Do I Seem Invincible?


In case you haven’t noticed: I screw up. I lose my temper and I am insecure and I give up on things because I get scared and then I regret it and then I fight to get them back and then I think maybe I was right in the first place. I embarrass myself when I drink too much, feel hurt when none was intended, turn hysterical sometimes. None of that means that I don’t also work hard, love fiercely and earn deep love and respect from people I admire. It doesn’t mean I’m not talented and hilarious and great company. Allowing the places I am cracked to catch the light is terrifying and essential. And allowing the places where I give off light to shine freely without apologizing for that shine is essential too.

We are husbands, wives, mothers, sons, brothers, sisters, survivors, failures, successes. But the space between how we actually inhabit those roles and the lofty connotations of those labels leaves us feeling as though we are impostors, as though we’re not living up to some standard of manliness or motherliness or even kindness or friendship, because we’re not perfect. But nobody is, no matter how unshakable they may seem. Everyone hates the people they are supposed to love sometimes, everyone feels terrified that people are going to find out how little they actually know. But each of us simultaneously has an immense capacity for grace and love, we each know things no one else knows quite as well. We can inhabit strength and weakness simultaneously. In fact, we can’t NOT. Writing this poem is about claiming that gray space, giving it voice. What if we all did that? Wouldn’t it be easier to live in a world where no one expects perfection, but is instead grateful for honest vulnerability? That’s the world I want to live in. Shit, that’s the world I’m gonna live in. Starting right here, with you.

The poem below is from a Warrior Writers’ anthology (that handsome devil chillin’ with me is Kevin Basl, a kickass writer who edited the anthology and wrote its stunning foreword). Their fourth anthology is beautiful and full of art and writing that will change your world. Buy it here. Let me know what you think.

“American Soldier” by Michael Anthony

(Inspired by a Carol Wimmer poem)

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I’m not shouting I’m better than you,
I’m whispering, I was a boy and now find myself a man.

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I speak not only of this with pride
I’m also confessing that I stumble, make mistakes,
And need competent leadership to help guide me,
So I in turn, can be a competent leader.

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I’m not trying to be strong,
I am professing that I am weak
And need the strength of my peers and country,
To help carry me on.

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I am not bragging of past successes
I’m admitting that I have failed in the past
Admitted the mistakes, and tried to right the wrongs.

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I’m not claiming to be perfect,
My flaws are far too visible
But my country needs me, and I soldier on.

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I can still feel the sting of pain,
From seeing those I care about die,
While we fight for those we love.
I have my share of heartaches,
So I call upon the American people,
To help guide our soldiers, when home.

When I say…I am an American Soldier
I’m not saying anything,
I’m just a simple man,
Who was called upon by his country…
To fight.

So the prompt is to write extensively about a single role you play or the multiple roles you have, in stanzas shaped like this:

When I say I am…
I’m not saying…
I’m saying…
(expand on the above, with a metaphor for bonus points)

Super Moon

I am in Plainfield, Vermont this week (via Brattleboro, where I got to have a brief dip into the beautiful world of my sweet friends Emma and Mike). Yesterday I drove with new and old friends up and up unfamiliar roads to find the best view of the ‘Super Moon’ cresting–our same old beautiful, constant moon, appearing larger and clearer on the horizon. The entire experience was a poem: listening to a radio station based on Ignition Remix by R. Kelly on Spotify, the repeated backing up and changing course as we sought out our spot, the silliness of serious people, the wildflowers growing on the mountainside. The pleasure of easy companionship found on a simple, sudden expedition. Here’s a little rough poem about it, inspired by that adventure and also by Twilight by Henri Cole (at the bottom). Every meaningful experience is a metaphor, an echo of the larger things you are experiencing and understanding but you don’t have to force it, which can get intimidating. Write with specificity about some experience in nature, and see what emerges. Then edit and strengthen.

Much peace, my dears. I’m away this week, so response time might be slower than usual, but you know I love poems in my inbox no matter where in the world I happen to be.

