Figs

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I reach up
and pick the tender sacks
amongst the gnarled branches
the sun filling both the fruit and my desire
barely shaded by the sparse green leaves
as I think of us
in the wee hours of the night and morning
describing the twists of the honey bee
and the bounty of the Goddess
saving us both
despite our tortured pasts,
our smiles deepening
sharing honeyed passion
savored like these sweet gritty seeds
I bite into
red and pink
beneath the sun purpled skin.

The above poem is in Eating The Peach, a book of poems and drawings about love, illusion and self discovery, soon to be published by Crooked Running Tail Press.

Bea Garth will be the featured reader at the Sept. 18th, 2008 Thursday Gig. She will be reading from the proofs of her manuscript Eating the Peach as well as more recent poems. The Gig will be at the Stone Griffin Gallery, 287 E. Campbell Ave., Campbell, CA near the corner of 1st and Campbell Ave. The gallery is in a loft upstairs. Al Preciado will be the featured artist. Open Mic follows the featured reader. The Potluck starts at 6:30 PM; featured artist talk at 7:15; featured poet at 7:30; Open Mic. follows. Call 408 410-2313 for more information.

Waking To A Thought Of A Shark

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

You tell me your mind is like a white shark
as we walk amongst the aisles at Albertson’s,*
I buy yogurt and bananas and you a submarine sandwich
--and suddenly I see you
with your eyes gleaming
sparkling with dangerous
mischievous intelligence,
your mouth wanting to chew
on the minds of others,
wanting to swallow our whole civilization.
You swim down the aisle
like a shark smelling the fish,
the blood, the discarded entrails
chumming the water
from the boat called “Western Man”
and I being a woman wonder
where is the Goddess, the Nurturer
except in the food that poisons your body?

Your Goddess is like a crusty old crab
moving sideways, hiding amongst
the seashells and half eaten bones
that your teeth missed.
I want to take her, to take her
and your mouth
and your excellent eyes and nose,
and say yes, look at the detritus,
but also look at yourself—
what kind of shark are you
when you yourself are poisoned by the chum,
by the bright neon lights
of the supermarket aisles
and extruded civilization?

I look at your soft white underbelly
as you circle your prey dreaming of mermaids
with their thick shining tails and full breasts
and long hair wafting about them like seaweed
in the magazine and video sections
and I wonder if you will ever
be more like them,
enjoying the soft sensuousness of the sea,
the discovery and play of being in water without needing to kill,
without needing to open those sharp teeth
quite so wide. Gingerly,
I put my hand in yours
and you grin, winking at me,
your body swaying
slightly voluptuous yet dangerous
as we round the bend.

(*Albertson’s is a chain grocery store in the Pacific Northwest)

Note: this poem is from Eating the Peach, a book of poetry and drawings by Bea Garth about love, illusion and self discovery. Bea will be reading from the galleys of this new book at the Thursday Gig reading September 18th at the Stone Griffin Gallery at 287 E. Campbell Ave., Campbell Ave. in Campbell, CA. Phone: 408 806-1352 for more information .

Dreaming of Nasturtiums — or The Red Empress

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

The garden dreams of nasturtiums
yellow climbing the walls
Red Empress of India
and poppies, poppies, poppies
opening up laudanum
for the humming birds
whirring that message
zipping into one’s brain
the sunlight
the green leaves
the cats pouncing on crickets
the worms cogitating in the mounds
lifting breast like
as the yellow and green summer squash
trumpet Peter Pans and zucchinis
for us to eat
for us to loll and enjoy our tears
feeding the soil
removing the rocks
squashing the armies
of snails and slugs
hiding under the abalone shells
and river rocks and bricks
lining the garden
circling the apricot tree
and I see you sitting on the grass
as I bend over the breasts
the black/brown mounds
the wire baskets tunneling out
into the sky like scaffolds
rising rising our spirits
our dreams
me in my bare feet
you with your flowered
tight underpants
paint splotched and worn
building the fence
between our yard and the next
a pale blue/gray
echoing the snap beans
the beans we made love amongst
like two empyreans
two nymphs
like satyrs
like the Empress of India
in her red robes and green finery
oh how she smiles
as we eat her flowers
and round scalloped leaves
oh how we smile
as we cut the lemon cucumbers
and oil them
feeling the coolness
reminding me of last year’s
long elongate trumpets of cukes
hanging like dicks
and the witches I shared them with
in our circle circled
by all those red shining tomatoes
reflecting your red and green robes
our delight profound
our delight as we cried
into the earth.

