Two Octobers: A 2-Voice Narrative

A two-voice poem or narrative can take many different forms:  a discourse of two different voices, an expression of the outer voice vs. inner voice--a "what he said, what he thinks" approach; or the same voice at two different times in life, i.e. before and after an event, the childhood voice and the adult voice, etc.  This piece is an autobiographical reflection which needed to be written in the latter format.  

October 29, 1961                                                         October 29, 2011

"Five little pumpkins sitting on a gate,"                        “Sometimes healing comes through the rain,” 

we sing the song we learned yesterday                         the song lyrics loop over and over

in music class as we walk to school                              through my mind pushed through my 

sounding like naughty little angels.                               subconscious by the Holy Spirit,    

My neighbor Skippy and I                                            knowing I need them right now, this moment.  

cross the tracks after looking both ways,                      Trudging through wet gold and brown leaves 

continue past D'Abates' corner store                             while walking around Hudson Springs Park, 

where I go to buy Necco wafers when                         the sweet smell of autumn intoxicates me, 

I have a nickel.                                                              reminding me that life has its rewards 

Wearing rubbers over our shoes                                    if we slow down long enough to pay attention.

we slide two more blocks to                                          We had no choice, my sister Linda and I. 

South State Street School                                              Mom was found wandering the streets in 

through yellow and brown leaves wet                          Painesville at midnight last Thursday.  

from last night's rain.                                                    This time we couldn’t intervene.  

I love school even though                                            We had to allow her to experience 

my first grade teacher, Mrs. Bender,                            the consequences of her illness 

doesn't smile very much.                                              with no cushion of last minute enabling. 

I don't think she likes me,                                            “Your mother suffers from 

But I love being here, safe and warm,                         histrionic personality disorder, 

We sit in reading circles where                                    borderline personality disorder, and 

I wait eagerly for my turn to read                                obsessive compulsive disorder 

out loud the happy story about                                    which explains her extreme hoarding issues,” 

Dick and Jane and little Sister Sally and                      the social worker explained last summer 

the dog "See Spot run" across soft                              when her mental illness spiraled out of control—

picture pages.                                                               the prevarications,

They don't get yelled at like I do at home                    her involvement with strangers,

and Mother and Father in the story                              the daily abuse of loved ones and

don't yell and hit each other.                                        the social service systems

Wish my Mommy and Daddy were                            set up to assist seniors with valid needs.

more like them and that our house                              Lord,

had a white picket fence.                                             help me to separate the sin from the sinner—

My Mom is always busy                                             whom do we blame--our mother or her illness—

in the other room.                                                        when she files a lawsuit against a loved one 

She doesn't talk much except                                      for trivial matters

on the phone.                                                              or calls the police as a way of intimidating 

My baby sister Linda isn't old enough                        a friend for not returning her phone calls

to play with me yet.                                                    or fraudulently misuses funds assigned to her 

Mom doesn't pick her up much                                  for housing and transportation

when she cries.                                                           or asks a doctor to tell her daughter that if 

She cries a lot.                                                            she doesn’t get invited, she will commit suicide?

I wish I could pick her up, but I'm not                        How do we find a way to keep her safe

Allowed and I'm not tall enough to                            and preserve our sanity?

reach over the bars of the playpen                              Today, ironically, she herself showed us how
anyway.                                                                      October 29 by spinning such a tight web of 

So I practice my reading                                             deceptions on a cold and rainy autumn 

and I practice my letters,                                             night, she entangled herself and this time, 

legs outstretched under the coffee table,                     just this once, was unable to slip out

And I walk down to the playground                           from the slippery gossamer of sin and 

To meet up with Skippy.                                            deception and dementia.

Imaging: The New Literacy

IMAGING:  THE NEW LITERACY
My piece here is called a copy/change poem, a technique which I learned during my summer with the National Writing Project, and is one which I found most effective at helping my students stretch their voices by trying on the cadence of a professional writer or poet's syntax.  Thanks to Garrison Keillor's daily email newsletter, I discovered John Stone's poem which inspired me to express my joy over the inner healing I experienced while taking an Art Journaling course facilitated by my muse, and my dear friend, An'Angelia Prather Thompson.