Super Moon
For Anna, who suggested the expedition

This rented minivan churns rocks
from unfamiliar mountain roads we travel
in search of a different view of the same moon
who followed us each down faraway streets
while our clumsy childhoods unfolded.

There are no directions to follow,
no single well-lit road sign leads us
to a marked vantage point,
announcing that we have arrived.

We borrow a field from people who never left this place,
have watched the seasons of these mountains
for all their years.

When we return to our temporary lodging
inches closer to ourselves, we drink cider
and marvel at the speed of objects moving across the sky
wondering if we’ll know whether we reached the highest point,
not sure we’d ever want anything to look the same every night.

There’s a black bear
in the apple tree
and he won’t come down.
I can hear him panting,
like an athlete.
I can smell the stink
of his body.

Come down, black bear.
Can you hear me?

The mind is the most interesting thing to me;
like the sudden death of the sun,
it seems implausible that darkness will swallow it
or that anything is lost forever there,
like a black bear in a fruit tree,
gulping up sour apples
with dry sucking sounds,

or like us at the pier, somber and tired,
making food from sunlight,
you saying a word, me saying a word, trying hard,
though things were disintegrating.
Still, I wanted you,
your lips on my neck,
your postmodern sexuality.
Forlorn and anonymous:
I didn’t want to be that. I could hear
the great barking monsters of the lower waters
calling me forward.

You see, my mind takes me far,
but my heart dreams of return.
Black bear,
with pale-pink tongue
at the center of his face,
is turning his head,
like the face of Christ from life.
Shaking the apple boughs,
he is stronger than I am
and seems so free of passion—
no fear, no pain, no tenderness. I want to be that.

Come down, black bear,
I want to learn the faith of the indifferent.

Henri Cole, “Twilight” from Blackbird and Wolf. Copyright © 2008 by Henri Cole.

A Stylish Stud

The title is one of the automatic wordpress generated titles, but I think it fits. My friend Karl and I have become the sort of people who need a google calendar event to block us off to meet for dinner (puke). On Thursday, the day we had agreed upon two weeks prior, I was incredibly, incredibly grumpy. I didn’t want to drive across the bridge and I didn’t want any damn fancy food and I didn’t want to wear any kind of non-sweatpants and whine whine whine. Karl doesn’t care. Karl has known me for long enough that he just heckled me via text while I grumped at him. And then I had a wonderful, hilarious, delicious time.
My week was full of that kind of thing, both professionally and personally and physically–I pushed myself or was pushed and ultimately felt better for it. I was surprised into doing crossfit. I had challenging groups and overcame some really nasty excel data collation stuff. I held a brain (ok, that I wanted to do). On Saturday I dragged myself out of the house to browse Politics and Prose, and happened upon a reading and Q&A with Edan Lepucki. The reason I went to the bookstore was to find some new poetry–specifically love poems. I have written, in my life, approximately one fully hopeful and positive love poem–about a single moment. A connection that ultimately was not particularly significant, but when I wrote the poem I was just moved by it, and literally wrote this poem on the back of a motion sickness bag with a pen I borrowed from a flight attendant. The poem even rhymed. I hate that poem.
I am participating in a reading in October which will have nothing to do with healing or war–just poetry and brunch (details soon–it will be amazing, I promise)–and as I was telling Karl about this awesome opportunity and my insecurities around keeping my creative work alive and changing, I decided to try to read all celebratory love poems. Which means I’ll have to write a shit ton of love poems. Which means I have to study a ton of love poems, which led me to Politics and Prose and to an incredible collection called what is this thing called love by Kim Addonizio, even though I had decided going in that I would buy an anthology of classic love poems. Even though I looked at the stupid picture on the cover and scoffed, I flipped to a random page, read a stanza and absolutely had to have this book. I laughed out loud at these poems, I stood up and walked around between poems to digest them, I took pictures of pages because I had to share. Below is one. The prompt is to make a list of your most beautiful first kisses. As many as you can remember–where did they happen? Just remember the set-up and location and anticipation, and write a list poem. Don’t number it (no one needs number shaming), don’t think about where they led (or didn’t lead). Send me your beautiful first kisses lists. I need the inspiration.


