Note (Poem)

Today’s poem is written by our guest author, Tyler. This poem’s imagery completely envelops me, a mental vacation. I hope you can read this poem while sipping in some of the evening’s sunbeams.

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Note

by Tyler Mortensen-Hayes

• • •

—Have you noticed, friends, how amazing it is
that a sunflower contains itself inside
itself, like somebody you love but could never touch;
how it allows itself, come fall, to turn brown
& droop into nothing, though not before spitting
out the miraculous little clusters of sunlight
that have hardened into its seeds, spreading
over the damp garden where congregations of birds
& squirrels & my own two hands gobble them up,
filling with the nourishment of something that,
just weeks ago, did not even exist; & sometime later
all of those seeds—forgive me for mentioning it—
spill out & rejoin everything that remains uneaten
& buried, under leaves or wet earth, waiting the whole long
hazy winter until, clever things, they grow into sunflowers,
& how impossible to witness this again & again,
year after year, & to always take part, always eating
& growing from what rises so softly, so wordlessly,
from the earth, how lucky we are, dearest friends, to be here.

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Tyler is a poet, located in Salt Lake City, a bustling place known for its erratic climate and proximity to vast wildernesses. He once had a friend who told him, “You poets take the weather so personally!” in which Tyler thought–”Why yes, don’t you?”

Sister Series 2020

Last year, I felt pulled to start a poetry series in alignment with International Women’s Day, titled Sister Series. In this series, I wrote poems with some specific women in mind, depicting past solely their skin, rather, penning about the beauty within their soul.

I felt a similar pull this year. When I went to go write these poems, I became overwhelmed with gratitude, for I’ve had the opportunity to become acquainted and know so many women over the past year. I decided to write every name I knew in a jar and picked out a few. Over the next month, I will be sharing these works with you.

While these poems were penned with specific women in mind—you will see your mother, your sister, your friend, maybe even yourself—in these poems. I want to encourage you to share these words with them, or even write a few of your own.

This first poem comes from a time I visited Ohio before I moved here for the second time; I was in the Columbus Museum of Art and started weeping for the people here. That’s the moment I knew that Ricky and I would move back here, and naturally, was the perfect poem to start off this series.

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Kindred

by Regan Smith

• • •

I walk through art galleries and weep, 
the paper and paint is beautiful, 
but these humans inhabiting this space
are what take my breath away. 

I see you be moved by an art piece, 
emotions emerging to the surface, 
until they’re shown on your skin. 

My heart is tied to yours, and 
with every atom, I can feel 
when you ache–when you have joy,
my heart soars alongside yours. 

And although today we may be strangers, 
our eyes link for a second,
and that scintillating moment
reminds us that we are sisters.

Second Home

I’ve been thinking about the connection between the mind, the body and ultimately its relation to our soul; I’m trying to make sense of their overlap, of the space that lives between them.

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Second Home

by Regan Smith

• • •

My mind has vacated, withdrawing up into the sky, to watch the world as a spectator; 
as the rain pours onto the earth below, I meditate in the heavy haze. 

Lungs lined with dew, skin saturated like petals in the morning; 
the bottom of my feet are met with sure footing by the absence, freedom found at this elevation. 

And as my body settles back with gravity, I steal a slice of this space, 
holding a reality that surpasses a daydream.

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Photography is by Farrah Emami.

Sister Series

I felt pulled to start a poetry series the past several weeks; this announcement coincides with International Women’s Day, a delightful happenstance. We’re calling it the Sister Series, a sequence of poems created with several particular women in mind. These are poems that swiftly sweep past the surface of their skin and swing deep into the beauty that dwells within their souls.

The introductory poem to this series is one I initially read aloud around a year ago. I’m proud to introduce the Sister Series with this piece, one which encapsulates my true birth-sisters, wrapped together within a single work.

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Jacquelyn Raquel Elizabeth

by Regan Smith
(poem also known as Sisters)

Baby blue stitches, 
little crossed threads creating denim patterns; 
though fading in the elbows. 

She paints oranges, develops photos of her sisters, 
and captures footage of the Cinquefoil flowers. 

She wraps her arms around her brothers, 
and laughs loudly; 
honeydew hope is held in her eyes.

On a basking blanket between two Cottonwood trees,   
with a short story collection between her palms, 
her face begins to freckle—
beneath her full eyebrows,
and on her soft shoulders. 

She is in the wind, and will grow weary, 
belly swells as baby grows—
resting her spine on the bed, 
as she pulls splinters from her fingers.