Cherries

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I ate up almost all
of the black Bing cherries
this afternoon thinking of you
driving my blue pick up from Portland
to Eugene, eating Royal Annes
just picked from the old fruit farm
where you are staying ensconced
in a miniature bus
so clean and white and fresh
with its bare tatami mats, feeling open,
despite its postage stamp size
and the gray rain and time-spotted exterior.
Now it is sunny and warm this afternoon
just after experiencing July third and fourth
with you, sharing gas expenses,
going to a slide show,
having brunch with your old
vagabond poet friend
and his cohorts and my poet friend
who is about to leave for the East Coast.

Three cherries still sit in the white
ceramic bowl on the blue table cloth.
The sun streams in from under
the window shade.
Earlier I stretched out on the back lawn
and let my legs bask in the sun
while my head lay in the shade
and I looked up at the wisteria pods
and twisting bark. And I remember
the little girl during brunch
who wondered what that lump was
on your throat and I told her
that it was an Adam’s Apple,
and that most men have them,
it’s just more obvious in some
than in others – and I looked
at your long neck red from the sun
and your corny South Dakota humor
and later you asked for some black tea
with a pretend English accent
while up above us yellow butterflies
flew a patterned loop
in and out of the fruit trees
overhead.

Note: this poem will appear in my book of poems and drawings this Fall called Eating The Peach.
-----Bea Garth

The Wind Storms Outside

by Bea Garth

copyright 2008

Your curtains billow

and gleam slightly of gold

as we talk of forests, seas and continents,

the gods having raised their fists

at each of us

and we, like two Odysseus’

finally meet to tell our tales

and laugh at the twists and turns

while we marvel at these gifts

we’ve wrest despite

the monsters’ traps

and treacherous seas.

We sing to each other

words wild as the wind

and just as quickly

images like trees, earthy and green,

while the beach lies pregnant

frothed by the ocean’s hiss.

We don’t notice the time

‘til the sun

silhouettes our bodies

in the morning’s golden rays

as we shake hands

and go our separate ways.

Note: this is a poem which will be appearing in "Eating The Peach"--my new book of poems and drawings to be published early this Fall.

IF I WERE

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

If I were me
and you were you
what would we do?
Would we laugh and cry
give each other our hearts
and swear not to die,
if I were me
and you were you?

Instead we pace and stumble
being ever so humble
never learning to trust,
laughing at our disgust.
I hold myself in a huff,
stamp my feet
and let my heart rust
locking up the need
to laugh and cry.

Instead I realize
I am me
and you are you
and there is nothing
each other can do
while the cats meow
and the sparrows titter
hopping and pecking,
all stamping
and seeming to say
“That is that!”
as each flies, runs away.

On Exploring This New Emptiness

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

Emptiness fills me while life around me buzzes,
a new man takes an interest but I hardly want to bother.
What shadows am I fighting? What lessons must I learn?
I think of you with your long legs draped elegantly
across the length of the couch,
your smile delighted when I would crawl on top of you.
I could have another but for what?
What hungry beasts we are, what lonely creatures.

I know there are reasons you had to leave.
We were after all two opposites:
you tidy, me complicated; you logical, me intuitive,
you atheistic, me metaphysical,
you prefer packaged food heated in a microwave,
I cook everything in or on a stove from scratch,
you watch sports whereas I like politics, science fiction and old movies,
I am a pack-rat and you like things pristinely organized,
I like to grow plants and improvise while I dig in the dirt
whereas you never like to do anything messy,
I like to delve into the meaning of things
and you think philosophy is about exploring
and refining the surface.

I am not so very modern it seems as you are and were.
I am a throw-back perhaps:
art, herbs, poetry, politics, astrology
as well as seeing after my aged mother and repairing the houses.
Whereas you are more streamlined: computer programming,
although you have talent with music and art
but fear to take these occupations seriously.

I have to decide if I can
allow myself to partner again
or just obey my impulse
to become an isolate Crone,
maybe loving someone now and then
without becoming too attached.
I know deep inside I can no longer let myself
become derailed by someone else’s agenda,
which unfortunately is all too easy,
whether they intend that or not,
since I am empathic despite my independent nature.

For now I tend the wood stove,
buy groceries for my mother and feed the cats,
swim and walk, happy about the progress
of our current renovations
on what was before just a bunch of falling apart houses
and strategize how to not obsess about some new man
or call you up to say hello, making more time instead
to get back into my art studio
while life both quickens and slows
as I feel myself reach towards the next stage of life.

Silver

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

The clock is ticking
death approaches
I breathe in deeply
the universe bathes my heart
while a dog barks
from across the creek.
I do battle
persistent and slow
as a snail
eating the lettuce
and even the marigolds,
my trail a silver thread
reflecting the morning sun.

