Miriam Sagan: LAST WORDS

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I tended my mother-in-law Claire when she was dying at home.

"I have something to say," she whispered to us.

My husband and I bent in close.

"And it isn't very deep," she added. The gist was that although she wanted to eat, she really couldn't.

Her last request to me was to get her comb and brush from the little wicker table in the other room.

"Your house is so cluttered," I teased her. "A little table! Where?"

She laughed. I brushed her hair and lay down to take a nap. My husband sat by her bed until she died.

since your mother's death

you do the crossword puzzle—

filling in the blanks

.

.

by Miriam Sagan
Santa Fe, New Mexico
first published in Simply Haiku V4, N4 (2006)

Miriam Sagan: MALA

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The word mala is Sanskrit for garland. It is a string of prayer beads. You always wore one wrapped around your wrist.

These bone beads

Did not go up in smoke—

Unlike you.

You were a Zen priest, and when you died you left shelves of books and records but otherwise very few possessions. In some ways you really were unsui, clouds and water, a Japanese word for monk. Although you were also my husband.

A mala has 108 beads. You told me this was to insure a hundred minimum. But I read that it is also a mystical arrangement—twice the fifty letters of the Sanskrit alphabet, plus eight magical amendments. One bead is called the guru bead. You left a string of wooden beads marked by one of crystal.

When we were courting, you came down the dirt road to visit me. You held one wrist aloft—I thought it was wrapped in bodhi beads. I ran towards you to greet you and stopped dead. A snake was wrapped around your wrist.

jewel eyes, darting tongue

the snake you found

wrapped like a mala

To pray. To count. To keep track of what is passing. You didn't leave much behind besides the malas—bone, wood, crystal, snakeskin.

by Miriam Sagan

Santa Fe, New Mexico

first published in Contemporary Haibun Online V2, N1 (2006)

WHAT MAKES EVE DIFFERENT?

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Patricia Prime Interviews Miriam Sagan

Miriam Sagan was born in Manhattan, raised in New Jersey, and educated in Boston. She holds a B.A. with honors from Harvard University and an M.A. in Creative Writing from Boston University. She settled in Santa Fe in 1984.

Sagan is the author of over twenty books. Her most recent is a memoir, Searching for a Mustard Seed: A Young Widow’s Unconventional Story (Quality Words in Print, 2004. Winner Best Memoir from Independent Publishers, 2004). Her poetry includes Rag Trade (La Alameda, 2004). The Widow’s Coat (Ahsahta Press, 1999), The Art of Love (La Alameda Press, 1994). True Body (Parallax Press, 1991) and Aegean Doorway (Zephyr, 1984). Her published novel is Coastal Lives (Center Press, 1991). With Sharon Niederman, she is the editor of New Mexico Poetry Renaissance (Red Crane, 1994): winner of the Border Regional Library Association Award and Honorable Mention Benjamin Franklin Award, and with Joan Loddhe of Another Desert: The Jewish Poetry of New Mexico (Sherman Asher, 1998). She and her late husband Robert Winson wrote Dirty Laundry: 100 Days in a Zen Monastery, a joint diary (La Alameda, 1987; New World Library, 1999). She is the author of Unbroken Line: Writing in the Lineage of Poetry (Sherman Asher, 1999) which Robert Creeley called “A work of quiet compassion and great heart.” Sagan is also the author of four juvenile nonfiction books, including Tracing our Jewish Roots (John Muir). Her work has appeared internationally in 200 magazines. She writes book columns for both the Santa Fe New Mexican and New Mexico Magazine, and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest.

Sagan, an Assistant Professor, runs the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College, and has taught at the College of Santa Fe, University of New Mexico, Taos Institute of the Arts, Aspen Writer’s Conference, around the country, and online for writers.com and UCLA Extension. She has held residency grants at Yaddo and MacDowell, and is the recipient of a grant from The Barbara Deming Foundation for Women and a Lannan Foundation Marfa Residency. She has recently been a writer in residence at Everglades National Park, Petrified Forest National Park, and The Land/An Art Site.

PP: Despite your impressive literary output, your work perhaps is not as well-known as it deserves to be. Could you please outline your background?

