Literary Zine of the OUUC Women Writer’s Groupouuc.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Half-Full-2017-FINAL.pdf · Pure molecules tainted by salty ions Nauseous with brackish bitter

Half FullLiterary Zine of the OUUC Women Writer’s Group

December 2017

Photo by Nancy Pierce

Table of Contents

Soul Retrieval ! 2

Early Release Wednesday! 3

Before! 4

Poetry Lays Bare! 5

Westport! 6

White Noise! 7

End of Term! 8

Close Encounter! 11

Cat Tactics During Meditation! 12

These Women Who Write! 13

The OUUC Women Writer’s Group is for women wanting to be inspired, supported,

or accompanied upon their journey of self-expression and creativity. We meet at the

Browsers Bookshop in downtown Olympia from 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. on the first

and third Saturdays of the month. For the first hour or so, we read work that our

members have brought and give gentle feedback. Towards the end of the meeting we

generate new work inspired by a writing prompt. We strive to publish a zine every

other year. After publishing a zine, we have an open enrollment period when we

invite new members to join. If you would like more information about our group,

email Amy at [email protected].

/ Sister Scorn / Fade Out

/ Cabin on Guemes

/ Forsaken

/ Beloved / Beside Myself

/ After

/ Oly / Blue

Soul RetrievalBy Josie Solseng ! ! ! ! !

Page 2

A part of me is missingNot a finger or an eye or anything You can see. Nothing quite so obviousA piece of my soul, she said.I can’t feel the emptiness,There’s no hole I can point toAnd say, ah, there’s the spot thatNeeds patching. Let me get my tools.

A piece of my soul, she said.Not quite ready to come backStill out tilting at windmillsSword fighting with demonsOr whatever yang soul partsLike to do for fun. Or maybeJust bored, looking for troubleWaiting for my call.

We’re a little scared of each otherLast time we were togetherYou left quickly, knowingI’d be safer withoutYour fiery restlessness. I became less of a targetAnd I thank you for that giftThough I missed you fiercely.

Peace of my soul.

Forsaken

As if alive An organism

Cleanses quenches ebbsSeeps into every space

Liquid tentacles reaching for perchUpon an impervious land

That won’t let it settle

This creatureInviolate they used to say

Purity now erodedPoisoned by greed

Forced into grimy actionPumped and fracked

Wasted and defiled

A soulFreed from its frozen barges

Melts drips cracksPure molecules tainted by salty ionsNauseous with brackish bitter taste

Creeps beneath a parched earth Spawning drought and thirst

Heat and levels riseVaporizing temperamental liquid

Into a cloying mist

A forcePlacid no more

Its glacial speed revved upUnleashed interplay Matter energy fury

Precipitating delugesSwamping torrents

Violent surgesHell breaks loose

Its now fickle phasesSolid liquid gas

This abused servantFights back

By Maureen Canny

Early Release WednesdayBy Anne Kohlbry

Page 3

November’s torrential rain continuescars whoosh through puddlesspray arching to the curb

I stride towards the parkcinching my hoodpostponing tonight’s homeworkgrateful for even dim daylightwanting solace

Turning into the woods I enter nature’s cathedraltowering trees flank the traillichen and ivy-clad trunks darkenedtheir branches partially bare

Moved by fall’s bittersweet beautymy focus draws inward dear ones’ absent presence envelops mea poignant reminder of their lossseasons we will never share

Melancholy closes in like a vise gripwaning freedom—schoolyear constraints waxing darkness—workweeks never feeling sunlight winter’s windy wetnessstrings of solitary evenings

My damp boots tread on autumn’s crazy quilta yellow, brown, and fir-needle copper calicosoon to blanket every fern and nurse-logwhen the last leavesreleasesoftly spiralingtheir purpose transformedforever

Yet even as my heart achesweighted with another endingthe forest lifts my spiritsrevealing not loss but completeness the rightness of rhythms

Suddenlybeneath the canopy of big leaf maplesan ethereal golden glow illuminates the rain-spattered woodssnatches my breathpulling me back to this holy Now

I return to the roadglistening under streetlightsknowing this, too, is sacred

Before By Ali Foster

Page 4

I envy how your father died.My mother died too,Only my mother Turned from meWhen she was Five years old or so, Though she couldn’t rememberBecause she wore a Southern Belle Smile painted over her trauma. Even at the endOf a white corridor, in a white room, My mother didn’t speak my name. She was in a polite comaWhen I came. The only sound was her Breathing. She did that Darth Vader-death-bed-rattle.It wasn’t peaceful or noble.

