buttons

[purplejacket]

buttons

spring from a shirt front
to be gulped wide-eyed
and lodge
in a lung
in a friend so steadfast
they dare not take them out

she's putting buttons in the ground
(seeds down the gullet)
to grow more button trees
that spread and clench
a magical, lifeless garden
growing famously

I'm sure she'll be better by harvest
with plans for fantastic button-bean salads

[LynnDoiron]

I am Coo-Coo for all things "button" so no way could I pass this title by. Now. lodge in a lung is sounding a little treacherous; and "them" makes it seem the buttons are going in one right after the other. "they" are docs, surgeons, right? It's that opening stanza, Amanda, that has me in love with the bright snap of it all but a little out there as to what is going on.

S2 seems to be wanting to explain S1, intro'ing "she" who is putting buttons in the ground (seeds down the gullet) -- Is the gullet the mouth/throat of earth? the opening made to plant the seed? Love button trees, love it. Then, the coupling of magical, lifeless -- this stops me again with a chill, a sense of death rather than life. button-bean salads -- of course of course I love that image, the taste of it, too. the color.

Will read again when no blurry-eyed. Much that I like a lot and much that I just don't quite get. Thanks. ld

[purplejacket]

I wasn't sure if this was too much of a riddle. I'll let it go for a while. The answer to the riddle, oh, I can't, sir.

[MichaelFirewalker]

It is well written, but still, it refuses to make sense to me...sorry I failed you, Amanda...read it three times, and couldn't figure it out, even though it clearly does fascinate...

michael

[purplejacket]

how about if I change the name to Buttons of Cancer?

[MichaelFirewalker]

okay...first of all, if it's lung cancer, one would not become cancerous by gulping the carcinogen----one would have to breathe it in, as in first or second-hand cigarette smoke----so seeds down a gullet could not lodge in a lung----gullet [gastric] cancer would begin somewhere in the gastro-intestinal tract, not in the lungs, although it could metastasize from the stomach to a lung----also, one can imagine the harvest as a surgery, as lynn mentioned, but the metaphor of the fantastic button-bean salads seems grotesque, and doesn't work for this reader....so, the whole gullet/bean/ garden/salad metaphor doesn't seem to work...

hugs anyway,
michael

[purplejacket]

there are lots of things going in the wrong direction in this one.

[MichaelFirewalker]

it's the damnable subject of cancer which is so difficult to handle because it is sooooo emotionally loaded in every direction possible within human experience----you could write about it from the metaphor of a seed planted and sprouting if you are very respectful of what it is you are writing about, something with the power to kill, and to kill without respect of persons, and something nearly everyone has personal/family/friend experience with----it needs strong compassion, and never to be taken lightly, as you seem to have done [although certainly not purposely] here with those bean salads----it is death you are talking about, dearheart----there's way too much fear and pain and loss there to allow for play...

love yiou,
michael

[purplejacket]

Not having a good idea of what the general population knows, maybe I should explain chemotherapy and how I think about cancer.

In a way, I admire cancer. In a way, it's more highly evolved than we are. It has found a way to continue to thrive and reproduce in its niche. There are lots of things that try to prevent cancer in us. But cancer is very clever, and it draws on the requirement of things alive to stay alive. It has a powerful spirit. But it kills like a bad parasite. and in a way, it is also dead. A magical lifeless garden.

Chemo used to be done intravenously, but is now done with pills. Seeds down the gullet. And it's planting season, and my friend is talking about planting her garden. (It's too cold here in Ithaca just yet, but soon.) What chemo usually does is attack those cells that are reproducing the fastest. Because that's cancer's most defining feature. But it also attacks things in your body that are supposed to reproduce quickly, like blood, skin and hair follicles.

So it's kind of like sending in the Irish, so to speak (and to steal an idea from Braveheart), and then firing on the whole battlefield.
"But sir, won't we hit our own soldiers?"
"Yes, but we'll hit their too."

You're killing a more highly evolved form of yourself so you can stay alive. Yeah, there's a lot that seems to be going in the wrong direction here. Like buttons that pop off a shirt and end up in your lung, and the wide-eyed reaction you might get if you're riding a motorbike and you swallow a bug. And a magical, lifeless garden that grows famously. And button-beans.