MS: I was born in Manhattan, raised in Jersey, have a B.A. from Harvard, M.A. from Boston University. I ran off to San Francisco when I was 26 – probably the smartest thing I ever did. I’ve lived in Santa Fe since 1984 and I founded and direct the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College – which I think of as a natural extension of my early years as a community organizer. I’ve published over twenty books; the most recent is Map of the Lost (University of New Mexico Press).

PP: How did you build your list of authors in the early years of the Santa Fe Poetry Broadside?

MS: Our mandate to ourselves was to put up as many New Mexico poets as possible. That was before many writers were web-savvy and we wanted potential readers to be able to find work by local poets such as Leo Romero. So we begged and nagged for work! And have also expanded into other areas of interest, particularly with guest editors.

PP: What is the hardest thing for you in your job as an editor?

MS: At this point, staying fresh.

PP: I often feel that women writers are in a double-bind. There is that external pressure to succeed as lover, wife, mother and, often, equal work partner. There is also an internalized, self-imposed pressure. How do you cope given this situation?

MS: When my daughter Isabel was born 20 years ago I realized that she came first – just not every minute! This was very helpful. I had rules that my study was an inviolate space – pretty soon I broke these and she had coloring books etc. in there. But it didn’t matter. We survived a hard time, the death of my first husband Robert Winson as a young man. But to be honest I haven’t felt huge conflict. I feel my writing comes from life, and Robert’s death made other people seem even more important. Paradoxically, in the last 13 years I re-married, raised my daughter, and published a dozen books of poetry and memoir – most related to my experience.

PP: What about the notion of the essential female identity which locks women writers into biological determinism?

MS: Yikes! I’ve spent a good part of my 54 years wondering if men and women were essentially the same or different – and I’ve changed my mind a few times! I’m interested in identity – as a woman, a Jew, an American, a baby-boomer – but I’m also interested in something essential that isn’t totally defined by these things.

PP: It seems to me that there is a connection between writing and illnesses like depression, which occurs in many women poets – Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, to name but two. Can writing come out of depression, illness or breaks in relationships?

MS: I think that for the trained poet, writing can come out of anything. I think about Anna Ahkmatova standing outside the prison at the height of the Stalinist purges and the woman behind her saying – can you write about this? She said yes, and wrote her masterpiece “Poem Without A Hero.” I love Sexton’s work and it seems obvious that she used and encouraged her mania to induce creative states – with Plath I sometimes think her writing was the sane part and survived despite her. Of course we’ve all known people who suffered dreadfully and were ill who weren’t artists at all.

PP: Do you think there is an inherent difference between male and female poetry?

MS: No

PP: To return to your own writing – how does the poem originate?

MS: It has been my lifelong practice to write poetry – it is a mixture of observation, image, language, word, and feeling. Then I chase that bit of inspiration as with a butterfly net – and try to get it down.

PP: How much attention do you pay to stylistic elements? In what ways do you work on syntax, phrasings, finding the right words to communicate?

MS: Colette said – “don’t wear yourself out with lying and don’t look for the rare word.” I like this advice! I’m more apt to work from form than syntax – let’s say from syllabics or meter or line length than from searching for the exact words. But I’m afraid I’m a little sloppy.

PP: The imagery you use is often quite complex, full of shifts of perspective. Do you make demands on your readers’ imagination? Is that an important part of your craft for you?

MS: Aah – those leaps are my favorite thing – I think of the poem as a trip or a place – I want to take the reader there – to see what I saw.

PP: Sometimes I find glimpses of humour in your work. How important is humour for you, with regard to your writing?

MS: It is crucial. As a young poet I was very serious. People would complain – you’re so funny – and your writing isn’t! I set about to change that.

PP: How does the editor or prose writer in you get on with the poet? Do you co-exist in harmony or do you consider yourself primarily a poet?

MS: I’ve written a lot of prose. I’ve been a columnist for Writer’s Digest, New Mexico Magazine, The Santa Fe Mexican, and Sage Magazine at The Albuquerque Journal. I love the essay form, and the review, and the constraints of commercial writing – deadlines etc. I think it is just a different muscle. If I feel like writing but don’t feel inspired I’ll tend to work on prose, which lends itself to elbow grease.

PP: Do you tend to compose spontaneously or by applying certain procedures to materials that you have previously written or derived from other sources?

