dawn m. armfield » doctoral candidate in rhetoric and scientific and technical communication

love and loss

4 years ago

by dawn in animals, cancer, dakota, family, life

It’s been a rough month. I know. You probably don’t want to hear one more story about Dakota. I’m sure you don’t. His passing has left such a hole in my life, though.

I miss curling up with him on weekends. I miss getting his kisses when I came home from wherever I went. I miss seeing him playing in the snow.

I worry that I didn’t give him a good enough life, that I didn’t treat him as well as I could have. Maybe I yelled too much. Maybe I punished him too harshly. Maybe I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt as much as I could have.

And all of my doctoral applications were due (and I got them in). My gosh is that a lot of stress. I didn’t get much time to grieve because I had to get those done.

And as I said, my grandfather was terminally ill. He passed on Thursday. I think that everything I’ve been holding in, from Dakota’s passing to the stress of the applications, my thesis, and work, to my grandfather’s passing have all come out this weekend. I’ve had these bouts of intense crying that haven’t been duplicated in years. I haven’t cried like this in such a long time.

I am going to miss my grandfather. I’m going to miss his emails and his voice. I’m going to miss his presence in my life.

I miss my little guy so much that it physically hurts sometimes. I ache from the loss.

My grandma and I were talking yesterday. She said, “In our family, we laugh just as hard as we cry and we’re able to do both extremely well.” I replied to her that I’d rather be able to laugh and cry because it means I’m alive.

I just wish the crying didn’t accompany hurt. The hurt is overwhelming sometimes.

the garden buddha

4 years ago

by dawn in poetry, sunday songs

american life in poetry: column 132

by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate, 2004-2006

Children at play give personalities to lifeless objects, and we don’t need to give up that pleasure as we grow older. Poets are good at discerning life within what otherwise might seem lifeless. Here the poet Peter Pereira, a family physician in the Seattle area, contemplates a smiling statue, and in that moment of contemplation the smile is given by the statue to the man.

The Garden Buddha

Gift of a friend, the stone Buddha sits zazen,
prayer beads clutched in his chubby fingers.
Through snow, icy rain, the riot of spring flowers,
he gazes forward to the city in the distance–always

the same bountiful smile upon his portly face.
Why don’t I share his one-minded happiness?
The pear blossom, the crimson-petaled magnolia,
filling me instead with a mixture of nostalgia

and yearning. He’s laughing at me, isn’t he?
The seasons wheeling despite my photographs
and notes, my desire to make them pause.
Is that the lesson? That stasis, this holding on,

is not life? Now I’m smiling, too–the late cherry,
its soft pink blossoms already beginning to scatter;
the trillium, its three-petaled white flowers
exquisitely tinged with purple as they fall.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) by Peter Pereira. Reprinted from “What’s Written on the Body” by Peter Pereira, Copper Canyon Press, 2007, by permission of the author and publisher. Introduction copyright (c) 2007 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

a dandelion for my mother

4 years ago

by dawn in poetry

american life in poetry: column 131

by ted kooser, u.s. poet laureate, 2004-2006

Sometimes beginning writers tell me they get discouraged because it seems that everything has already been written about. But every experience, however commonplace, is unique to he or she who seizes it. There have undoubtedly been many poems about how dandelions pass from yellow to wind-borne gossamer, but this one by the Maryland poet, Jean Nordhaus, offers an experience that was unique to her and is a gift to us.

A Dandelion for My Mother

How I loved those spiky suns,
rooted stubborn as childhood
in the grass, tough as the farmer’s
big-headed children–the mats
of yellow hair, the bowl-cut fringe.
How sturdy they were and how
slowly they turned themselves
into galaxies, domes of ghost stars
barely visible by day, pale
cerebrums clinging to life
on tough green stems. Like you.
Like you, in the end. If you were here,
I’d pluck this trembling globe to show
how beautiful a thing can be
a breath will tear away.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) 2006 by Jean Nordhaus. Reprinted from “Innocence,” by Jean Nordhaus, published by Ohio State University Press, 2006, with permission of the publisher. Introduction copyright (c) 2007 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

may i feel said he

4 years ago

by dawn in poetry

by e.e. cummings

may i feel said he
(i’ll squeal said shejust once said he)
it’s fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you’re willing said he
(but you’re killing said she

but it’s life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don’t stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you’re divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

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