And you don't have to smoke to get lung cancer. You can just be unlucky. Like my friend.

And I can write for whomever I chose. And I can allow myself to pretend that I am sure she will be better by harvest. And I think she's had her fill of poignant, and she herself wrote a song for one of her drugs. I think it's necessary to laugh. Especially at death.

[MichaelFirewalker]

I want you to know I heartily applaud all you say here, Amanda, but poetry is an art of communication, and almost nothing you just said here was communicated in your poem----if it had been, a different reaction would have occurred, because I, the reader, would have had understanding of what you were talking about, and where you were coming from...

and I certainly don't blame your friend for being tired of poignant, however, I was not taking about poignant, I was talking about real compassion for ALL those who have to fight this battle, and about enough respect for those trying to read an understand your poem that you would want make sure they had some way to grasp the enormity and depth of what you are attempting to say...

however, good for you for wanting to laugh in the face of pain, 'tis a very wise thing to do...

now, if I have offended you, I am sorry----I simply gave you my response as it was, as best I could, and you did post your poem here for folks to respond to it, honestly, with honest critique, didn't you?

michael

[purplejacket]

I don't want all of that communicated in the poem.

You didn't offend me. I know you're trying to do your best, and you haven't been unkind or anything. I know it's frustrating to read something and not understand it. I'm not so sure I want this to be understood. And I know that a few months ago, or even yesterday if someone else had written this poem, and I had been the critic, I would probably be saying the same things you're saying. I have said those things.

[purplejacket]

When I get to where everything is understood, it's time to die. And when I get so I want to understand everything I read, I remember this line: She entered my waist with her snow, penned by one of teh most prominent objects of my admiration, Mr. L Cohen.

And what the hell does that mean - she entered my waist with her snow?

[MichaelFirewalker]

O, that is a lovely line, and I know what it means to me, although I cannot say for sure I know what it means to Leonard Cohen, whose fan I also am----to me it means:

Suzanne Reprised

he loved her with his love
where she ran deeply sweet
over pure white skin
lit with inner light

and when she wrapped
herself about him
suddenly he knew again
the healing kiss
of hidden snow
that somehow blew
from out her summer heat


michael

[LynnDoiron]

I like "Cancer Buttons" and I have a dear friend who is getting the chemo by vein these days and the ache is great and the humor absolutely necessary. Wondered if you used "seeds" somewhere in the opening stanza, if it wouldn't throw a little light (but not floodlights) on the
piece.

spring from a shirt front
to be gulped wide-eyed
and lodge
(bright hopeful seeds!)
in a lung
in a friend so steadfast
they dare not take them out

she's putting buttons in the ground
seeds to grow more button trees
that spread and clench
a magic garden
growing death famously

I'm sure she'll be better by harvest
with plans for fantastic button-bean salads

Amanda -- I loved the line about snow entering the waist; and I don't know what it means but it is powerful, powerful. Your poem is powerful too. Forgive my tweaks; I have no business messing with your pain.

[MichaelFirewalker]

your pain is a gift of life to you, poetess, for you are a true poet----I have read your work for some time now, and enjoyed and admired it, and often said so----let the poem be born as it wishes to, and damn the critics, dear one----it is your heart, and your heart-speak----but let yourself go and pour your words out, Amanda, stand back, and open your heart real wide, and pour, pour, pour...I promise you, life will be born of it...

michael

[purplejacket]

here it is,

BODY OF LONELINESS

She entered my foot with her foot
and she entered my waist with her snow.
She entered my heart saying,
"Yes, that's right."
And so the Body of Loneliness
was covered from without,
and from within
the Body of Loneliness was embraced.
Now every time I try to draw a breath
she whispers to my breathlessness,
"Yes, my love, that's right, that's right."

I like "bright hopeful seeds" but I might move it around a bit and play with where it might make the least sense, ha ha.

[MichaelFirewalker]

you are precious, far beyond words...

michael

[mfwilkie]

Piper,

I've read this over and over and the only nit
I have is the last two lines.

What if you took the the first person 'I' out of it. And said
something like:

My need of her hopes she'll be better by harvest—
my need hopes for her button bean salads.

I don't find the subject treated lightly at all. I find the V appropriate from a friend trying to cope with a friend's serious illness.

Maggie