MS: Spontaneously – but I encourage certain situations. For example, I was recently a writer in residence at Petrified Forest National Park. I had two weeks in a little cabin all to myself. Every day I took field trips, walked, identified wildflowers, read, talked to archeologists and paleontologists, etc. I’d go out and “sketch” in words, come home and revise. It was heaven!

PP: Do you go about writing a tanka or haiku sequence with a specific sense of structure or in the knowledge of how it will develop?

MS: Sometimes. It tends to be site specific. For example, in Petrified Forest I wanted a haiku sequence and some connected tanka. In ordinary life it might be more random.

PP: Do you want to say something about what lyric means to you? Is it something musical, song-like, or is it more about the kind of orientation towards its content?

MS: I think of lyric as coming from the Greeks like Sappho – personal, musical, brief, metaphoric. Essentially the heart of poetry that isn’t epic or a long narrative.

PP: Can you say something about your interest in haibun?

MS: I love it and was excited to realize it was an actual form being practiced in English! Of course, I’d read Basho, Issa, the Japanese poetic diaries, etc. I’m very interested in diary and journal writing, and this had a formal approach that intrigued me. Plus I’d always felt poetry and prose could not be combined – and haibun proved the opposite!

PP: Do you think that the reader identifies too often with the speaker of a poem?

MS: Absolutely – or poetry wouldn’t work. On re-reading your question, is it too much? Well, I think not – how else to enter the poem?

PP: Do you feel that women bring something to the genre that men do not?

MS: Well, of course the specifics of experience as women. And our ancestors in tanka, haibun, etc. are often women. But in today’s society in the US where women and men have close to identical educations – no “women’s language” or boys learning Greek and Latin and girls not – I think the differences would be more individual and less sweeping.

PP: Do you feel that men dominate the genre by virtue of editorial entrenchment or bias?

MS: I hope not – and I’m not aware of the bias – but that isn’t to say it might not be there.

PP: What do you think of the idea that research stimulates an incident-set that may later be used in a poem?

MS: I really agree – I love research – but it might be more poetic than hyper-intellectual. I read a huge amount of non-fiction particularly about history, sociology, biology and it is a big influence.

PP: Do you think it may create a number of possibilities that you then think about transforming in certain ways?

MS: Or even that knowledge re-shapes the way I experience things – deepens perception.

PP: What is the role of revision in your work? Do you spend a lot of time working on a piece or is it a swift process and then you re-work things?

MS: I’m fast. As a young writer I’d do about 20-25 revisions, it was a learning curve. Now I do just a few. I tend to toss something that isn’t working rather than over-revise.

PP: You are very active in the literary scene. Do you still meet other poets on a regular basis?

MS: Well, my life is full of poets and poetry. I’m just back from the STIR Festival in Albuquerque which was several days of stellar poetry – I saw a lot of old friends. And of course my students are poets in the making.

PP: How would you characterize the literary scene in the USA at the moment?

MS: I’ll just go with New Mexico – it is vibrant and inclusive here. Taos, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, and Las Cruces are all dynamic hubs with all kinds of poets – from slam to academic. Nationally things may be more separate – slam poets don’t dine with language school folks. But luckily things are integrated here

PP: It would be interesting to learn more about your method of working. Is there a strict time scheme you stick to when writing?

MS: I’m production oriented. My goal is to write 5 poems a month – a bit of a stretch. If I’m behind I really push it!

PP: Can you identify some poets who have inspired you?

MS: My demi-gods include Neruda, Lorca, Machado, Ahkmatova, Yosano Akiko, Allen Ginsberg. In terms of American haiku writers – Elizabeth Searle Lamb, who was a close friend.

PP: What are your literary projects in the foreseeable future?

MS: I’ve been doing some visual work – a poetry installation at The Land/An Art Site in Mountainair, New Mexico. I’ll be doing a gallery installation at their Granite Street site, writing on walls. I’m working with some letterpress printers and collaborating with a photographer as well.

THANKS SO MUCH – THIS WAS FUN!