Changing Colors


This past weekend I went to Oregon and saw three of my favorite people in the world. One of them happened to be getting hitched (!!!!!!!!!), and witnessing her kickass community was another gift altogether. I know I’m prone to hyperbolize–but seriously, these women. We can be out of touch for months, not see one another for years and within minutes of reconnecting we’ll be laughing so hard my head hurts. We have been friends for nearly twenty years and live vastly different lives in far-flung corners of the world. We have partnered and un-partnered between meetings, had illnesses and have unraveled and respooled and had to tell the stories of our survivals and triumphs in the past tense. When we do happen to cross paths during crises, we cook meals for one another, watch one another’s children, open our homes. We reminisce a bit, but that’s not the bulk of what we do together. Each time we meet, we discover new reasons to be friends and take stock of who we’ve become. As with all great relationships, our friendship contains multitudes of friendships. If I met any of these women for the first time today, I would be delighted to become friends with them. But fortunately, that’s not the spot I’m in.

In airports and hotels and living rooms and in the mountains and on the bank of a little pond filling quickly during a hurricane. Each time we come together is its own story, but there are threads that weave through them, patterns that are present, even as we learn new things about one another. At fifteen and nineteen and twenty-five. When I was thirty we linked hands in a circle under the stars in Upstate New York and I swore to them I’d extract myself from a situation that was hurting me. All the people I have been in their company are part of who I’ve become now. Long sporadic relationships–even ones that aren’t all glowy–are great markers of growth. It’s the differences placed alongside the similarities plotted against the y axis of time.

Use that calculus in a poem. Maybe it’s an aunt or uncle or cousin that only visited occasionally, or a casual friend you run into when you visit your hometown. This doesn’t have to be a piece about favorite people–because really, at its core, it’s a piece about you (narssicism is no longer a disorder, fyi). Just write the scenes, see your changes through their eyes.

I hate to beg you to do things. Really, I do. But I must. You have to click on this link and read this poem. It’s a little long–but holy shit. It’s amazing. Tell me it’s not amazing–I dare you. It’s Mosaic, by Tim Seibles. Check out all those patterns.

And this, because maybe you weren’t invited to the wedding, but you should see this magic:



Another week of absolute magic culminates in a gathering tomorrow. I’m so grateful to be in the presence of so much grace and honesty and generosity. This community, a web we weave and reweave, feels like a salve in the midst of all the world’s suffering. There is hurt and courage and a willingness to hold one another’s aches as we move through the mud. Join us. We will laugh and we will cry.

Walking Backwards into the Future


I say goodbye a lot. It’s one of my least favorite things to do–always has been. I moved schools a lot when I was a kid and I would avoid the active work of saying goodbye as often as possible–making jokes to diffuse the situation or skipping the last day of school. Even now, I’ll do this “I’m sure I’ll see you again before you go” thing and then dip so I can avoid saying a final goodbye.
Saying goodbye is part of my job. Folks come to the DC Area to receive medical treatment and then leave when they’re better or when they are no longer Active Duty Military. My relationship with my mother too, is peppered with goodbyes. She lives in Bangladesh and comes to visit once or twice a year and I am so unbearably sad when she leaves.
I had planned to write a generalized, vague post about the nature of goodbyes. About how sad they are and how ultimately we can transcend the pain by realizing that we are all connected wherever we go or something. Blah, blah, blah.
And then I read this blogpost by my friend Bryan. It is at once hilarious and heartbreakingly honest and brave (much like Bryan himself). And I realized that what I wanted to write about was not these inevitable goodbyes that I struggle with–though I’m sure I will want to write about them soon–but a goodbye of a different sort that’s been really hard for me this week.
Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet, there’s been some heartbreak in Seema-land. Heartbreak of a brand new sort for me. A goodbye said not because it was inevitable, but because I had to make a choice. I chose what I knew I needed over what I wanted. I had to understand that “there was no more room in me for that kind of hurt,” and take leave. I had to choose myself, ladies and gentlemen. I had to be a grown up. And it sucked. It sucks. I am sad. But this life is, more than anything, about learning yourself. About leaving things you want so badly when you feel yourself slipping into self-doubt, into someone you do not want to be. My brilliant friends offered me lots of love–burgers and pep talks and their ears. And I wavered a lot–wondering if it was just me, if the considerable good was salvageable, if I could have done something differently. But ultimately I have to remind myself (again and again and again) that nothing anyone else does is about me. That just as everyone has reasons for acting as they do, I have to take responsibility for my own heart and protect myself. My dear friend Ashley gave me the title line of this post–the idea that we look closely at what we’ve experienced as we walk into our futures, learn from our pasts, keep an eye on where we’re coming from as we move forward.