Whittling:               Imaging:

The Last Class       The New Literacy

                                                                                        ***A copy change poem***

by John Stone                                         by Katherine Szerdy

      (with thanks to John Stone)

What has been written                   What has been written

about whittling                                 about language

is not true

                                           is not true

most of it

                                            half of it

           

It is the discovery                             It is the image


that keeps
                                          that brings

the fingers moving

                          feelings to the message

not idleness

                                       not text alone

but the knife looking for 
              but text owns logic

the right plane
                                 reasons, facts, data,

that will let the secret out

             left-brained analysis

Whittling is no pastime

                A picture is worth 1000 words

he says
                                               she says

who has been whittling 
               who has been painting her feelings

in spare minutes at the wood

      with watercolor crayons onto the
                                                             journal

of his life for forty years

                of her life for 55 years

Three rules he thinks
                    Three rules my muse speaks 

have helped
                                              from experience

Make small cuts

                            Write, “This is not a perfect book.”

In this way

                                       on Page 1

you may be able to stop              
to free yourself from the

before                                              bondage

what was to be an arm
               of the self-imposed prison

has to be something else

            of perfection.

Always whittle                            Recycle--Weave everything

Away from yourself

                  even paint-swiped paper towels

and toward something.
            onto your page.

For God's sake
                             For God’s sake                 

and your own
                               and your own

know when to stop

                    Have fun—experiment—play

Whittling is the                          Art journaling is the 

best example
                               best way

I know of what most 
                to marry image with text

may happen when

                     to name your experience

           

least expected
                             fully


bad or good
                                 no holding back

Hurry before
                               Get started now--

angina comes                              The blank page invites

like a pair of pliers                     Your subconscious awaits, 
                                                                 overflowing 

                                                                   

over your left shoulder
             secrets ready to spill onto the page




There is plenty of wood
            There is more than enough material

for everyone 
                               to fill a large Moleskin,

and you

                                         maybe three

Go ahead now

                             No moment like the present

May you find
                                May you discover

in the waiting wood
                   on the waiting page

rough unspoken

                          clean blank

what is true

                                  your truth

or
                                                    and

nearly true                                    what needs to be revealed


or 

                                                   and

true enough.                                A chance to learn

                                                        that mistakes are part of

                                                        this masterpiece—You!

"Whittling: The Last Class" by John Stone, from Music from Apartment 8. © Louisiana State University Press, 2004.  (buy now)

AWARENESS

Growing up during the Cold War era, I don't remember seeing any goods made in China.  A "Made in Japan" label was more common, and deemed inferior in quality as "Made in China" is today.  So how aware are we of where our goods come from and how they are manufactured?  Do we take the time to think through what type of political regime we are supporting when we purchase a garment at Kohl's or WalMart?  Was it sewn or assembled in a sweatshop?  While 90% of all handbags available in department and discount stores today, what is the true worth of a Coach handbag purchased at Nordstroms, average cost $200-600, compared to a similar style bag sold at Target?    What price do we really pay for the flush of pleasure we experience when someone spots the "Coach" logo on our person?  Should we avoid the "Made in China" label all together or should we take delight in knowing our purchase helps keep someone employed, no matter their nationality?  Yet, with toys and other goods made in China making the headlines in the last several years for violations of safety standards, I choose to purchase goods made in the USA.

For the past fifteen years, I have purchased several Vera Bradley purses, an American company, who started out as a home business in Indiana before manufacturing their quilted handbags in a plant.  As the company grew exponentially within a few short years, they began jobbing out most of their manufacturing to China.  When I discovered the "Made in China" tag, I began searching for an alternative and found Stephanie Dawn purses, manufactured by an Ohio company who purchased Vera's old equipment.  SD's prices are comparable to VB and the quality exceeds its Chinese-made competitor.  By supporting Stephanie Dawn, I feel that I am investing, in some small yet essential way, in my state's economy--in the lives of those whose hands assembled it.  I have seen statistics proving that shopping independent stores and goods labeled "Made in USA" boosts the economy of our communities.

How aware are we of where our food is grown?  of whether it is genetically modified?  what pesticides or fertilizers are used on it?  irradiated?  What is the impact on our bodies of these 21st century methods of growing food, methods which certain factions believe to be necessary in order to assure our food's abundance and safety?  Until we fully understand the impact on our bodies of these farming methods, I choose to stick with organic and homegrown produce, grains, and meat, despite the increased cost.

