What do you remember about the choices you made and the chances you took to get where you are right now? Is this where you were headed when you set off?
Poem 17, “For John,” from Thrown Again into the Frazzle Machine: Poems of Grace, Hope, and Healing. Listen here: https://youtu.be/4eHOAzWp-fw
For more video poems from “Frazzle”
State Street, Chicago Copyright 2012 MDMikus
I wrote this poem when I was a mentor for a 7th grade girl through the Spark Program. I would drive 30 miles into Chicago and we’d meet at an Argo Tea shop downtown after school. After a snack, we’d talk about and read poetry. She’d write from prompts I gave her or her own ideas, and plan and carry out her project.
In 2012 the high school graduation rate for Chicago public schools was low, about 60%. The Spark Program (begun in San Francisco, now in four cities) was meant to give individual attention and apprenticeships to students to encourage them to stay in school and graduate. I wrote while I waited for her to come, and in my car afterwards, and elsewhere inspired by the whole process. I also took Chicago photos, which I love to do (see above). She ended up creating an amazing collection of her poems paired with her vividly colorful designs (including glitter stickers) and presenting it to the entire group at the end. Very cool!
Here is one of my own “Spark” poems:
(Spark #2)
A door opens
walk through.
Opportunity knocks
answer.
A boat glides up to the dock
where you stand waiting
to take you to your dream
no explanations
no guarantees.
If you don’t go
you will wonder
and if you don’t go
what will you do
and if you don’t…go
when will you find out
just what you are made of
just what you could be
if only?
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2012
From Thrown Again into the Frazzle Machine
THROWN AGAIN into the FRAZZLE MACHINE: Poems of Grace, Hope, and Healing
Elisabeth, Eric, me, and Lisa–Photo by Jonathan Cohon Copyright 2014
10:30 last night I drove back home in the snow from an incredible event with Eric Whitacre. So far exceeded any unconscious expectations I might have had, I was flying. It’s hard to pin down exactly why we were so thoroughly buzzed after. Everything lined up so perfectly it was one of those rare times when I felt in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, entirely content.
To recap: The latest snow—in one of the snowiest winters ever—held off for the drive in. I did not get turned around in Evanston, (which happens to me often). Easy parking in a covered lot a block away. Welcomed by new Virtual Choir friends, Elisabeth (and Jonathan), Darrell (and Penna), and Lisa at The Celtic Knot Pub in Evanston, where the food was good and the company was awesome!
Elisabeth, Lisa, Penna, Darrell and me–Photo by Jonathan Cohon Copyright 2014
At the urging of Darrell Polka, I read the most recent of my Eric Whitacre-Virtual Choir inspired poems to the group (see below). We then walked over to the Alice Millar Chapel at Northwestern University just as the snow was beginning to accumulate. Lovely dusting and reasonably warm (for these days). Beautiful space. Got to hear Eric rehearsing the Apollo Chorus singing his piece, Lux Aurumque, a conducting master class. Transcendent! He talked us through some of his creative process with such humor and warmth. Excellent questions asked in the Q & A with such thoughtful, vulnerable, insightful answers. We even all got to sing a few bars of a piece he is working on and then hear Lux Aurumque in entirety. Just soaked right into me!
Then the meet and greet (maybe as many as 700 of us). Eric is one of those rare people who can captivate an audience and also fully connect with individuals. He focused on each of us in turn, gracious and generous. Responsive, receiving, and…well, genuine. His energy and enthusiasm is just so contagious! I delivered the three poems to him, got a CD signed and photos taken (by Jonathan). Talked a minute or so and some whirlwind hugs. Floating…
When I first heard about Eric Whitacre coming nearby, I was recovering from major abdominal surgery and felt too vulnerable to go out on my own, certainly not drive and walk out in the slippery snow! Even though I wanted to meet my local Virtual Choir friends in real life, I didn’t plan on going. At some point, I decided to stop thinking about whether to go or not and just see if it all came together. Get out of my own way. I emailed for a ticket and that was good. Emailed the restaurant and they got back to me in an hour (yes, they had a gluten-free menu, very accommodating). And that was good. Parking was nearby. That was good. The weather was manageable and most of all I recovered. Walking the few minutes, even in snow was a piece of cake. That was good. Reassuring. As I said to Elisabeth, it all worked out. My job was to let it. Have you ever had that experience when you let go and allowed your life to come together?
Here are the poems, part of the ongoing collection inspired by Eric Whitacre and Virtual Choir.
8/28/13
Eric Whitacre: Godzilla Eats Las Vegas
(with Elvises)
There is music
takes itself so serious
and then
there is music
without a serious bone
that can sink in
to the dark places
and lighten
lift out of
and up
soaring without risk
of falling back.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2013
8/28/13
Cracked Open After Louise Penny
While listening to Arvo Pärt Cantus in memoriam Benjamin Britten,
Proms, 2010 on YouTube—posted by Eric Whitacre on Facebook
Not about fixing
the irreparably broken
but creating
the newborn form
to take its place
in memoriam,
to allow, not push or defend
deliberate shoots that spring up
through soil
even if not particularly fertile,
and shoots can grow
into something novel
and bloom someday
into something as yet
merely envisioned…
almost.
To take the risk
as if…
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2013
10/2/13
Subset of Virtual Choir
Glow
Why
spend precious hours
on a seasonal short song
to sing into a camera and send?
Naked it feels
to risk a public
miscalculation
of being less than…
perfection.
The charismatic man
behind the tune
calling for the tribe,
offering a vision,
a chance to gather
even in competition
some, not all, will win. Why?