ON WHAT IS REQUIRED

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I wintered far too long
thick roots strangled my every movement
as I dreamed of Spring
despite what seemed all odds
willing myself to un-twine
the hidden spells that bound me.

Miraculously, I woke up
knowing what finally to do:
what majicks to enact, what potions to drink,
what edibles to eat, what things to avoid.

Slowly I revive
as I finally begin to turn the soil
and spread the rich compost
that sat forgotten
through that dark forbidding Winter.

Now I hear the Earth Sprites laugh
waiting for the new starts:
tomato, yellow-squash, cucumber,
rosemary, thyme, sage and rue,
brilliant red marigold
and their cousins -- golden calendula.

And, despite the lateness of Spring,
the earliness of Summer
grabs me by my hands
during this pregnant New Moon,
showing me Winter truly has passed
and will not come again for some Time yet
but action Now is of the Essence.

Some Days

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

There are some days the body knows
that it doesn’t matter what day it is.
Whatever it is you are doing is just too much:
you can be in the middle of the natural foods store
or shopping for a gift of Rumi’s poems
for your first nephew’s wedding
or buying lumber when suddenly you remember you forgot
to buy the concrete for the walk-way
but your body knows its too late
and anyway you are in no condition
to be lifting bags of concrete
out of the truck even if somehow you could
make yourself go back in to the check-out counter
and order them to be put into the truck.
You’ve already roped in the wooden two-by-fours
and you know you cannot get yourself to untie them
and move them over. It is too late and really not even
early enough since it was your body
that made you forget in the first place.
You know its mid June and a cool sea wind is blowing here
inland into San Jose and Campbell,
the weather is shining and beautiful
but your body is quaking,
undergoing the beginnings of the lunar cycle.
Today is the first day of the Solstice
and tonight there will be ceremonies
and your own blood is beginning to flow
in tune with the change
and it doesn’t care to be in any way efficient.

Your body is wondering what Rumi would have to say
if he were a woman and you think of your nephew
and what it was like as a girl
being his aunt all of nine years
baby-sitting him and later
how he used to worry about his diabetes
and how he felt he should never marry
and you told him none of us are immortal,
you might as well be happy,
there is no knowing when we’ll die
--and there it is, your old mortality
hitting you in the abdomen once again,
your lower back aching
from its old injury
swollen from this time of the month
and you praying for menopause
(that’s got to begin arriving soon!)
and you will take your gift
of poems and essays home
to read and then wrap for your nephew
and his outrageous second marriage.

You notice how he always
seems to like exotic Jupiterian* women
and you wonder what is the reason why,
then you remember your recent walk with his mother
when you reminisced and praised her
for leaving home so young,
since your home life was so bad
and this way she was less affected
and you remember that during the walk
a lone white horse came cantering down the path
and your sister grabbed the horse
by a belt dangling from its rope harness
and you recall that it was while your sister
was taking care of horses
the summer before your nephew was born,
he simply being an embryo gestating,
that that big white horse
you had tried to ride as a child
wouldn’t move the way you wanted it to
since you were so little and it was so big
and you think this is what your body is trying to say
refusing to move since today is no day for concrete
but it is a day to think of horses and love
and imagining your sister and her son and Rumi’s poems
in the fading afternoon light.

*Astrologically the planet Jupiter rules the sign Sagittarius which is often depicted as an archer riding a horse. Jupiter is known as a planet of optimism, expansiveness, faith and religion. Jupiter is always like an archer, willing to take risks aiming at something he or she believes in and galloping off towards that elusive quarry.

Animus

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Speak and I will run,
come softly.
‘Though it draws me
I am afraid of the fire.
Like a puma
I must think I am unseen,
a few yards behind your reach
in the darkness, amongst the trees.
I must know that you are as I
when I hold you wholly
paws turned into hands,
fur into smooth skin
despite any owls
that may hoot
their screams.


Note: This is an old poem of mine written when I was a young woman years ago. However I believe it is still universal. Spring makes one think of such things even at age 58. Hope others here can relate. I welcome comments on this or any other post here.--Bea

Old Young Man

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

I am with a young man,
I am with an old man
--what are the mistakes
I wish to avoid,
what are the mistakes
I will make again?

I am with a man
amongst this tangled wood
we gesticulate and sing
our love rising
like these trees surrounding us.
Is this the young woman I was,
is this the old woman I am becoming?
What wisdom will I share
with this young/old man?
What passions will flame
in this deep rooted fire?

What are the mistakes
we want to avoid,
what are the mistakes
we will make again?
Old new love
-- we want so
to avoid the pain
but neither of us wants
to miss one kiss
or this chance
to remake our lives again:
old young man
with young old woman
in this dance of sweet bliss
and agony.