I believe that it is incumbent upon me as a Christian to educate myself about the sources and methods of manufacturing and food production for which I exchange my money, i.e. my life energy.

Frohring Meadow, Geauga County, Ohio--A Word Snapshot of my Day--August 24, 2011

The sunflower smiled down upon the Irish Breakfast tea-for-two place settings which my adopted sister Janie thoughtfully brought to give our day retreat a special start.  We, the  Yayayogachics of the Riverside High and National Writing Project Alumni Associations and the D. W. Shaner Sisterhood, daintily sip our Irish Breakfast Tea from Antique English bone china tea cups, each with its own floral pattern, and nibble on our gluten free blueberry muffins.  Attack bees, jealous of our tasty treats, attempt to rob us of our joy along with the park maintenance crew with their weed eaters, blowers, and mower tractors assaulting our ears as we attempt to write under the shade of Katydid Pavilion. After tea and muffins gluten-free, we look to where two paths rise before us and choose the one toward which the Spirit "guided" us, a 2 3/4 mile stroll through meadow and deciduous forest.  A couple of miles and a half-hour after we shoulda coulda made our way back to home base--we love the way the Spirit gets us lost--we took the time to stretch back into the moment, our bodies yawning into a few asanas in the grass before setting our pens to paper. The warm dampness rises from fresh mown grass, the sweet smell of chlorophyll as soft as baby's breath, brings us back to this moment.   The half moon takes second stage in the rich blue zenith of the late August mid-day sky.  The steady breeze caresses the meadow flowers where the azure meets acre upon acre of prairie ecosystem.  As the sun moves from a.m. to p.m., small puffs of fair weather cumulous clouds begin to dot the sky with feathery cirrus clouds sneaking in from the west, portending of a different sky tomorrow.

SEMPER MAMA

By Katherine L. Szerdy

**Dedicated to my son, Capt. Darren S. Szerdy, USMC, USNA Class of 2002

           

Since February 21, 2004,                                          

For 133 days                                                                        

my days have been interspersed                                

with frequent thoughts of you, my son,                            

deployed somewhere in                                             

You-can’t-tell-me-exactly-where,

Iraq.                                                                            

As I drive home today,                                              

Windows down, enjoying cool summer breezes        

I wonder what you might be doing right then,       

    right now                                                                    

I struggle to imagine                                                   

going for weeks                                                         

in 120-degree heat                                                    

with no shower,                                                             

hygiene consisting of                                                

daily head shavings                                                     

The boredom                                                           

sleep deprivation,                                                           

frustrations                                                                  

interspersed with                                                              

occasional moments of                                                      

reward                                                                       

    or adventure                                                                     

and same old news of nearby loss,                                     

the agony of diplomatic efforts                                                                   

            rewarded with dysentery,                          

                        old Persian custom                           

                        verbal agreements made over                   

sheep kabobs

    searching in the dark for

    a blessing,

    moments of meaningfulness.

Causes my heart to skip a beat

when I think of it all.

During Sunday phone calls

I listen intently,

trying to discern in your voice

what you cannot give voice to.

I rest in the knowledge that,

for that moment anyway,

you are alive and well.

After dinner I imagine you 

might be sleeping

0330 your time, 1930 mine

and I pray that God would grant you

     deep, 

          restful,   

               r e s t o r a t i v e

 sleep.

I've rekindled the nightly habit

 of kneeling at my bed in prayer,

     hands folded,

     knees calloused,

for your safety

and

for no blue cars,

no knocks at the front door

for only 67 more Arabian nights.

Love you oodles and oodles,

Mamacita

OBSCURED BRILLIANCE

 By Katherine L. Szerdy 

A renga poem inspired by a visit to the Gaughin exhibit at the Cleveland Art museum, Dec., 2009.

Obsessed with yellow,                                  

Ocean blues, greens, sunset reds,                  

Best friends create art,                                  

Paul paints images from dreams;                  

Vincent paints what he sees now.                 

