Shel Graves' Sensorium

A Burnt Tongue, A Dying Mother I burnt my tongue,  On light pink tulips.  My dying mother, The cause unheartaches.   I can hardly feel my heart beat,   So do call your mother.  Take more iron with your burnt tongue.

Literary License  Two dogs melt snoring in my lap,  How am I to extricate myself from,  My usual chair, drinking very hot coffee with no cream.  A cat purring jumps and lands there,  In the middle of my crossed legs,  On the padded green chair.  The pain in my left knee means nothing,  To the soft fur curled and scented in my lap.  My breasts in the cold. Back tense. Breath clear.  My arms reach up, I want to go for a run,  Music pounds the streets.  Brain in the belly. Grassy taste in the back of my throat.  Can the animals explain, how does this happen?

Spiritual Sunday  Usual green chair in my garden writing room.  Sam beside me playing with Mary Shelley cat.  Sitting cross-legged on the chair.  Feeling swollen aches in body parts.  Yesterday, I wanted to go for a run.  Heaviness descended into my limbs.  Yesterday, my body felt strong and able.  Now feeling all the pains of being in body.  Stomach gurgles. Neck stiff. Terrible taste in the back of my throat.  Farting. Dry eyes. Tight breath. Tight spine. Itchy scalp. Bloated.  I can’t suppress my immune system in a pandemic.  Still, my body fights air. It flares against the unseen.  Patches of resistance rise up against invalid targets.  The cat leaps, bats, and watches. So, beautiful, so fun.

Worries   Flash of anger, intrusive thoughts,  I am having an out of body experience,  And can’t remember where I’ve gone.  This moment I am safe: writing.  My feet tingle with life.  My knees once ached, but now are simply present.  I feel I am putting on weight.  Stomach billowing, chest sinking.  Tasting old wine, rot, and ferment.  I’m taking it all in with clarity.  Listening to a humming sound.  Fingers light. Wrists heavy. A stone in my spine.  Suddenly lost in a familiar place.  Afraid to call for help.  Wondering: Where to go from here?

Asking my Body Questions  What are you trying to tell me?  What do you need?  How can I care for you?  What do the tarot cards say?

Running Cold  My belly in rolls, the shape of a jelly.  Chest hunched. Back slumped.  I slept cold last night.  Felt cold all day before.  What is my temperature?  Always cold by a couple degrees.

Good Morning   We all slept well last night,  Through the night, dreaming.  This morning pink tulips,  Salute the morning.

Taste:  pizza, olives, mushrooms, black olive, Kalamata olive Smell:   Vixen, For Strange Women -- woods, black pepper, coffee, ambrette Sight:  eyes closed Touch:  chewy dough Extra:   Mexican Gothic - gothic, horror, imagery A Jolt of Joy : a pleasant scent Grateful for: m y house

Talisman and Shadow  Awake at 1 am,  Crossing the lawn  I see my shadow  They chase it barking.  I am in my body  And in need of protection,  A talisman, a barrier, from the outside world.  Early moving, getting lost.  Finding my feet in the grass.  I see my stomach’s slow factory  They take so long to eat.  I am eyes, wide, blinking: Oh no, oh no,  And in a feeling of panic,  Begin taking the immunosuppressant again.

Writing Fairy Tales and Fearing Civil War  I am here, and all of my answers are no.  Last night, I told myself I was safe.  My sleeping body warding off night threats.  At dawn, I roll call: thighs, hips, buttocks, stomach, chest,  All accounted for.  Left knee tinged with pain.  Legs folded, and feet tucked safely away from the cat.  I raise my arms up, and elongate my spine.  My right wrist stings unable to make a full rotation.  My waking body breathes in the cherry blossom fragrance.  Last night, I saw solar rocket ships cross the full moon.  I am here, and all of me so afraid.

Writing Room  The green room.  Usual posture.  Usual chair.  One foot dangling, the left.   One foot tucked under my thigh, the right.  Feet tingling.  Other body parts still, silent,  Butt pressed firmly into chair.  Wrists stiff, but game.  Listening to keystrokes  A constant hum.

Demand Barking  “Something is wrong,” he whispered at 3 am,  At least, I heard the words clearly,  And felt them inside,  My painful body.  I fed it oatmeal with flaxseed and blueberries, And it protested: billowing, throbbing, Round and obsessive belly, Wants all of the attention.  Heart's desires beating in a sullen liquid way, Forgotten. "What is it?” I ask. “What?”