Miriam Sagan: EVERGLADE HAIBUN

It took me a day and a half to get from Santa Fe in northern New Mexico to the Everglades in southern Florida. I left a busy life of family and teaching for more than two weeks of almost uninterrupted solitude. As I pulled up to the Park Service offices I had a moment of terror—what if I’d made the whole thing up and the residency wasn’t real? I was reassured to meet Alan Scott, the ranger in charge of the artists in residence program. He gave me a brief orientation to the park, which focused on:

The Four Poisonous Snakes Of The Park
The Two Poisonous Plants
Mosquitoes, And West Nile Virus
Why To Never Touch A Caterpillar
When To Back Away From An Alligator (if it hisses and comes toward you)

Then he took me outside to a conveniently located poison wood tree covered in poison ivy vines and had me identify each one. “Now,” said Alan, “on to the dangers of man.” Serial killers? Psychopaths? “People drive worse on vacation than they do at home,” he said, “be careful, particularly in parking lots.”

The apartment I was to stay in looked simple but pleasant, and turned out to be a great place to write. The first thing I did was move my desk—card table really—to the screened porch, facing into the forest of slash pine.

a lizard

living

in a rolled up shade

One day I counted almost a hundred turkey vultures riding the thermals above my house. I was just a few minutes from the Royal Palm Visitor Center and the Anhinga Trail. A few years ago, I’d made a dash of a day trip through here and part of my motivation was to come back—and simply sit and look. I walked the boardwalk around the slough almost every day. Each time I saw something new. I saw a cormorant catch a catfish—it is the only bird that has figured out how to eat catfish—bludgeon it and break its spine and swallow it in one gulp. I also saw:

tree bromeliads—

two anhingas

build a nest of twigs

.

man with a cane

crosses paths with

a tiny turtle

.

child pats the palm tree

ignores

the alligator

I wanted to make a poetic map of the park. The poem was getting bigger and bigger, then finally settled into seven sections. Some sections required actually going somewhere—some moved in time and imagination. I went to Flamingo, and out among the mangroves, to Shark Valley and to the Gulf Coast and by boat among 10,000 Islands. I saw crocodiles, a rare tree snail, a nest of baby alligators, golden-bellied spiders, and birds of all kinds—herons, egrets, ibis, purple gallinule, anhinga, osprey, hawk.

tree snail gleams

in the leaf canopy—

stolen ghost orchid

And there were things I didn’t see—a panther, not even a bobcat. No pythons, either, those unwelcome visitors. I also explored the border of the park, agricultural lands that interrupt the water flow, the Redland area and Krome Avenue, nurseries I would have simply thought lush and charming if I hadn’t been focused on water drainage and wilderness preservation.

out of the palm trees

a peacock darts—escaped—

but from where?

There was a journal that each artist had written in. Alan Scott had suggested I not read it right away, and that was a good idea—I had my own experience first. It surprised me, though, when I did read it, how similar everyone’s experience was—the bliss of being in such beautiful surroundings combined with intense inspiration to create. The only conflict described, one which I shared, was whether to work or to jaunt about. One artist had drawn a detailed image of a green leaf and one of a snail.

only the most

delicate colored pencils

draw the tree snail’s shell

I felt a familiar twinge of jealousy—the ability to reproduce the world visually. Still, I found that here I was working as a poet almost the way painters must work going out, looking at something, recording it in my notebook.

hurricane downed

tree roots, nurse log

what green comes next...

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tree canopy

butterfly, and purple glade

morning glory

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rare buttonwood vine

looks like any foliage—

but rare...

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a leaf drops in

the mahogany hammock—
without season

The artist who was in the apartment before me had left me a big board covered in foil. The first thing I did was put up a map of the Everglades. Then came photographs by my friend Mary Peck that had been exhibited at Miami-Dade Community College. The images of the park were in black and white, meditative long horizontals. Then I added three postcards of birds, including one ibis and one egret. I had trouble telling them apart and was plagued by not knowing what bird I’d actually seen. I kept changing them in a poem, changing the sound, trying to get it right. I hung up a pair of beautiful long beaded earrings and an even more lavish turquoise, white, yellow, red and black necklace. The ladies at the at the Miccosukee Indian cultural center had helped me match them. Over it all, I pinned up a painting of a model of the solar system. Why? I guess because I felt far from home but also at home in a vast space.