Paul likes his paint thin

Vincent prefers loaded brush

Paul, more subtle strokes

Vincent, dot dash morse code like

Both left their distinctive mark.

Nerves begin to fray

Vincent cuts off his right ear

Paul leaves for awhile

Later they become penpals

Encourage each other’s growth

They gave us the gift

To see our world through veil of

Light reflecting back

Colors, textures, beauty, from

Innovative vantage point.

We misunderstood.
They shattered the status quo,
Died in poverty.
Who is our Gaughin today?
Who is our Van Gogh today?

Step Forward, Please

By Katherine Harris Szerdy

Putting your best foot forward

Isn’t the easiest thing to do.

First you must decide on your right or left

Then carefully shove that foot just so.

With any luck and some coordination

Plus an inordinate desire to achieve

You can take that motivation--

Work hard, there’s no time for a reprieve.

Putting your hot pink foot forward, though,

Can be a whole lot more fun--

Then break into a dance, let Spirit guide you

Under the warm summer sun;

Or try pirouetting, feet painted like rainbows,

Leaving behind you a trail of multi-colored smiles,

Magical yellows, greens, indigoes

Swirling behind you mile after miraculous mile.

So, I choose to set my feet to dancing

In a way that colors my world

Rather than step back into a colorless existence,

the chaotic life into which I’d been hurled

Back when I thought I had to complete

So many titles, awards, and college degrees

In order to grasp some sense of self-worth,

With emphasis on the need to people-please.

Remember, glass slippers break easily,

Italian high-heeled stilettos pinch toes.

Please listen, for I’ve learned the hard way

That if you lose touch with what your inner-self knows

And put too much effort in taking steps forward,

Because of a compulsion to advance,

You’ll sacrifice a chance for true happiness

And you’ll miss the barefoot dance.

Copyright 2011  Katherine Harris Szerdy

"A Year Without": What It's Like Having a Soldier/Daughter Deploy to the Sandbox

*This poem took an entire year to write about surviving "A Year Without" my daughter, July 8, 2010-July 10, 2011.  She is a Sergeant in the 112th Engineering Battalion, Brookpark, Ohio--Ohio Army National Guard.

By the tender age of seven,

you mastered the art of pinning your long blonde hair

into a tight bun for ballet.

Seems like yesterday.

Eleven years later, you stepped out of your pointe shoes,

satin ribbons crisscrossing up the calf,

and into Army boots on the ground,

practical laces crisscrossing through metal eyelets.

Fort Jackson drill sergeants mandating pull-ups rather than pirouhettes.

Did you say you ranked "sharpshooter"?

Seems like yesterday you danced for Jesus.

Day after day, a dull ache weighs heavy on my heart,

sometimes tugs violently,

hearing reports of the day's casualties.

--The drastic decline in water and electric usage and grocery bills

yielding in significant financial savings (LOL!)

won't even begin to make up for

A year without...

Mom/daughter lunch dates at our favorite Dave's Cosmic Sub Shop

and Starbucks after-dinner coffee dates

and SOS calls to AAA when the Sebring needs TLC

and moody monthlies

and fashion shows pirouetting your latest fashion finds

and sweet whispers overheard during midnight calls with "The Boy"

and knowing glances from across the room

and cleaning fests while singing your heart out to iTunes,

spinning in your socks on shiny oak floors,

and sharing the latest shampoo brands

or Sephora make-up tricks

or comparing OPI colors on toes

and the joy of hearing about your most memorable Yours Truly customer of the day--

Tom, the town historian sporting his signature bow tie, always impeccably dressed or

the Reids, Kirk and Dot, the adorable Presbyterian couple

married 59 years, who always leave a 15% tip to the penny,

and who left a message on our answering machine last week to tell us

they would be praying for you

each and every day,

and Dave and Casey, twin brothers, Hudson's very own Click & Clack.

It's not getting any easier you know--180 days in...