Potatoes and Rice  Calm down!  Don’t jinx it.  Breathe. Meditate.  Good advice comes at a time,  Of bodily harms.  More than my stomach aches,  Whining and whinging.  Calm down!  Calm, the fuckety down!  Nothing good comes of attention.  Concave chest. Hunched shoulders.  Aging poorly with stiff, thinning hair.  Sitting still, afraid of it all.  Belly rolls, swollen with fear and despair.  Achy half breaths. Arms reaching, short. Gurgling and wheezing.  Hungry but bloated, unable to eat,  Anything but, potatoes and rice.  You were wrong mister doctor, not the "good kind" of cancer...

The Messy Details of a Life  Such is my life that in the year 2020, yesterday, I lifted heavy cow patties.  This morning, I moved to a different place.  Sitting at the kitchen table on a bar stool. Fully dressed. My feet dangling.  The second toe on my right foot feels numb. The blood hangs down my calves.  My full thighs pressed into corduroy pants.  My bloated stomach reminds me, “Your brain is here, too.”   I feel pickled: I drank half a bottle of wine last night.   This morning, a new psoriasis plaque appeared on my forearm.   My gut awake, trembles, like brainy worms.   I am drinking coffee with a film of rotting grapes upon my tongue.   Last night’s acid and this morning’s burning in my stomach.   Chest still. A full breath is still possible.  Blobs of fat spill over the sides of my hips.  Loose breasts hang in the air. Tense shoulders hunched over them.  Nostrils clear. Scalp itc...

In which, I am anxious  Today I am in my writing room again,  Surrounded by green light,  Wondering: What if I move to a different place?  My right leg folded under my left thigh.  My right foot dangles in air.  I have a light headache.  My head in a fugue. Foggy. Fuzzy.  My hips wide. I stretch my arms up into the air.  Breath clear, catches at my waist.  My mind numb, but also thinking,  Of tasks to delegate to myself.  Heart, here? Where is my heart?  Trying to stay still and hidden?  Preparing to move to another place?

Tight and Light  Biting the inside of my cheek tightly between teeth and tongue,  I am wearing two layers of pants tight, legs buried.  The tight belt around my waist presses on my hipbones.  My feet tight in socks, toes pressed together straining.  My stomach straining against tight denim.  My stomach folded. A tight sensation within.  Thinking about light poetry, musing about breath and word.  I am taking light breaths in and out.  The keyboard glows light beneath my hands and fingers.  My arms light. My fingers flying like wings and birds.  My hands light like feathers, extensions of thought.  My fingertips light like starling wingtips.  My tight wrists crack and crinkle in spinning circles.  My light thoughts move in circles, spinning light.

Taste: pink lady and Arkansas black apples  Sound: ocean waves  Smell: german chamomile, violet  Sight: pink and red apples, muted and shiny  Touch: a smooth apple, crisp  Extra: how I love to give her something for nothing; meek and meekness  Jolt of Joy: a   candy, a free treat Grateful for: time

Death Comes to Ground  I do not know why I am sad and yet I know death,  Yesterday, I took a dead chicken and a turkey to the vet,  A pig, a donkey, a chicken, a turkey, and a goat died.  O, fortunate me, death did not touch me,  Yet death touches all, I see them grieving, I am also mourning death, but do not want to feel the ground.  My feet, cold, sensing the ground, That day I lay on the ground feeling the Earth, Once, sitting on the ground, now in a chair elevated over it,  So much flooring between me and the ground.  Wood struts and layers of carpet keep me grounded.  Sitting on the ground in the lotus position, feeling death and mourning.

In Which, No One Knows the Truth of the Future  When I finally rise after anxious dreaming,  The stiffness has invaded my limbs.  My heart beats with quick uncertainty  And my breath catches in my throat. Chest constricted, air unable to find its way down, in,  I am unsure what to do.  My arms drag, but my fingers spring on the keyboard.  Wrists bend, crack, and pop when I twist them.  I want to see myself as a three-dimensional creature,  Whole not just a collection of varied pieces.  Put myself into this body.  Keep myself inside this body.  Stay and see what happens.  Do not flee and run from predictions.  I cannot imagine what can happen next.

The Forgotten Line  I can’t remember the line I thought of last night.  Only its essence remains, Clarity, something profound, escaped.  My left knee hurts.  Later it will be my outer hip,  Striking pain down my entire leg.  Today my thighs feel strong and full.  Bottom firmly rooted in this chair, and  A cat upon my lap purrs, purrs. Arms hanging in the air from stiff shoulders.   Coffee burning my hands, so  I lift my arms up. I create length.  Eyes open, I take in the dim light. I survey all my persistent discomforts,  Indissoluble, found objects, captured. "Well, the weather today is still dystopian hell scape,” he says.

Staying In  Staying in the body, Breasts dangling,  Feeling the air, Too smoky to breathe fully. I am not breathing, Until I think to do it, Breathing, my breath, Catches in my throat.  Loose dry skin,  A hallow bony  Chest constricts.  A separate head. A red sun, and, red Light behind the eyes, Back rounded like the sun,  And stiff with smoke.  The painful breath  As if I were running.  Who wants to go  Running now?  Today is moving day.  I am not staying in.