On the boat out of 10,000 Islands I met a family from Pasadena. The woman and I got to chatting, and at the end she exclaimed: “I’ve never met an author before!” I, on the other hand, had never seen white pelicans before—hundreds of them taking off from a sandbar.

raindrops’ circles—

yellow spatterdock flowers

floating green pads...

.

two shy vultures

pick raindrops

off the car’s roof

.

cypresses

drawn in an inky line,
overcast afternoon

.

leaf’s

drop tip

implies rain

by Miriam Sagan

Santa Fe, New Mexico
first published in Santa Fe Poetry Broadside 54 (2007)

Miriam Sagan: MOUND HAIBUN

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Suburban Cincinnati, at the Oddfellows Cemetery, 19th century graves marked by classical columns, urns, and obelisks—these last monuments Egyptian and therefore somehow suited to the dead as if these middle-class Germans were pharaohs. Names erode from the softer marble but not the granite.

the tops
of abandoned grain silos

festooned in trees

Flag limp in the breezeless day. And a mound—covered in grass and trees—in the center of the graveyard. This was a burial mound too, probably of the prehistoric Adena people. Once these mounds were everywhere by rivers and floodplains, until eroded by farming and development. There is also another mound here, small and spotted with the incursion of graves.

The cemetery protects these mounds, as does a local golf course.

And there is a large mound in Water Tower Park, which itself is just a strip of green alley between family houses. The mound is somber, looming, overgrown. Artifacts might include bones, a shaman's pipe, bronze antlers, hands carved in mica.

a dark feeling
in the maze
of dreams

Plastic swing sets litter the lawns, and the water tower also looms. This is an in-between place.

Facing the street is a white Victorian, gray shingled, with a handsome wrap-around porch. There are so many levels of time here that memory can't unravel them.

house on a small hill
beneath a running sky
storm clouds, then thunder

.

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by Miriam Sagan
Santa Fe, New Mexico

Miriam Sagan: 138 SANCHEZ DE TAGLE, MORELIA, MEXICO

The apartment was charming if eccentric. An interior balcony of the apartment above actually obtruded into ours. The enclosed courtyard between the bedrooms and the bathroom leaked whenever it rained. It housed the balcony where our neighbors chatted and hung laundry. Outside was inside.

why do I see it
as if in a dream
that funky motel
on the Navajo Rez
at dusk?

I went out in a lull in the downpour, careful on the wet paving stones, to the Artesanos to buy a pottery pineapple. There were huge ones, almost as tall as me, with elaborate spires in black and green glaze like the minarets of a city or an enormous anti-wedding cake. I bought a small one I could carry home in my purse.

even
in a foreign city
I feel close to them—
other people walking
with canes

I hope to remember it always, the potted thorn tree on the roof patio where I smoked a rare cigarette, a velvety moth against the stucco, dogs barking, a garbage truck whistling like a bottle rocket.

propane leak,
apartment of bad drains,
from the street
faint music drifts away
in the opposite direction
.

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by Miriam Sagan
Santa Fe, New Mexico

Miriam Sagan: STOLEN HAIBUN

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I came to the Petrified Forest National Park in May as a writer-in-residence. I was given a charming cabin built by the CCC in the 1930's – simple and rustic. It was perched across from the old hotel, a spectacular view of badlands stretching out towards the horizon. In the distance, I-40 rolled west along the old Route 66 cut.

fake tepees
on the highway –
painted desert cones

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Of course it is illegal, immoral, and all but irresistible to pocket a bit of petrified wood. Walking along the trail and looking at the gigantic fallen logs of the Triassic now turned to rainbow stone – jasper red, mariposa lily yellow, crystal white – I knew I had to go something before the urge overwhelmed me. I went into the curio store and spent fifty dollars on two beautiful pieces of polished petrified wood collected outside the park. I heard my father's approving voice in my head. After all, he was the one who introduced me to the west and encouraged me to buy the mudhead kachina, the Pacific Northwest Indian basket, the necklace of tiny bird fetishes. My father believed in buying a souvenir, a bit of a spirit of a place, something I passed on to my own daughter.

pale blue
in the red grain – tonight
I'll dream of trees

I even bought a little collection of polished chips – so smooth, so many colors – and put them in one of the two bowls in the cabin. This petrified wood exists on a scale of time I can note but not truly imagine – 225 million years ago.

my own daughter grown
I buy mineral souvenirs
just for me

.