I miss those late night Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice marathons

and witnessing you fall in love with Matisse on a trip to the Cleveland Art Museum

so much so that you went out and bought your first set of paints and canvas

and watching you solve Sudoku puzzles faster than it takes me to brush my teeth

and putting together 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles before the dinner dishes are put away

and interpreting last night's dreams

and enjoying luncheon in a real French restaurant together

and your placating "the Mom" on Mother's Day by taking me to High Tea

or church on Sunday

HOW

do I possibly enjoy a moment of this convenient existence

knowing that my daughter is over there

sacrificing an entire year, 1/23nd of her young life,

her senior year at Kent State,

laying her life on the line each and every one of the 365 days

for a cause greater than herself

HOW

can I lounge in air conditioning as she struggles to sip

breathable air through her mask during a sandstorm

HOW

can I take a drive in my Buick LaCrosse, windows rolled down,

breeze blowing through my hair,

or enjoying heated leather seats in winter's cold,

knowing she sits strapped tight in a sling seat in the fuselage of a C130

flying over Kyrzgstan

or hunkered down in a Humvee, transported over hopelessly rocky, mountainous terrain always too hot or too cold...

HOW

can I crash on the couch for a luxurious afternoon nap

while she struggles to sleep with shells exploding in the not-too-distance

or to wake up each day to the same routine--work 12 hours, run, chow, sleep, work 12 hours, run, chow, sleep...

in the haze of Afghan heat

HOW

can I walk freely down tree-lined streets admiring manicured lawns

without thinking of her trudging under the burden of a 60-pound pack

unable to step outside bounded territory.

HOW

do I lunch with a friend at the newest bistro in town

dressed in a lovely lined lavendar linen sheath

knowing a girlfriend lunch for her means

the monotony of mess hall mystery meat and potato cuisine

with (boiled) surf and turf as the big treat on Fridays

or ripping open an MRE

with her battle buddy, dressed in ACUs a lovely shade of cammie,

while sitting,

waiting,

in blazing 115 degree heat.

HOW

do I take a leisurely shower with spa accessories

without thinking about her feeling lucky to get two minutes

under cold water...and a bar of soap.

We watch the evening news and wonder

What is not being told

because the real stories won't sell advertising dollars

or appease political agendas...

You've told us your work saves lives--

I read between the lines that this work is

meaningful for you despite the

colorless

lifeless

backdrop of the mountains of Afghanistan

whichever camp or air field you are stationed.

What stories will you have to tell your grandchildren?

My prayer continues--that God shelters you from memories

needing to be buried, and blesses you with sweet dreams

of home and a bright, auspicious future.

So I keep a visual journal, recording details about meaningful moments and seasons you missed.

Frank, Al, Susie, Joe, Buttercup, and Bob, aka Alibaba, the mutant Algae-eater, continue to thrive.

I take great pride that I haven't lost one--

until the last week!

No, ZeeZee and BeeBee haven't forgotten you.

I wonder if you've had time to respond to

comments I wrote in Sue Monk Kidd's mother/daughter memoir,

And wonder what you'll think about the new living room arrangement

and whether you'll be surprised that I didn't change a thing in your room

except that I ironed and put away your last load of laundry

and kept your room clean and tucked away a few treasures I thought you might enjoy  --

to be discovered when you are home on leave.

Dad wonders if you'll recognize all the changes he's made in the house since you left (he kept a list)  :-)

I count the days until you are home on leave

so I can perhaps sleep through the night

I continue to pray each night at 0230

And send up breath prayers throughout the day

And cling to my faith 24/7

until you and your brother and your cousins are back on American soil and

three buses pull back into the Armory

under Vietnam Vet motorcyle escort and

we can cut both yellow ribbons off the oak tree

and you are safe in my arms again.

LEAVE

1st week, silent

2nd week, came back into your own skin

LAST CHAPTER:  POST LEAVE

Emails resume then stop

at Camp Lightening

Another Dear John to Jeremy

But he was going to hang on

How did we miss that you found someone else?

25 DAYS AND A WAKE-UP

was the Facebook post of the day

Though my heart aches, I cannot judge

I know not what it's like to spend

1/23 of one's life in a tan sand world

HOMECOMING:  July 10, then July 8...12:00 then 11:00 then 12:15

Don't we love the U.S. Army?

On July 8, Grampy's 82nd birthday,

you jumped off bus #2 into your Daddy's arms,

with me running from midway between buses 3 & 4

to hold you ever so tight.

Guess who slept soundly last night,

one more tight tether unloosed from around the

chambers of my heart.

All my love,

Mom