The room wasn’t sterile either.Everyone always says thatAbout hospital roomsBut really they are the dirtiest places.They’re like subway stations:Babies come in,Dead people go out,Ladies and germs.Like my father He was a germ, Or so I thought. He was a virus A desperate alcoholicStealing from my motherWhat little life She had. Not that She didn’t want him to.

Later, I knew my mother Had wanted to dieEver since age five or so When something happened Where she lost part of herselfAnd another part of her wentLooking for it.

The part that stayed ateEggs every day. She told me, She was raising her cholesterolTo die young like her mother.

She’d hoped for a heartAttack. She got cancer. So,I was angry for a long timeWhen I realized that She knew she had a lump That she carried next to herHeart for years before The doctor cut it outSo she could live. ButIt was so very late for that.

In the hospital room,As her breathing stopped,I held her hand as one tear fellFrom her dry eyes that were Frozen open on death.

It was too muchA tragedy for me then.To know only herShell self,To see the half of her Slip from meIn that way.I couldn’t Let go and Part of me too Left with her.I could not mourn wellBecause I believedThat for her there was No escape, No sterile room,No blackout to end the act,Only her remains,And a ghastly Twilight.

Poetry Lays BareBy Maureen Canny

Page 5

BelovedBy Maureen Canny

She misses himAt night, in particular

He’s been away healingA Rumi poem

Sensuous and tender She reads to her husband of sixty years

A woman so deeply in lovePassionately voicing

In front of all of usHer desire for intimacy

Her longing Beyond duty and devotion

Resilient, robustYearning

Beside MyselfBy Maureen Canny

She hovers Watching me Make the chili dinner we often sharedShe stays closeAs I glean the last of the fall harvestA shadowNot menacingNot angry

I glance at herMore than twenty years of herA ghost beside me offering comfortAs I remain Grieving, unsettledBeside myself

I don’t really do poems My writing is more like proseStretched out in short linesOn a page

No rhyme or rhythmNo subtlety or subtextI may tell a sappy storyOr bemoan injustice

No deep undertones No double entendres No furtiveness

Real poetry exposes a shadow sideInvolves dismantling barricades built To protect my soul From being laid bare

WestportBy Anne Kohlbry

Page 6

IMounds of white shell shards scattered bits of driftwoodfractured fronds of seaweedocean beaches shout impermanence

One blinkone crushing wave stretching foam-edged fingers up the sandall disappearsdeath and destructioninescapable

Sandpipers scurryracing receding wavesthrusting their beaks into saturated sandfoamy froth shudders against raging gustsshedding blobs that wobble then flyrising into mist

I stride doggedlyhood tight against driving rainface dripping grateful being a parthowever briefly

IIReturning from the jetty at first lightI notice themmost broken but a few whole, white discs intricate center inscriptions intactnot even a tiny pecked punctureI hardly believe my luck

All the way back I stoopthumbs emerging from mitts to liftfirst onethen anotherlily side upedges buried in dark sand

Suddenly I picture Longboat Key’s white sandsthat 1968 spring break of firsts first flightfirst palm treesfirst oceanturquoise and powerfuloffering sand dollars to the earliest eagle eye

Intrigued by their legendary markingsthrilled by the challengeI stalked the tideline at sunrise each morningfilling a box with white treasures

But here the rain slantswind wallopsgray surf poundsremorselessly

Midday, heading south at low tideI carry a bagseeking Morespotting Morecollecting Moreuntil the sheer profusion of perfect specimenswakes me up

At last light I walk in gratitudeleaning into buffeting gustssavoring the surf’s thunder and whispered retreatcrunching through piles of crumbled shellsadmiring dozens of sand dollarsleaving all in place

White NoiseBy Josie Solseng

Page 7

Reeds and twigs poke upThrough the chardonnay seaSprigs of brillianceFerns unfurledBlossoms of shy beauty

Everywhere I look there areBranches with budsInviting me to writeBegging me to composeScaring me with urgency

Fade OutBy Josie Solseng

Her words hit me square In the chest, an arrowOf scorn piercingMy heart, tearsBurning my cheeksShame staining my breastNo shield at the readyFor sister judgement.