Recovering

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

There is nothing quite like
feeling a little energy again
like life is possible
after a siege, however humble,
like a bug recovering after falling
or almost being squashed.
I still hack and cough
but the rasp is not as deep,
the tiredness not as pervasive.
I start noticing how I haven’t bathed
and my clothes are dirty and disheveled,
the dishes stacked in several piles,
wads of kleenex strewn about like white armies.

This time I finally have the energy
to watch TV with its trips to outer and inner space:
the mean-ness of humanity
overcome in some plot once again
slave inmates trying to get back to Planet Earth
from a work colony in outer space ruled by a madman
enjoying their torture and discomfort
the show intertwined with endless news programs
about the need for change in politics and the mortgage crisis
the war in Iraq led by our wide eyed president
who shoots down funding for alternative energy
so he can continue to subsidize Big Oil
sandwiched between tender pictures
of those whose lives war has destroyed
come in at long last into my living room
as I drink hot tea while the announcer tells me how
the soldiers are keeping more Iraqis safe
and shows me the lucky children
in their brand new wheelchairs our convicts have made
and all I need to do is click on the web for my contribution.

My body itches again in places I shouldn’t have to scratch.
I apply my salve, grateful I have it,
grateful I have a bit of life again
grateful the hacking seems to have abated
grateful my recovery does not involve mangled parts
or memories of raped sisters
from the room next to me
and dismembered children carried in my arms
the lucky ones waiting for a wheelchair or an operation in neighboring Iran.
“At last we have faces for this war!” I announce
to myself and all my Kleenexes,
grateful for signs of becoming well again and hopeful
despite our president with his dirty war
all about oil, fear, power and dismemberment.
“Maybe now we can finally fight our way back to Planet Earth!”
I mumble as I drink another cup of hot tea
and take my spoons of bitter expectorant
and prepare at last to go back to bed.

Toltec

(musings in the clay sculpture studio)
By Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Today the clay under my fingers sang
at long last
righting the arms and shoulders
of this Toltec like sculpture
putting on ears and a bit more mass
on the back of his head
seeing how strong he is
so centered after all
so Just and Righteous
-- this after signing my tall
rectangular carved story piece
I call “The Fallen Man”
or should I call it “Fall From Paradise”?
It is all about finding a new path,
I think to myself,
even though I still admire how elegant
this old one was even when fallen.
I stand back and can’t help
but see this new figure
has a lot more grit and character;
it gives me hope seeing him like that
--maybe I am making progress after all!

Yellow Blossoms

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

Spring, how I love your sweet smells,
your tossed looks. Spring, thank you
for your shimmering yellow blossoms
and bright green sour-grass!
Thank you for the sunshine
and breath of warmth
moving through the light hill air!
Thank you for the black bees
and gray pill bugs, for the delicate eyed
fawn across the wire fence
and even the feral gray cat
that wakes me late at night or early morning
with his howls and screams
in pursuit of my two sweet felines,
making me think of my own love waiting
while I feel my blood begin to move,
the mitochondria starting to flower at long last
like the newly blossomed calendula
and red geraniums
flanking my front door!

I See What I See

by Bea Garth, copyright 2008

I see what I see. As a child I discovered
pill bugs ball up when I look under rocks and old rotten wood,
water disappears quickly down holes dug in the ground,
the light drifts in layers on a dusty sunlit day,
water bugs hesitate on the surface of a lazy eddy in the creek
the black poly-wogs with tiny legs swim faster than the rest,
ants carry small bits of rice or other discarded edibles,
cats lie in wait for grasshoppers, their ears at attention.

I found too that I can see many selves
reflected from the bathroom mirror
one after the next staring back at me
if I focus long enough with squinted eyes.

I loved to build forts or sit in the grass amongst the trees
listening to the bees and yellow jackets hum
over the drying prunes
and dream of distant lands—present, past and future.
I’d play make-believe or hide and seek with my friends
or become a general and command my troops to victory
in a mock war with the kids down the next block.

I read myths and fairy tales from around the world
and would regale them to Judy down the street
when we’d walk home from junior high school.

I still notice how the wind blows leaves
and the play of light and shadow.
The earth and the seasons
have always been my friends as are my cats.
I love water even though
I could have drowned out in the settling pond as a child.
I still am fascinated with water-bugs
with their long legs gliding on the surface
reflecting themselves in a kind of double helix
as I look up at them when I am submerged underwater.

I still see what I see
even though I know my mind can play tricks
with what is real or not
and I have found this is more than just OK
since I learned long ago
it’s a gift like playing and swimming
to be free to both observe and really imagine.

Note: the painting to the above right
is entitled "The Fertile Sea" by Bea Garth, copyright 2007