around
And listen, I marvel at this mundane setting.

Wandering through my cafe archives,
I am doing chemistry homework with Sheila at a cafe
On St. Marks near Ave A,
French press and Marlboro Lights.
A place on the south side of Bedford Ave
owned by a French man who served
sake, green tea, and onigiri.
At Ozzie's on 7th Ave, meeting with a writing group -
passing around copies of poems, giving feedback.

More than just pastries and roasted coffee beans,
A good cafe is a vital organ of a block or neighborhood,
Place where people meet, rest, or write.
Throughout time, across countries, counties, cities,
We can drink the moment and savor the scones,
Swallow the memory and digest its space.

September

Back to 5:30 weekday rising,

packing lunches in stainless steel tiffins,

spraying the kids with water to wake them,

then the band of bowls, spoons,

soymilk, and cereal boxes playing at the table.

The final measure in the morning song:

crescendo of socks, shoes, backpacks,

footsteps hurrying into the car by 6:45.

But for the first time in 18 years,

the restart of this routine is smoother.

I do not have to prepare my lunch

nor worry about lesson plans,

can wear yoga pants and a wicking shirt.

And after dropping the kids off,

six and half hours of alone time

with puppy, a book, steaming tea.

What will I do with these 180 paid days?

Absorb the air, travel through pages, cities, woods,

practice inversions, write freely,

fulfill simple wishes:

wonder and wander around the Whitney,

read more Baldwin and watch I Am Not Your Negro,

listen to Moth stories and altlatino,

better myself as a mother and citizen.