Ms. Kay Renz presented a new chapbook at the 21st World Congress of Poets held in Managua, Nicaragua, July 16-20.The book, Gestating Hope focuses on world problems and the hope of renewal needed to overcome the problems of today.
“I believe a poet’s job is to witness, so I involve my consciousness in a panoply of life. The poet’s challenge, as a human being, is to be present and willing to express the pain, anger and/or joy of the moment in language that shows the insides of what is experienced, and my hope is that others who read/hear what I’ve created can say, ‘I know…. I understand….’”
The following poems, Hot Questions, Root Woman and Woman in Stone are from Kay’s chapbook, Gestating Hope.
For information on how to purchase the book, please contact Kay at Kar95403@Yahoo.com.
Hot Questions
There is no guarantee to existence
no guarantee
of cognitive conscious being
present all the time.
Self is not guaranteed kind or evil,
and can be
either or both,
so
what to do with anger,
at lack of control,
at abuse of power?
what to do with flames melting
the urge to soothe, or
with that feeling of doves gathering
That the soul wants
instinctively
to dwell in?
What to do with the hot sliver of despair
wedged among heart membranes
when earth and her creatures re dying?
What to do about furnace fueled greed,
and the workers chained
inside the conflagration,
fed from above with corruption?
And finally, what to do
about the circle in the center
that craves committed hands to keep
the pyre of hope tended?
Root Woman
“Blast ye! Creatures of doubt! I’ll not have ye
downcast looks !
It be the dawning of a new age, and I be in trouble,
my lover, shanghaied by blokes bound
I know not where
The Orient …Spain…”
Named for the Virgin and not willing to bring
the town’s eyes and tongues to your Christian family,
Agnes Mary , you packed your tapestry bags, crystal
and grandmother’s shawl.
To protect your balance along the rocky road
you took your grandfather’s old oak shillelagh.
A girl barely sixteen, you crossed the sea
to the New World from the land where Wicca children
once ran free in woods and meadows, where
wee folks danced and rainbows were protected.
As indentured maid for a trader family
you drove a mule to Indian villages,
carrying cloth and metal pots to the women.
The chief named you,
“One Whose Hair Burst Into Flame.”
With these people you made a life,
birthing your baby into the medicine woman ‘ s
cupped palms.
When the man your daughter knew all her life
as father died, Agnes Mary , you tore the fire
from your scalp, ran deep into the forest where plants
and animals helped you to heal.
Pale ones called you “mad,” said you’d lost your mind
but to the people, you’ d found wisdom.
At campfire gatherings, you shook that gnarly old stick
adorned with animal bones and feathers over head.
Flames crackling your chants, you danced
to the six directions, dispensed tea made from herbs
the children helped you gather. “Wee ones!” You’d say,
“Ye carry seeds of all the powers. Fey!
Use ye wisdom well!”
Now, on nights when the full moon lures me
into her beam, I see your talons pointing to me
and my sisters, Agnes Mary. Fire Hair, you crossed the ocean
to a “heathen” land and found a home. Grandmother
your roots spirit your daughter’s daughters
to sing their dreams.
Won 1st Prize in Dancing Poetry contest 2007
Published in WV 10/2007
Published in Artists Embassy International Newsletter 11/2007
Woman in Stone
(for Ron)
He grunts as he lifts, then places his creation,
at my feet on the grass. We bend, sit;
he unwraps the blue chamois covering
from pink granite gently.
Sunlight sparkles tiny flecks within,
like silver sprinkles on flesh.
I can’t take my eyes from the image,
reach to run a finger along the soft folds he’s carved.
“Such intricate patterns in her dress.” I marvel.
“Even her babushka swirls. Her beauty
rivals a caryatid from Diana’s temple.”
“I wanted to capture her completely, I
show people how hard she works.”
Examining her shoulders’ swoop, the weight
her burdens shape, I trace her lines and curves,
every crease carefully coved. Two hands grasp
the shopping cart she pushes. I think
about how difficult is life.
“She’s etched in my mind.. .walks the wharf every day.
…don’t know where she sleeps.”
“Such delicate features.” I say, searching
her down cast face. Store shelf accurate,
miniature bottles, cans fill her cart.
“That’s her whole life,” he points to the carriage
and the figure sitting where a child might ride
“…talks to him constantly ” He rubs
the rounded ears of a teddy bear perched
facing his granite woman.
“She rarely smiles. No one helps her
Must be about 50 or so. ..lost everything…
Schizophrenic, refuses to medicated
Guess she’d rather be herself. …works so hard
every day the same route. I just had
to show her life… you know.’
Transformation
Ancient traces surfacing,
Rita flits from one table to the other
Torn between worlds.
Which group to sit with
Which language to use
Tagalog
English?
Having left one culture as a teen
To join the other, she apologizes to each
As she turns
Returns
Making contact with past and present.
Chrysalis cracked, fluttering,
She pauses to savor every color
Of this new adventure.
Childhood language coming haltingly at first,
Soon rolls from her soul in happy tears.
She ingests nectar, warm, sweet sustenance
Of language, land, music and dance flickering from
One Filipino flower to another, humming as she walks
The song of fresh coconuts that the young vendor sang
In the morning beneath her window.
Re-tasting, the white, succulent flesh,
She sways her hips to the rhythm–
Something her bones must move to….
Suddenly, she whispers to an American peer,
“I have a confession. I’m not missing
My children or husband in this land of my birth.
They would not understand this change–
Something I had to do
To grow.”
(editor’s note: This poem was inspired by an actual happening
At the 16th World Congress of Poets in Angeles City, Pampanga,
Philippines, 2000. )
HOUSEWIFE’S NIGHTMARE
Hair
stuck in brushes and rugs
matting and twining
down drains
plugging and clogging.
Hair
growing, climbing like an ivy vine
up the walls and into my bed.
Short wiry ringlets,
long silky strands follow me.
Wherever I go,
little hairballs blow
dancing across the room
to the ancient rhythms
of prehistoric man.
Hair
wooly, bare,
clothed in our hirsute ancestry,
down from the trees—Java man
you haunt my days
and dreams.
