TOO MUCH/TOO LITTLE/TOO NUCLEAR

 by Bea Garth

copyright May, 2011

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"Waiting" watercolor scene of Japan, by Erik Kaye, copyright 2011

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I just can’t deal with it. It is too much:

feeling in my bones the cover-up of nuclear radiation

spreading through the Northern Hemisphere,

the continuing spewing of the reactors in Fukishima, Japan.

Nothing upon nothing does not make it go away. Old news is no news, eh?

My friend is horse from some cold — my friend who never gets colds –

I hear doctors are wondering what is going on, so many people

are getting pneumonia, like after Chernobyl, like what I got

as an infant after the full release of radiation

from the Hanford nuclear reactor’s “Green Run” experiment on the local population that ran awry  from unexpected wind gusts

that  spread radiation to three states

back in December 1949  when my family lived just thirty miles away.

Now here it is a warm, relatively dry, mild spring in late May 2011

in the San Francisco Bay Area and  I hear almost Everyone is getting sick:

Another friend got “food poisoning” from bottled water

Tell me about it. Same day I got sick from some soup

I made using collard greens and my boyfriend got sick too

from the “air” at work. No connection there, right?

The release of iodine 131 just spiked. It rained lightly as I recall.

Who knows about the cesium and strontium and the rest.

No biggy, except you won’t see it on the news

except for specialty radiation monitoring news you have to really search for.

Maybe the news blackout is right: say nothing, and there is nothing

since nothing can be done except stop drinking milk,

eat vegetables from South America, stop eating Pacific fish,

and remember to not take walks in the rain.

For your “cold” take baking soda, apple pectin or chlorella 

or plenty of (old) dandelion root tea 

and  baths with Epsom salts or again, baking soda.

Be sure too to  take your calcium/mag/zinc pills and N.A.C.

and avoid newly collected sea salt and recently made cheese.

But who tells you that? Not the E.P.A. that is for sure. Instead they just raised

the limit by a thousand percent on how much radiation you can safely receive.

I feel so much better knowing that, don’t you? 

My friends in Funabashi, Japan make jokes about glowing in the dark

and remark about seeing distorted, multi-headed carrots being tossed out

from a field on a bike ride in the country they took last weekend.

We may all just have to laugh it off with a shrug: The  Before and now the After.

Since Japan does not know what to do: All those reactors at Fukishima

still steaming, melting, contaminating the air and  ocean

now well over two months. Its old news. It makes me crazy.

All I can do is live my life and pretend, like our dear politicians and news media,

that it is not really happening — except for one thing:

No more new nuclear reactors,

Mr. Obama, Mr. and Mrs. General Electric America

not here, not anywhere anymore.  And those old ones? They gotta go too.

 

Check out this site for more info: http://enenews.com/highest-state-california-finds-iodine-131-milk-sample-first-time-march

Tides

"Ocean Holiday" photo by Bea Garth, copyright 2011

by Bea Garth

copyright 2011

You unravel me

with  your sweet

persistent

touch,

I am swept up

in the tides

of the Universe

there being no shore

like the sands

of the Moment

to lose myself into

guided by the deep

ocean waters breaking

beneath the depths

of your  tear stained eyes.

BIRDS

by Bea Garth

copyright 2010

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It is early morning

the birds having woken me

with their chirping

in melodic unison.

I look outside

up through the window

from my old bed

and feel myself transported

while the sky clothes itself

in a transparent wash of turquoise blue

shining through

the fronds of the sensitive tree

out back above the garden.

I start  noticing my old room

with the delicate light fingering the leaves

of the fern and the spokes of my small white fan

both sitting on the sill.

My young cat

shifts himself between my feet.

Though his ears are perked up

he still hunkers down

to be near me despite the birds.

I have been away

far too long.

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.

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.