To open the door and get inside,
sync with the rhythm,
learn music from intent repetition
and deliver the song
to the green dot and beyond.
Why, again why?
Because to live
is to risk, is to stretch
is to grow, is to know
possibility of
contentment within
even virtual achievement.
To be connected,
not alone, to belong
through trials, through song
Innate in the genes, to be together,
though apparently separate.
For the inspiration,
follow the inclination,
why do anything,
hit a ball with a bat,
throw or jump or run,
pull a bow across strings,
stroke a key or blow into a tube,
riff on a guitar or beat a drum
is to express being…human
being with virtual friends.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2013
You may also like previous posts with poems inspired by Eric Whitacre and Virtual Choir
March Petals Margaret Dubay Mikus Copyright 2004
I have been writing a poetic journal since 1995, begun just after healing from multiple sclerosis. In 1996 I was diagnosed with breast cancer, completing treatment (surgery, chemo, and radiation) in 1997. I kept writing, (by hand, in spiral notebooks), but I was unable to get all of the poems edited and entered into the computer. Time went on and I recovered, facing other challenges over the years, balancing being a mother and wife, running a household, with writing and creative projects. At some point I got back to the process of getting my poems in the computer, organizing them in “Books” of six months of writing each. But I never got all those poems from 1997-98 into my files.
A long time passed. My writing changed, getting better I hope, more streamlined, clearer perhaps. But I held onto the idea that I wanted the complete “set” of poems to access for any future projects. The poems, as is any journal, are like memory. What happened? Who was I then, what inspired me?
Every so often over the years, I pulled out the dusty spiral notebooks and made efforts to get caught up. This week I began again in earnest to get all the poems into usable form. Many of them are clearly for my own use only. This is often the case with writing. But some surprised me. Here is one story I came upon tonight.
3/28/98
Each Life Is Precious
I am grateful
for each and every
hair growing on my head,
for eyes that blink
and open wide, that cry
or crinkle,
for every breath drawn in,
for every cell sent oxygen,
for a full heart beating untended
in time to ancient rhythm.
I am grateful for every day,
every minute each a gift,
for feet and hands and lips,
for knees and elbows and hips,
for skin and nails and toes,
for ears and eyebrows,
neck and shoulders,
for back straight
and thighs strong.
All this awareness
this awakening,
dedicated to the one
who was struck by a lemon-colored cab
right before our shocked eyes,
so hard his shoes flew off,
hit so fast and terrible
the body collapsed and lay flat
like a balloon doll with the air let out
or a scarecrow without its stuffing.
In that second, one easy Friday night
the world changed color.
We drove on, as many others came to help, hospital nearby,
we went on in horror, my head cupped in hands,
but not helpless. I sent healing energy
to support the spirit
so recently jolted from physical reality.
I held his ethereal hand as he shook it off
and kept on traveling.
I rubbed my husband’s shoulders,
he massaged my neck and head,
we spoke in hushed reverent tones
and drove carefully home.
I honor the one who gave us this lesson:
All life, every sometimes grating minute
is precious, beyond any earthly measure.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 1998
Saturday, Oct 15, a beautiful, clear, fall day, was the weekend after my husband, Stephen’s 60th birthday and we all gathered to celebrate. That afternoon his sister, Barbara, was flying back to Texas and his aunt, Dorothy, was flying back to Michigan. We met our two kids in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago for brunch before heading to O’Hare Airport. The first restaurant we tried had a wait of two hours, so we decided to walk to another place under a mile away. I was feeling good that day, walking briskly, and talking to my daughter’s boyfriend. Suddenly my feet were knocked from under me. We had stepped to one side to let a jogger pass and apparently my foot caught on a decorative stone that was sticking up around a tree in the sidewalk. With nothing to grab hold of I went flying and … well, the poem tells the story.
It is now 11 days later. I am still sore, but healing fast. Whatever I was going to do was mostly put on hold. What have I learned (again)? It all works out. Whatever life looks like, however messy and even painful, it all works out. I say this from a full awareness of ongoing challenges and sometimes dark days. But I am more and more aware that Life is mystery. Somehow with all that has gone on, I end up in the right place. What have you learned, maybe the hard way?
10/18/11
The fall
not from grace
but from briskness,
momentum following
ordinary laws of physics.
One moment laughing,
walking, talking,
the next stumbling,
falling, sprawling
into the street
between the curb and
a new brown parked sedan.
From a good day (finally!)
to unbearable pain
embarrassment, shame.
Try to rise
try to dust off
try to see
to act normally
pretending…
but not possible.
Halsted Street and buildings
melt into bright light,
few outlines remain
and the pain
takes over everything.
Not a head hit,
not bleeding,
scraped knees swelling
from inside pants
(material still intact!).
Left shoulder
hit cement curb and though
mind and will are strong as ever,
eyes close.
She retreats into the bubble
forming around her,
hard to stay with him
despite intense entreaties.
Ambulance gurney,
lying down she returns,
shock retreats.
Emergency room.
X-rays. Testing.
Telling the same story
of what happened 20 times.
More herself, joking even.
Flashbacks
play inside her eyelids,
over and over she stumbles
and falls…and falls,
trying to rise on bruised knees.
Nothing broken,
healing begun immediately,
she remembers to take arnica
tablets to minimize bruising.
Also the best of it:
her left side hurt, not dominant right,
no blood or ragged gash to stitch,
help immediate.
Back not wrenched
face not scraped
teeth not chipped
hands not ripped
pants not torn
nor sweater, nor purse, nor coat,
bladder was empty,
her stomach had breakfast.
In some essential small corner
all is well.
Margaret Dubay Mikus
© 2011