Those same words spokenBy anyone elseI could catch In mid-airFlinging them backAbsorbing not a syllableHer words smother meIn congealed contempt.

Sister words are heavyWeighted with family storiesCasting me in amberThat I’ve long since shedA lash of her tonguePins me downAnd I struggle To breathe.

Cancer ate him upFrom the insideThe hungrier it gotThe less appetite he hadFor donuts or steakGardening or life.

That August afternoonHe intended to napAnd fell asleep forever.He woke on the other sideSure he’d been drinkingSeeing his dead parents.

He had always believedOnce you’re dead, you’re dirtBut he might have been wrongVaguely aware of his wife’s sobsHis kids making phone callsHis cats meowing for him.

Sister ScornBy Josie Solseng

I stop at the store forA nice bottle of whiteNoise to hush their voicesRemove me from the responsibilityOf tending these sprouts

When the sea risesThe surface turns glassyNot a tendril in sightThe writing stopsThe music drowns

End of TermBy Anne Kohlbry

Page 8

The ebb tide carves a pathacross the sandto the Soundas wind wafts wavesincessantlycovering each Nowin a blink

Now youtooare leavingcarvinga path across my heart

To whom thenshall I write my poemswithout a mirror as witness?Having glimpsed my reflectionin your presenceI feel a sparka whispera bud

It’s not that you can’t stay in touchyou won’tyou let go like the beachholding and releasing with equanimitywhines my inner childyearningdespite your unwaveringNo.

AfterBy Ali Foster

I cannot write cool Poems any more Than I can despair Or talk Of death like it is A winking out ofA never-more-nessAn agnostic theory ofNon-exist-ence

Not since My dog died happily At the vet’s

She wasThe last vestigeOf a marriage I wantedTo be withoutAnd when the carHit herIt was As though I had Dreamed itWanted itAnd I knew in that momentA dread, remembering itAs she sprang Away from meRunning joyfully into trafficAnd I could not Call her back

I could never Call her back

She was her own And I simply lucky To have beenHer companionGood dogBad dogNice meMean meJust Us

Page 9

But I ordered her to die In the little roomOf our 24 hour EmergencyWhere We layWhimperingMy hand on her chest Trying to be Brave enough As We breathed togetherI understoodWhat it meant to have A blank mindFor when I tried to think The unthinkable My mind slippedSideways into NirvanaAnd saw without seeing the Unmistakable shimmering that Crazy people talk about

IT was A golf-ball sized globeVibratingA few inches aboveThe risingAnd falling of her Body where it layYet she was in the glowing The essence of my dogAnd It, She Was more excitedThan I’d ever seen herEven when I came homeAfter a long tripAnd that is saying somethingBecause this dog loved Me and I herMore than anythingOr anyone, everShe was my heartMy baby after my miscarriageMy lover during my divorceMy family after it

Yet she ran straightInto trafficAnd now she wantedTo leave

And I knew as I feltHer soft furAnd saw her soulHer SOUL!RisingThat she had places to goFriends to seeAnd the trembling threadThat held her hereShe held out to meLike a child with somethingThat needs to beCut

And so I got the doctorAnd did as my dog asked

And in that hanging MomentAfter the injectionShe turned her headHer eyes seeking mineShe looked to Me Not recognizing The sensation of death Claiming her bodyMy Dog Looked to meAsked me for understanding Before obeying my final commandAnd leaving me No longer the skepticMy mind blownApart. I knew nothingAfter I had done it butBefore I threw upWhat it meantAs I sat with her bodyStiffening under my hand