Gray strands emerge from her scalp, 
woven throughout her cocoa curls;  
it holds the air of the forest, 
and unravels beneath streams of warm water. 

A lively life looms, 
indigenous to encouragement. 

Her heart is held, 
familiar to a full mind—
but not foreign to today. 

I think she understates, 
how many good traits she received from her mother; 
how they both speak with words that break the bones of death, 
and shift tides with a whisper.

A Hero in Flames

This is the second post of Jane's on this site, with her first being White Stag. This next poem, A Hero in Flames, took my breath away and poured inspiration into my empty cup. A while after writing this poem, Jane found that she is officially cancer free–a miraculous work of God that deserves ceaseless celebration.

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a hero in flames

by jane claudio

If I was to die
It would be with the reflection of the mountains in my eyes
I would die with sun-pink cheeks
And a mouth full of blackberries

I want to die while my heart is still a greenhouse for hope
All my wild dreams as seedlings in egg cartons
Reaching toward the window

I cannot die yellow and hungry
I will not die in sterile air

But I would like to die
While the fireflies are still glowing
Morse coding their poetry for a cynical earth

I would like to die like Joan of Arc
With dignity and urgency and stubbornness
As a watercolor portrait in the night
A sight to behold, a hero in flames

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Photo by Keeli Faith

Jane Claudio is a cancer survivor in Nashville, Tennessee. She uses writing as a cure for loneliness and a magnifying glass for the beauty we experience every day. She is also shares her words through songwriting, with her work being accessible at www.nightbirde.com. 

San Francisco in July

Towards the ending weeks of last month, I went out to San Francisco for a work trip; after work hours I wandered on-foot into local bookstores, hiked upon hills, came across community gardens, and watched out onto the city. I was fully entertained, though requesting dinner reservations for one.  

I remember how I use to pull away from solitude, how it was a space to abuse my body and cycle the cognition my mind would stammer about my existence. I didn’t know then what I know now, as time and age often matures into a sweeter standing.

Present day dwellings, solitude is an opportunity to take an unfiltered open-eyed look at my intentions and actions, the habits that my mind instantly acts upon. This is the act in which has enabled me to grow comfortable with being alone, for this practice is one that I try to often pulse. I find enjoyment in analyzing how and why I react to circumstances, and its realignment. 

Since I was away for a little over a week, this ensued as a fluid flow throughout the trip's duration. Several traits that I didn’t know that I had surfaced to eye-level—both the beautiful and the brutal. 

I discovered that I love on others more than I think that I do, and that I always aim to stay in a state of stillness. I also found that I had subconsciously linked the contrast of my life from yesterday to today as a currency to salvation; a fraudulent thought that had been utilized to chip away at forgiveness for myself for the past few months. 

I’m sitting next to myself, a mirror—black kerchief folded and knotted around my neck, brown hair slighting spilling over my shoulders.

My heart is pooling in grace and mercy, forgiveness and favor. I will always be in a state of gratitude, giving thanks for conviction, and the stillness that softly speaks truth. 

• • •

j u l y   2 3

Misson & 18th

I sit among the street vendors
selling soggy dried books and soiled t-shirts, 
we engage in conversation. 

I look out and watch; 
each passerby
engaging in this air, 
traveling towards their next destination. 

The younger man with
baggy jeans, and black sunglasses
tugging at the collar of his shirt. 

The older woman crossing the street,
pushing her daughter in her stroller, 
dodging the street’s cracks and holes. 

The ‘clean fuel bus’ slides across the skyward strings, 
holding several hundred hearts a day, 
their heads jounce in unison
to the awry asphalt. 

The stranger wandering, 
not familiar to a smile, 
though we smile anyways.  

Melted posters paper-mâché 
the sides of the telephone poles, 
and wooden walls are covered
in metal diamond patterns,

akin to all, 
foreign to none.

• • •

j u l y   2 5

Atop a red rocked hill, 
overlooking San Francisco in July, 
where cities and sky intertwine; 
pastel houses stacked, 
buildings climb high. 

The wind is heavy here, 
eager to even take this pen and paper away, 
to have me only captivated by its whirl, 
for it has a jealous mind. 

City shaded, 
fog rolling in, 
dust becomes unsettled. 

Neither weak are the mountains
nor my bones; 
the red rocks
and my blue blood.

• • •

j u l y   2 7

This week has been
gold purified by fire; 
tried and tested— 
results revealing, 
conviction gentle, 
grace abounding.

Nothing on this earth
can touch
or take away
your obedience.

We will always be guided to light, 
as long as we open our eyes.