What are the feelings you want to have inspired by the people you choose to hold close? What does your life history not allow you to accommodate any longer?
This is not about blame–not blame pointed towards you or anyone else. It’s about accepting how your experiences have shaped you and
identifying what YOU need, which may vary from the ‘norm’–because your life experience doesn’t fit a template. We have to choose to surround ourselves with what makes us the best, most secure version of ourselves. We have to feel valued.

Fortunately there are poems about everything. Every feeling is ancient.


Shifting Perspective


I woke this morning to two things:

1. An article in the NYT about 4 Palestinian boys killed at the beach. The oldest was 11 or 12 and had sent his 8 year old brother home, because it was “too dangerous.” In the interview with the reporter the 8 year old child said, “He was always worried for me.”

2. I got an email from the boys’ father, wanting to discuss why our boys punch each other so much (they really do, it’s kind of their hobby).

I can’t stop crying. At my unearned good luck. At the danger in the world. I talk about war every single day. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t fully believe it. Intellectually I believe it, of course–but there is a part of me that stays in soft focus, allows me to stay right here in the now among my beautiful things and air conditioning and cups and cups of coffee. But sometimes I read or see something that makes all of that fall away. Like my suit of armor has evaporated and I’m completely vulnerable and conscious of how awful things can be. And I can’t think of why I should do the things that seem so important–going to work or to the doctor or to dinner with friends. I will, of course. I will do all of those things. I will put on my armor, though today it will feel like an aluminum knock-off. I will be penetrable and hold my face in a certain way that I have learned keeps my tears at bay. I will smile and make light conversation on the inpatient wards, I will go to dinner and laugh a little less brightly, ask people who love me to carry me, hold me closer and tomorrow the focus will become soft again, and I will walk through my life a little more easily. Because I don’t know what else to do.

But I can’t leave you there. When my perspective becomes like this, so focused on the things going on in the world and the time we live in, I am particularly grateful for The Writer’s Almanac. For hundreds of years, people have been writing about the wonder and horrors of this earth. It keeps spinning, the universe keeps expanding.

Rattlesnakes and Womanhood


These past few days, I was welcomed in to witness a life completely unlike my own. A life where rattlesnakes are an ordinary concern, where the tap of hummingbirds against the rafters and fingers transcribing art through the keyboard are expected each morning. Often I forgot I was out of my element, in a place I hadn’t been before. So much was familiar: we had a kitchen dance party, cooked dinner and played board games, looked up at the clouds and stood on the porch listening to the hammering of a hailstorm.
And there was poetry braided into everything, part of the language we spoke and the way we moved through space. We cursed and laughed and asked openly about one another’s intentions. We climbed carefully up steep mountainsides and came sliding down them covered in barbed flowers, thirsty and laughing. We drank wine and watched clouds obscure and expose the moon. There was the gift of a nest of baby birds that had just hatched, fragile and awkward and infinitely beautiful for their absolute helplessness.

When we were trying to explain ideas to one another, when we wanted to offer bits of ourselves to one another, we shuffled through sheafs of paper and through files on laptops to find the words that were right. We searched up favorite poems in our minds and on the Internet and in this way other poets across the world and across time joined our conversation.