by Miriam Sagan

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Miriam Sagan: MORADA HAIBUN

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On a spring day in March, we walk to the morada. A low building of now rotting adobe, it was once used by Los Hermenos, the brotherhood of Penitentes. They practiced secret rites, such as self-flagellation and crucifixion, outside of the approval of the Catholic Church.

far-off silver statue
of a horse running –
droppings in this field

We take a path out along the mesa, on Pueblo land, expansive view in all directions. We walk towards Taos Mountain, looking enormous and blue-green in the clear air. Aren’t all mountains sacred? This one still knows it.

my pilgrim’s stick
no affectation –
my bad knee

About half a mile from the morada is a large cross – the first that Georgia O'Keeffe painted in New Mexico. Her painting is “White Cross” but it is now weathered gray. There are offerings of stones and pebbles at the base, left by visitors.

scattered feathers, scat
wild sacrifice at the base
of the swaying cross

I sit down on the foundation and look out over the land.

fence posts, barbed wire
shadow of the cross
bisects Taos Mountain

by Miriam Sagan

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Miriam Sagan: ANASAZI HAIBUN

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The Colorado Plateau, that vast uplift eroded to cliff and canyon, is honeycombed with ruins. The people who left them are called Anasazi – a Navajo word meaning “ancestor of the enemy,” that is, the Pueblo people. They are also called, more accurately, ancient Puebloan. Some of the sites are major cities – Chaco, Mesa Verde. Some are local, the equivalent of suburbs or villages. It’s beautiful in southern Utah in June, green in the valleys.

Two white horses –
Field of purple iris
Smoke

Hovenweep is an unusual site around a small canyon. It is composed mostly of masonry towers – use unknown. Some suggestions include signal towers, watch towers, astronomical observation sites, or simply “sacred” ones.

Square tower of stones
Round tower
Morning star

Hovenweep is majestic, but what surprised me more was a little ruin just off the highway – an apartment building for about six families that had not just a round ceremonial kiva dug in the earth but its own tower.

Pueblo mound –
Red grass
The wind blows through

Now empty rooms
Full or orange
Mallows

Unfinished
Woven yucca sandals
Meant for whose feet?

Red rock. Monolithic. Huge folds, drapes, cliffs...natural amphetheater, panoramic view falling away below us at Bryce Canyon.
.

Swallows
In the canyon updraft
Beneath our feet.

In the motel room
Dreaming of an old love
Waking and finding you.

Red rock cliff
Purple thistle
Bursting

A river running through this red rock country changes everything with green all along it.

Petroglyphs –
Masked dancers –
Faint shadows on rock

The dancers might be katchinas – a later religion than the images of a water serpent at Chaco. The katchinas still dance in Hopi today. Along the San Juan River, the bluffs are sometimes pink, sometimes salmon, apricot, peach. Above the current town is a small excavation. It is 125 miles from Chaco. Off to one side, you can see the remains of the ancient road that connected this remote place.

Mourning doves cooing
Ruined pueblo
Above the bluffs

by Miriam Sagan

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Miriam Sagan: A-BOMB HAIBUN

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When I first moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico many years ago I was struck by the presence of the atom bomb, which was invented up on the hill of Los Alamos and tested down in the desert of the Jornado del Muerto. It was then of course dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

indigo pattern
of the kimono –
burned on to skin

When a recent forest fire raged in Los Alamos, people were worried. “We’re downwind from Los Alamos,” they said, as if we hadn’t been all along.

Los Alamos lights
twinkling in the dusk –
like anyplace else

I made a pilgrimage south to the Trinity Test Site where the first bomb exploded.

I walk the crater –
sand fused to glass –
wind in the sage brush

you can buy
a T-shirt, emblazoned
with a mushroom cloud

Last summer, we had a Japanese exchange student staying with us, Akiko. The anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima is celebrated as a peace day here on our Plaza. Akiko and my daughter, two teen-age girls, went off with a festive air to listen to the bands, eat snacks, connect with friends. They had no apparent sense of melancholy. Tragedy was remote, something their grandparents – who had been enemies – might speak of. I was the one thinking of history.

they turn up

in odd nooks – origami
folded peace cranes

by Miriam Sagan

Santa Fe, New Mexico