A Poem Is Like a Naked Song

A Poem Is Like a Naked Song

A poem is like a naked song
With nothing to cover the words

Song lyrics may be cruddy or inane,
But if the melody is catchy enough
Nobody cares

A poem stands alone

Huh
I am like a poem
Fiercely independent
With no pretenses

I am good at flying solo

But, oh, good music moves my soul
Perhaps more than just the lyrics
So how will it be
When I find my melody?

9.23.11

Love Poem for Public Radio

Love Poem for Public Radio

A veces* I get stuck

in my car
Nothing mechanical―
melodious, actually
I’m being seduced

by the voices I’ve grown to love
like Kai Risdal
Melissa Block and Meshelle Norris
Steve Inskeep and
Terri Gross with “Fresh Air!” ♦

I’m not sure how to spell their names
I’ve never seen them in print
or watched the faces of the ones
fueling this love affair
binding me spellbound
de temps en temps*
stuck in my car

Enriching, expansive, I feel
a little more informed
(I try to understand)
but presented with so many concepts
I might never have conceived
approaches overwhelming
and makes me less opinionated, if anything

NPR has taught me
to consume critically
to consider all sides of the story
and, ironically, to listen―
once in a while―
to another station, for variety in views
But before long I am back,
entertained and
sometimes even enraged
by the disturbing things I hear;
yet still I keep the dial
tuned to the station that I love

There’s surely more to come,

My love poem doesn’t feel complete

I mean, a friend just introduced me to Radio Lab

And there’s not time enough to consume the podcasts

I have other things to do too, you know

So uneori* I get stuck in my car

laughing with the Click and Clack from Cartalk
or soaking up those distinctive,
mysterious voices
feeding my hungry mind
and, somehow, stealing my indecisive heart

that must choose satisfaction with what I have now

That’s all for today, folks, so
thanks for joining me,
April Murdock,
in “Love Poem for Public Radio”

8.23.2011 / 1.8.12
 

* translation: “sometimes” in Spanish, French, and Romanian, respectively

♦ I love how Terri says her intro with such professional pizzazz.

Ten Days Left

Ten Days Left


When I get back to the U.S., I’m going swing dancing.
I will go camping, and spend quality time with my geographically scattered family. We’ll go boating, play games and stay up late talking.
And I will eat spinach instead of banana leaves, which I will probably miss.

I will miss the delicious cuisine, but not the dripping nose and sweating face from spiciness.
I will miss the freedom from sweets and mirrors, which have lost some of their grip on me in this locale.
Shopping will be a shock to my wallet, I know, from which I will never fully recover.

I will miss dark skin and saris, and I will miss seeing people walking on the sides of the roads.
I might even miss the honking cars—once in a while—and surely driving at home will be quite monotonous.

I confess, sometimes I will miss the open attention from foreign men and curious children, who find me to be a novelty or something; I haven’t figured it out.
In turn, I will miss the novelty of journeying solo in an ancient culture, the adventure of treading into new territory.

Within myself I have journeyed anew. Pain, a daily companion, I have considered with a sort of appreciation.
Those “leprous” parts of myself, the ones I wish not to own, I realize are equally important to my being.

Already I miss visiting the leprosy colonies, but I don’t dwell on that;
I will miss the teachers and staff at Rising Star,
but most of all I will miss the childrens.

Those children have left an indelible impression on me—
literally, with their small hands firmly pulling mine to see something,
but it is their voices and phrases filling the internal conversation in my mind that I can’t leave behind.
I hear their voices, the syntax of those new to English, clothed in a singsong tone accompanied by the frequent headbobble.

The essence of India cannot be captured in a bottle, a book, or a photo album. Even my heart doesn’t accurately contain it.

A month of extensions later, I’ve had my confirmation that it’s okay to go.
In eleven days I will say, “Yesterday, when I was in India…”

6.15.11

Mrs. Sunshine (If It Doesn't Feel Like Sunshine, It's Not Love)

Love is sunshine on my body,
warming my bones and bronzing my skin,
filling my heart with mmm, mmm good
If it doesn't feel like sunshine,
then it's not love

Love is holding a sweet baby,
cuddling with a child,
wrapped in that full, safe and warm
comfort in the chest and belly

Love is hearing one of my favorite songs come on,
and I’m sure it is a love note from God
because He knows it would make my moment

Love is almost like eating ice cream
which is ohhh, so good
but that’s probably just a chemical thing

Love is talking to a dear friend,
the kind with so many “remember whens”
and having a real connection
even though you haven’t talked in months
or maybe just yesterday

Love is kneeling in prayer,
anytime, anywhere
and pouring out my heart in whatever state it’s in—
and knowing God knows it already
and holds it carefully

Love is choosing to respond with an open and loving heart
even when I want to close shop
and give up for a while because “this just is not working.”

Love is seeing beauty in the clouds
when what I wanted was sunshine
Being stood up on a "hot date"
is always a disappointment
but it’s easy to forgive the sun
I know he’s always there
and the clouds won’t last forever

1.17.11

I’m Not Mother Teresa (but I Am a Latter-day Saint)

Sometimes it’s so hard to love myself
My potential for self-destruction scares me
I see it
I know it
And I fight it
Should I make a friend or an enemy with my shadow?

When I am disgusted with and fear myself
my heart is closed and I’m not loving others
Rather, I compare myself—fall into the trap—
and there can never find satisfaction

Judging others I do only because I am
judging myself
I know this
I judge myself for judging
And sink deeper into the trap

While a youth, I discovered a beautiful antidote in service
Losing myself by helping others
is when I am happiest and feel my best
and puts me on the path to achieving my positive potential

There are many questions I ask myself
to be clear in my motives
Truly helping is doing what needs to be done for that person or group
Not because I have something to prove
And sometimes it is saying “No”
or doing the hard thing with a soft heart

Can I do this for myself?
And still hold loving space within
when I don’t?

I’m not seeking admiration, just love and understanding
I’m not Mother Teresa
(but I am a Latter-day Saint)
And when you pedestalize me, I’m sure it’s out of respect
though sometimes with a little resentment
and it feels divisive,
doing nothing to bring us closer.
I’m not out to save the world
I can’t even save myself

As with all things there is a season,
so it is with giving and receiving.
Sometimes it is a service to receive
So someone else has opportunity to give.

The greatest blessing is to know
I’ve been a blessing to another—
Not as an unreachable Mother Teresa,
but as your loving friend
Sometimes I need to ask for help
humble myself
and give you opportunity for more blessings

I see choices between paths to potentials
The one of service or that of self-destruction
Both are familiar
And I sometimes walk them simultaneously
I’m no Mother Teresa
but I am a Latter-day Saint
I just want love and understanding—and respect

1.29.11