Page 10

My unfamiliar mindBlankBut for one impossible imageA shimmeringThat erased myselfReplacing it with theKnowledge that I had beenHorror of all horrorsBorn AgainIn all it’s cliché gloryI was The weeping MarysAnd the laughing Buddha with my hands in the air Surrendered to the shimmering Light and all The colors of the rainbowAnd Pain Beyond anything I had ever been Warned aboutI knew then, after She had goneBut before I walked out of the emergencyAnd threw up in the bushesI knewI would never get to sit sullen

In a bar with jaded poetsOr read Nietzsche without pityOr talk of abortionAs though choice were easyOr of my mother Who raced towards deathLeaving me Nested in a hardened house of cool A beatnik in black shadesProvisioned as I thought I wasWith dark poems for all timeUntil the dog died happily And set Me free Cool falling from my eyesColors shimmering In the dirt where I threw upKneeling before my mother’s cross My dog’s crossAnd every crossIn every graveyard, now And for all time, Sweet Mother of Dog!I say unto you, PeaceJoy and HowlHowwwwwlHowl-lelujah!

Close EncounterBy Anne Kohlbry

Page 11

Cabin on GuemesBy Josie Solseng

Shiny splashing near Priest Pointseal? just a sea bird?from afar I can only hopeand paddle nearer

yesyes!now your smooth round head is unmistakablesleek wet furdark puppy eyeslong silver whiskers

I stroke slowlysinging softlygliding without a ripplethrilled you’re lingeringlured by my song

our eyes locksuspending time

but your quiveringnostrils flareand closeas you tip back your muzzleto slip beneath the glassy surfacea mirror for mea window for you

I pull back my paddlepropelling forward alonewistfulhoping you’ll reappear

Kersplash!

I whip aroundexpanding circles sparkleright beyond the stern

so you do want to connect…on your terms

I heard a rumor You might sell the cabinI’m not supposed to be hereI needed to see it again

The quiet is unsettlingI’d like to stay for a week Drop into myself completelyAnd hear my own voice again

On the beach, waves lap unendingly Gulls cry, carrying on a conversation Or maybe an argumentI disturb a heron’s focus and she flies off

A few things are different But when I go looking for a napkinI know right where to find themSecond drawer down, next to the sink

If I had a chunk of moneyI’d buy it myself, knock it downAnd start over. Build again Away from the encroaching beach

Maybe I’d decide to live hereYear round, few people doLearn to set crab pots and dig clamsLearn the names of the ferry crew

Cat Tactics During MeditationBy Anne Kohlbry

Page 12

BlueBy Josie Solseng

BlueAs skyAt twilightA bit of greenTurns heavenly tealTill stars appearMoon light shinesFades toBlack

Meow insistentlyrub cheek against hand, nudging it off her kneedig claws into upholstered chair beside herrepeatsniff other handlick the closest fingerscratch behind ear with back foot momentarily distracted

jump onto buffet and nibble new plant land behind her on all fours leap onto piano keysbat the pencil onto hardwood chase till it disappears under sofapin down tail to clean momentarily distracted

softly step onto lapplace paws on her shouldersnose to nosemewknead cushy lap blanket with front feetturn 180’relaxsettlecross paws on wristrest chin on pawspurrr….

OlyBy Amy Taylor

Raccoons stealInto our yard

Making off withThe raspberriesAnd I am glad

To know that lawlessnessFrom furry footed anarchists

Is alive and wellIn the capital

Of Washington state

! ! ! These Women Who Write! ! ! By Maureen Canny

Page 13

They draw me inTheir compassionate verses Their perseverance, and proddingKeep molding the clay

They teach me to document My rage, joy, curiosity

That spoken conversation only dances aroundThey know how hard it is to writeHow vital it is that we do

Feeling nerdy at firstThey are so coolI get to learn new stuff about chakrasPoetry slams and anthroposophyAnd how to wrestle life’s intangibles

I witness word combinations Graceful, powerful, purposeful

They express with such clarityAnd discernmentTheir beautiful storiesRich fodder of humor and surprise Even their tragedies nourish me Reveal the remarkable depths To which a soul can be mined

I tread all over genres and styles and topics Invited to participate in this process of creationA garden poem, a rant about politicsOr a gentle letting go of despair

I cannot not writeI have been lassoed byThese women who write.