Glucosamine, Ibuprofen, and Smoke   The man ran and ran through the market, Pushing aside baskets and vases,  The chased criminal only wanted a safe bed,  He curled up on the yellow comforter and tried to sleep.  In the restaurant, I peed on the stairs, A man commented on my indiscretion,  The woman dining with him observed me, too,  I stood there putting on my “trousers.” My legs are folded and my left knee hurts.  My calloused big toe hurts, but my knee hurts more.  My body feels wide and empty.  I am floating slowly in it.  My mother says, “The air quality is poor, don’t exert yourself.”  I work outside, in the air, but must be careful.  So, I am not breathing fully, Shallow breaths and a metallic taste in the back of my throat.  My upper back is sore from shoveling.  My shoulders ache, but my back hurts more.  My body feels heavy and slow.  I am slowly sinking in it.  My mother says, “It’s OK, he is...

Taste: tart apple pie  Sound: roiling kettle  Smell: imps  Sight: staring into the warm void  Touch: a hot sticky gummy pumpkin pie  Extra: dreaming of writing a poem, rhyming, the line “And punching up the grime.” or some such; you sit on the couch and the stars come to you, slowly, slowly the stars; "Nothing stops her search/for something. Hearts could break or mend/however badly as she reads, tiny/valves doing their best,/the blood flow. Yours. Mine." — Vermeer's Woman in Blue Reading a Letter on Loan in America, The Anti-Grief , Marianne Boruch "but here we still are, sitting at a small/round table in the dark, drinking/darkness from our glasses,/growing dizzy with darkness,/past midnight now, the date turned over/" — White Flower, Red Flower, Mortal Trash Poems , Kim Addonizio Grateful for: slow progress; poetry

Whale Song for Morning  I dreamt of swimming with cetaceans, a pink cap upon my head, Frivolous dress for a dangerous business.  I dreamt of singing Sting songs from childhood, And howling Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.  Asking “Why am I sad?” when I know full well the answer.  Not wanting to limit, but encourage behaviors.  Asking, "What if, I had never worn tight shoes and kept on dancing?" My bones smashed together, who cared at the time. This morning, sitting with my legs crossed to avoid the playful cat  She has already dug her claw into my left foot once; It stung.  This morning, the cat pressed her wet nose into my neck.  When I turned, my cheek trembling; she purred.  Face flushed. Armpits sweaty. I am warm stuffed into cotton layers.  Writing about my body is a weird, repetitious behavior.  Lips dry. Eyes moist. I am encouraging myself to cry, thinking,  "Water. Flow.”  No wonder, I was dreaming of whales.

Fettered Rage   Here I am,  the elixir of morning,  stuck on cruel words:  You said:  “Pathetic!”  “Capiche!”  “Fuck you!”  Bloated body.  Preoccupied mind.  Everything hurts.  Everything swollen.  Knotted intestines.  Bulging fingers. Entwined agonies.   Words hit like heart beats. Over again, Until extinguished; a terrible taste, It's just old coffee, After all.

In which, I have nothing to talk about  My mind fears  and  I told my body  it was safe. Lies.  Lies.  How does my body feel  about this lie?  Tense.  Everything below  the belly,  Silence  and  absence.  Weight in  my shoulders,  my neck craning  Fluid  weight in  my head, my nose draining shoulders a yoke throat collared.  If I wanted  to scream,  I would be  silent.  My mind  busy  with random thoughts.  My body a  distended porous  rock  I am not in it,  not feeling.  My face hangs  in the air  hiding  my screaming  thoughts.

Becoming My Elder  I feel her in my feet these mornings on the hardwood floor, Which wood presses up angry, pressing into my soles,  My toes smash together, in pain, assaulted. I feel the dry husk of her inside my face,  And below, in my bloated torso, her belly bloats, She lies below thick and satisfied.  I feel her in my hard heart beat,  Stiffening in her stiff anticipation of death, My arms sagging enclosed in cotton layers.  I feel her in my craggy throat and chest,   Breath shallow, pain breathing behind my eyes, She pounds behind my forehead, “Let me out!

How small they take up so much space  To begin with, I released heaviness, floating.  Afraid of a virus, I open myself up to other disasters.  Scaly skin and swollen, tightening joints.  One day, I will be unable to move my fingers.  How true, that all will be swollen and still.  We all carry flame and tension inside us.  Our bodies woven webs not built fortresses.  The tell, the tingle of life in the soles of our feet.  Head to toe, inhabiting porous, traitorous bodies.  Feelings move through, whether we attend to them or not.  We can be everything or not depending on whose attention comes.  Come now, asking: “Who serves us and who do we serve?”  To this end, "We all ought to stretch in our 50s whether we call it yoga or not.”  Relax your tight and fidgety shoulders. Squeeze the old breath from your lungs.  Chew on the inside of your cheek, afraid and unconvinced, Asking: “Is my throat sore, this morning? Shoul...

