Like flowers next to a stone wall,
early are the blooms.
The sweetness a reminder
that everything will warm
and turn
and scent our lives
for the better,
however fleeting
the moment.
Colleen Sohn
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Tags: My Poetry
Pancho’s Bullet
Cora met Pancho Villa when she was eight years old, at a party with her father, somewhere near her childhood home and the site of a great battle between his army and the Americans. The reason for her attendance, and more importantly, her father’s, a long unsolved mystery.
She often wondered if she’d dreamt it all, the funny Mexican with a larger than life mustache and hat. Were it not for the bullet, taken directly from his bandoliered chest, she’d have no reason to believe otherwise. But there it lay, cool in the palm of her hand, exactly as he’d placed it, so many years ago.
Spied from a distance, she became curious and stalked the great character, stealing glimpses from behind broad legs and skirts, and anything else capable of concealment. Though she never saw him take a drop of liquor, he ate and talked and laughed more than her father, which was quite a feat.
Despite these obvious distractions, the surveillance did not go unnoticed, and he turned and surprised her, facetiously asking if she was an assassin. She tried to flee, but could not, and he charmed her like all the ladies, mustache wriggling like a caterpillar. Before releasing her from his grasp, he ceremoniously removed the bullet and said it would protect her, as it had him against the backstabbing Americans. She didn’t dare tell him she was one of them, born and raised, before running off, quick as her legs could take her.
Since then, it had never been out of her possession, for twenty-five years a talisman and her greatest secret, kept hidden under her pillow, in a pocket, or the folds of her purse. She even brought it into the bath, afraid some calamity would befall her if it wasn’t within reach or the lead pressing firmly into her palm.
Then she met Clement, raven haired and handsome, a dazzling smile wide as the sky, and eyes wild for her, a spinster and hopeless cause, or so she thought. But there he was, smiling and joking at the library, eager for her help, eager for a word to spill from her lips and into his heart.
He was a crop duster, a daredevil of the sky, swooping in craven low loops and up, up again, and more at home there, curls whipping like wings, than nearly any place, save where Cora was.
They quickly found themselves married, and ecstatically so, with warm days spent on bicycles or their naked bodies tangled in clear lake water. In the cool of autumn and winter, she brought home books to read together before listening to records or their favorite programs on the radio. He sometimes took her out in his plane, sharing a glimpse of the world from God’s eye, despite her fears and a sincere belief that only birds were meant to fly. It was at these moments the bullet soothed her most, and, quite possibly, kept them both alive.
Then came The War and Clement’s fidelity to a certain ideal and his beloved country. He would be a paratrooper, and his body, not a cloud of chemicals, raining onto a faraway land.
She hated the thought, hated the epic distance it would take him, and worse still, what might happen. As his departure drew nearer, she wished for an answer, for something to keep him safe, the lead of Pancho’s bullet digging deeper into her skin, and for the longest time not realizing that it was the solution.
Then, on that fateful day, she said her goodbyes and pressed it into his palm, the story of its presence and a multitude of tears soothing her like a balm. He stood, at first mystified that she could keep such a secret, then grateful for all it meant, and hugging her with all his might.
On the day of Clement’s first mission, as the plane climbed higher and higher, Cora rode her bicycle down a favorite country road, missing him terribly. A crow, swirling high above, caught her eye, and as it swooped down, there was Clement, hand firmly over his breast pocket, a magic bullet, and a photograph of his beloved.
…
Art & Letters is a collaboration:
Story written by Colleen Sohn
Artistically interpreted by Maren Jensen
Well, here we are gentle readers, 2012, and it feels quite lovely, I must say. Last year was such a wild and wonderful year for us, with so very many changes, most of them good, but some happily left to molder in the scribbly annals of 2011. As for this year, it’s on track to be a humdinger.
The hubster, if all goes to plan, will only have one W-2 and master quite a few songs on the piano. He is well on his way with this song from Amelie. It’s been ever so fun to watch him progress through all the keyboard fingerings and strange to hear something from a film I love and know so well be made by his hands.
Also, very soon (quite possibly this week!) we will be done with the hanging of pictures in the bathroom before even more painting, decorating, and picture hanging in the basement and a house that is, for all intents and purposes, finished. It only took eighty-one years! How marvelous to walk into rooms once creepy and beyond ugly for so very long and see them just as they’ve been in my head for years. Patience has its rewards.
Which is also quite good because there will be one grand bash at our house this year to celebrate – are you ready peeps? The publishing of my novel! I can hardly believe the wheels are in motion on this, with all sorts of action happening behind the scenes and the reason for my sometimes erratic postings, as of late.
In some ways, I wish I could say it’s being published by some big New York house to save me from the large out of pocket expense and to make me rich and famous, but alas, the publishing business is a fickle one, and writers, unless they are already celebrated, have so little control, so I am taking the reins. Polite Society will be done to suit my very particular tastes, beautiful, simple, and small, and complete with illustrations from my beyond talented friend and Art & Letters partner in crime, Maren. She will be posting a selection of fabulous drawlin’s (as we’ve been calling them) shortly over on her blog, but in the mean time, wouldn’t you like to know what the Gastro-Gnome has been up to?
Many thanks to the hubster for everything, but mostly for believing in me and my talents, to my dear friends who read my work in progress (especially to Maren, and soon to Jef – BIG hugs to you both), Seth Godin for spurring me on with his inspirational blog, and my friend Kelli, who self-published her own novel and keeps me inspired in a myriad of other ways, large and small.
Stay tuned for pre-ordering information and all the best to you in 2012!
I believe in all that is luxe
and cities kitted out in their holiday best.
I believe
in luminous goodness
concealed in darkness,
in the impossible made true,
in old friends,
in pride whipping the sky,
and quiet roars
wrapped in moonlight.
I believe
in this home away from home,
made carefully by hand,
a place worthy of reflecting,
and spying what is ahead
the unexpected curves
and sights unseen
shared with love.
I believe in the power of music
to rock
and love
then and now
in utero,
life, and death.
I believe
the truth
is out there
and in here
and that great light
follows
those who share it
by sea,
land, and air.
Come with me
to the place we all share
be yourself,
and stay.
The Fine Print
You stop in your tracks,
Thinking you know me.
I do not have another half.
No soul mirrors mine.
I have scratched and clawed and bitten for this tenuous grasp.
I cannot let it go.
Your confidence.
Your smile.
The way laughter spills easily from your mouth.
How did you arrive at that place?
No border
Nor barrier
Pulpy heart beating for all to see.
If I remove this thin veil,
My nakedness will show
And perhaps that I am a fool
And lived my days
Yearning
For the me I’ve only just discovered in you.
Hello.
…
Art & Letters is a collaboration:
Water color by Maren Jensen
Interpreted by Colleen Sohn
Tags: Art & Letters, My Poetry, Poetry
