I am known by my curly shadow curse. And I regularly reintroduce myself during the once-a-year “normal” day. Folks regularly introduced to the frizz uncontrolled and overwhelmed. And that is fine with me. A defining feature I can embrace since “Oh yes, there’s just no hope for it” and “All-natural, all the time” but don’t worry about the maintenance because it’s an excuse to “get up and go.” No one can tell a difference anyway, just go.
Go unabashed in the wind because it’s tangled however you throw it and luckily the humidity is low today. But the occasional rainstorm transforms me from the beach-babe to the medieval torture chamber victim as soon as the steam starts to rise from the pavement. But it also embraces me and keeps me warm in the winter. No scarf needed. I can wrap the mass around my neck, a self-inflicted, Porphyria during the occasional exuberant breeze. Even she is a vision of beauty and lust, even if in the grave. I can mimic some semblance of that beginning, on a Tuesday, perhaps.
I am the young girl standing in front of the mirror for three hours fumbling the tie that won’t stay on my piano-fingers. My only wish at the time, to tie back this blight and pin it until the wind can never twist open the fly-aways. Perhaps then I might sneak in with the flat-heads. I did learn. But now–now I can go. Go wherever I want and that thing that everyone knows me by reaches out to brush the chest of the man I lay next to. It spreads out like water-alive across his arms and my shoulders-bare (except for the occasional escapee) and I am whole in this genetic gift cursed upon my scalp.
An exciting event approaches! On July 19th a magical thing will happen. A picture of the Earth will be taken…from past Saturn by Cassini. And I think that we should all be a part of it. Not only should we turn and give a wave, but let’s give a sonnet, or any type of poem, to Saturn and Cassini that day. Because we are all on that blue dot, and we’re not going anywhere for a while. It’s the perfect moment to remember, how wonderful and perfect this dust mote is floating in a sunbeam.
So here’s your mission! Email me a poem at firstname.lastname@example.org! I suggest a sonnet but I’m happy to see anything besides as well! And on July 19th, throughout the day, I will post the poems of those who have shared with me so that whole day we can send our love to Saturn. Share these poems with the world and let’s remember what it’s like to be a pixel in space.
In your email, please include your poem (pasted into the email and in a .docx attachment), your name (or how you want to be represented), a picture of you or a picture that you feel represents you (please only send me pictures that you have the rights to, aka, pictures you have taken), and if you want to include a website or any other information let me know.
Please read more about this amazing opportunity from Carolyn Porco of the Cassini Imaging Team.
If you would like to take my recommendation of writing a Sonnet to Saturn and Cassini you can learn more about the form that goes into a sonnet and the different types see here.
The Black Out
Fractured bits fall together, combining,
disintegrating, I am unaware in the silence.
What could make solid granite burn? Before,
static, now evolving if there were a tick.
My hands clasp dirty air while those around me
shiver peeking past their clouds of breath.
The Night We Spun
When the sky rushes up to swallow my legs
two seconds are lost running on the rippling
flow, aiming for the dusty gap between two
bright spots of fluff and cotton, needle’s-
eye for the edge of whatever that is, bliss lost
in the circular pattern of light, visions, hallucinations,
mixes of the dizziness and reality. I am less
than the sky but the sky left bits in my skin,
they sparkle, and the spinning slows a tad just so
he can comet a kiss where star dust makes my smile shine.
The snow, still white, melts under the light.
My home shifts, the unsteady ground collapsing.
The sky, still black, recedes and turns away.
My home diminishes, my life overwhelms.
The sky, my home — the orange glow we asked for.
After we walked on the Moon
The dust of my steps chokes.
Anticipation of historicity leaps,
each particle settling slower
than rain in a desert, gathering.
They celebrate life with a spin, a dive,
a hero’s end in silence, an intake
of breath lost — in the medium
of emptiness. And they never saw
it coming. This loss, in time, hand-in-
hand with the end of innovation.