The specifics of our conversations were at once intimately personal and entirely universal–as all the best conversations (and poems) are. One such poem was Kathe Kollwitz by Muriel Rukeyser. There is so much to be learned from the women who walked before us and those who walk beside us. In order to fully do so we have to be honest. We have to consciously put aside (sometimes very uncomfortably) the ways in which the world has taught us to feel threatened by other women, to boast and portray perfection and hide our weaknesses from one another.

There’s a really moronic, ignorant, trollish, asshole tumblr (I know, people are entitled to their own opinions–my opinion is that their opinion is idiotic) going around called “Women Against Feminism.” In it, young women pose with handwritten signs, declaring their solidarity against (a simplistic caricature of) feminism by broadly disparaging the choices of other women.

To the girls who lent their faces to that project: If speaking out when you’ve been hurt or limited is unconscionable to you, may you be the first women in history to never be hurt or limited. And if you are not miraculously spared from reality, may you learn to appreciate and learn from the women who walked ahead clearing obstacles and lighting lanterns along the path you walk, the path we all walk.

On a brighter note, some pictures from my trip





Remember My body


This weekend began with a thunderstorm just after I returned from work. Rain fell in sheets over everything and I remembered the monsoon in Bangladesh viscerally–something flowed brighter in me. Out on my balcony, the potted Spider Lily, a descendent from my great-grandmother’s garden in Dhaka stood against the rail, unbowed against the falling water. I imagined it rejoicing somewhere in its ancient plant heart. I think sometimes about the things we remember without knowing we remember them or where we remember them from. And I think of the memories I am planting in my children, the things they will know that I never told them. I am working on this poem for them. I don’t often post poems in progress, but thinking about this–about the ways we speak and share memory through our bodies–brought so much consciousness to my weekend, I’d like to share it with you. Thank you for reading it, and for writing to it–how do you want your body to be remembered?

when you are slipping and seek something to grasp
remember the ledge of my clavicle
never fall without a fight

when you long for shelter
remember the threads of my fingers woven into yours
the web we made and remade

when obstacles in your path loom large
remember my lifting grip
under the hinge of your arms

when you must endure without being overcome
remember the firm line of my forearm,
the sticky hook of my elbow

when your sorrow’s clamor is unignorable
remember the scoop of my palm pressed to your ear
the dignity in surrender

when you need a place to rest
remember the soft landing you found
in the flat between my shoulder blades

remember my body
it was the first thing you knew



A few weeks ago, a new writing group participant asked a regular, “So basically, we just read her favorite poems and then write?” I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, but I guess it’s more or less true. It’s nice as hell being the poet in charge.

There are certain pieces of writing that make me fall more deeply in love with words, make me want to write, remind me of what it is I came here to do. These are the pieces that I use again and again in my writing groups. The list is constantly growing, but there is some writing I can rely on to free voices silenced by difficult experiences.

When I was sixteen and living in Bangladesh, my mother brought The God of Small things by Arundhati Roy from America, reading it on her 22 hour journey East. Then my grandmother had dibs, reading intently in her green arm chair in the living room, oblivious to the rest of us and the stifling heat and the sounds of Dhaka traffic. Occasionally she sighed aloud. When it was my turn, I read it quickly, staying up late into the night on my great-grandmother’s old hard bed. I was changed thoroughly by the language–the way I’d been changed by The House on Mango Street five years previously. This is the writing that stirred a desire to write inside me.

Last week I had a one-on-one writing session with a poet who was having a hard time unlocking words. I hadn’t met this poet before, so I brought several books of poetry with me so that I could find what I thought would work best. We ended up using a book of poetry that I discovered just a few months ago: Floating, Brilliant, Gone by Franny Choi. The exercise was to write down the title of a poem by Choi, read the poem and then free write for three minutes in response. One of the rules I set at the beginning of the session was that sharing would not be required on any of the poem responses.

Watch Franny Choi read her poem Notes on the Existence of Ghosts

Then set your timer and get writing. Do this with some of your favorite pieces as well, and if you’re so inclined, send me some titles so my list can continue to grow. When I think about the great volume of things there are to read that I haven’t read, it stresses me out a little. I can’t possibly discover it all since reading while driving is generally frowned upon (though for the record, I don’t know that it’s explicitly illegal).