Listening to my body  Listening to my feet: Each toe talks.   The pads and the heel have things to say.  Crooked ankles, accused of thievery, protest.  Every part throbs and wakes me.  Silent, sleep punctured by pain. I see mandalas of pink turning flowers.  Turning like my lower intestines.  Hunger rising into my upper throat.  Weariness lying like a lap dog upon me.  Crooked elbows, called criminals, refuse.  Lotioning stiff fingers and dry hands.  I feel nothing soothing, no soft vanilla shush. Listening to my whining stomach  Chakras wavering and displaced.  Today, my heart beats within my head.  Listening to each half caught breath.  Feeding for position.  I breathe only partially down.  Today, stomachs squish and and eyes moan.

Body Firm  A vehicle at rest,  Feet bare on the hard wood floor, I will go back to the earth in it.  Firm ankles, calves, thighs, buttocks still, Shoulders hunched over a keyboard,  I am not divided from myself.   Hands dry from so much washing,  A litany of pains and body parts,  I am in this body and I am loved. Stomach empty and hungering, Torso shaking in this soft chair, I can feel my heart beating in my feet.  The clock chimes, the body prepares to move.

Of sleeplessness and sore joints,  Of swollen, stiff, agonies,  “Painful complaints,” she says.  The morning stomach occupies much thought,. Feet and thighs say less after rest. “Movement relieves discomfort,” she says.  Foot pressed to thigh, Foot dangling in air, “Let the blood flow into toes,” she says.   Thin skin sensitive to air, What clothing can protect it?  “Cotton. Kevlar. Very much of interest,” she says.   Hips wide as the chair,  Buttocks pressed against it,   “My stomach complaining still,” she says.  Torso leaning forward to listen,  Let the body speak: Say how it can be soothed, “Meditation. Relaxation. Rest,” she says.  Elbows crooked. Neck bent. Chin tilted.  Fingertips dry and greasy. Lips thin and pressed.  “My hands stronger than they were: perched and ready,” she says.

This body, all I am, all I control, or can/am I?  Meditating to connect with this body, with other bodies.  Softly vibrating feet on the floor.  Still legs, the stillness of a deer in the forest.  Softly vibrating pelvis tilted on the chair.  Still belly, the stillness of a swollen pond after rain.  Tightening to carry the press of the world and of self.  This body, tense and stiff, contains my anxiety.  A burning sensation in my chest,  Warm throat, warm from morning coffee.  A burning sensation in my shoulders., Warm arms, warm from carrying the weight of today.  This body, possibly feverish, shudders.  Vibrating at a higher power, with other bodies.  Loose neck and throat, I touch my skin.  Jammy, gummy fingers, from touching food.  Jammy, gummy eyes, from touching sleep.  Loose head, not quite awake, the thinking part.  Vibrating in the moment, a solo body. This body, all that I am, all I can/will c...

Today I give myself permission for poetry: 365 to 182.5.  My body, the condition of my body, becomes a poem.  My feet placed firmly on the floor.  The pads of my feet sore and calloused rubbed with pumice stones and sea salt scrub.   Fall comes and I turn to my spring body for inspiration.  My body changes with the seasons, but so much remains unchanged for now.  Body, we are in conversation at last:   “Good morning.”   “How are you feeling?”  I am exploring breath, exploring trembling: what it feels like and why it happens.  I can hear my heart beating, shaking in this chest.  Stomach, too: I hear her. Listening. A little squish and whine.   A little squish and whine: Tish dog wiggles.  She likes that she can control things with her body. With her little body: fifteen pounds.  She does one thing and another happens, something she likes, good.  It is a new experience, a wonder.  She appeared i...

This was a fun writing project: Every day for five minutes I wrote about how my body was feeling. I meant for it to be a 365 project, so, every day for a year. In the morning, I did a body scan from head to toe. I felt where I was in space and put myself in place and wrote about it. It was interesting at first, but also there was a lot of sameness. I start the day in the same room, in the same posture. Then, I found I focused on my complaints. This ache and that. Over and over again. I wrote: This is my body filled with betrayal. I challenged myself to try to write "The Body Project" in different locations. I did this some. A different room in the house. On the stairs. Outside. But the pandemic hit and I didn't do to any new locations, so always at home.  Six months through, I decided I'd had enough and accomplished whatever I had wanted to get from this project. But then I thought, why not turn these writing prompts into poetry? There was sameness, but also a few nug...