A Bitter Wind a bitter wind whisks away bodies upon bodies where do they go? Girl Woman Two-spirit the remains of 215 children buried in an unmarked grave at Kamloops Indian Residential School one appears to be a child who died as young as 3 Chief Casimir says the bodies found so far appeared to be buried in separate “unmarked burial sites that are, to our knowledge, also undocumented.” 5,712 cases of missing American Indian and Alaska Native women and girls in 2016 2,306 missing Native American women and girls in the U.S. in 2020 the U.S Department of Justice only reports 228 cases in 2021 nearly 60 percent of the cases are homicides 31 percent involve girls 18 and younger I remember age 17 young brown girl walking alone Highway 29 Pomo reservation a middle-aged man his dirty-white pickup truck I could have been one of the missing not one woman-identified Native is safe from this this is no bitter wind only sharp human action acerbic, forthright stealing souls in the night or shamelessly in the blinding daylight are their spirits in anyone’s thoughts? I burn sage and copal imagine their spirits lifting up in the smoke settling into the corners of a safe haven no red violence smeared across their faces no last breaths taken
Georgina Marie
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s the power of using your voice.” — Michelle Obama
On March 1st, 2022, I was appointed for my second term as Lake County’s Poet Laureate. It just so happened to be the first day of Women’s History Month, and every day since my proclamation I have been reflecting on my voice and presence in this position. I’ve repeatedly expressed how rich of a literary community we have here in Lake County and when I say this, it includes writers of all genders, race and ethnicities, ages, and more. But if you attend a virtual or in-person writing gathering, you may notice there are more women present than men. It has become inevitable that countless, nameless women inspire me, and support me in return. Sure, there are some who criticize me, however, the genuine encouragement and kindness outweigh the negative.
So often women writers share their words with me and those words sit in my throat and stomach, echoing a call back to me to continue responding to the world through poetry. A sort of call and response ensues as we do our work as magical creatives. A number of these same women have gifted me willow trees and wine, handwritten notes and snail mail letters with tea packets; the literary relationship sometimes crosses over to friendship. Building community through poetry often extends beyond the virtual classroom or the open plan art gallery. When we women support each other by holding each other’s voices in our hands, minds, and hearts, and assuring each other that our vulnerabilities and experiences are safe and accepted, sharing poetry and other creative writing goes beyond the pen and paper, beyond the occasional dinner and drinks together; it becomes community.
The women I have interacted with over the past five years, since I decided to start sharing my voice with the public and before I became Poet Laureate, have experienced wildfire, disaster, abuse, trauma; self-doubt, loss, chronic physical and emotional pain; anxiety, and so much more. These same women also exemplify grace, beauty, resilience; persistence, creativity, passion, and gusto. I am one of these women. I am proud to be and I am so proud of this community that continues to toss their truths into the world through poetry. I am proud of the women who think about doing this but are not quite ready. I am proud of the women in our community who are still learning what they want and who they are.
I leave you with a striking hybrid poem from a dear friend of mine. When we first met years ago, her poems danced in color as she spoke them aloud. Then I recently appeared in one of them.
Home Star & Our Elliptic Orbit: Poetry by Brenda Yeager
Solstice I // Summer 2021 It is impossible to eat birthday cake alone. No matter how many hours of daylight you’ve got to swallow. I am born on the summer solstice, so I can tell you this firsthand. This is something the pandemic taught me. Solstice II // Winter 2021 At 7:58am, I wake up inside the darkest walls of the year. All night I wanted so badly to be post-modern, to talk irony until dawn and watch very smooth heads nod: mmhmm, that’s exactly how the world is fracturing. But the stars kept begging me to tell their story. The density and glow of that calling. Always overhead. Never ironic. In the darkness, I glimpse a new constellation. Its coordinates: 1. Whoosh of the cold glass streaking along the wooden bar toward its drinker. Water or wine, your pick. Liquid overflowing its own shape is called an accident. Or a monsoon. Or mourning. 2. My heart slips off my sleeve. Everyone is very polite and tries to ignore it, lying there, too soft and wet to navigate the crowd. 3. Pulse, prismatic, strobe lights embrace the dance floor. Do you remember? 4. Musk and longing of the parenthetical bodies. 5. And, just below the surface: silver tears in everyone. A quivering of salt and human fragility. These points form the image of a room and the Tuesday night life within. All around, the black sky takes one long breath to gather us in. And, to answer the out-breath, the band slides into a wide groove and we follow: warm sax, sweet keys, the guy on the drums forgets that the taxicab splashed gutter rain up his pants leg on his way to the gig and gives everything to the beat, down to his bones. The entire room crosses over the threshold at once and becomes a people, rhythm mercy spilling over us. We open our eyes. And, in an instant, the dark days of winter tip toward a southern light. It was such a quiet event, we were all thinking we could get away with a few more bad habits. One more scotch and a brief evening of atrocities. But this is not the case. Because the band and its music are metaphors and the season of the colonizer is over. You see, this was all happening in my head. And my heart, which, I suppose, makes it a prayer instead of a dream. The truth is, I am at home, because I love the deep luxury of the longest night. And Zoom suits my social anxiety just fine. And because no one is going anywhere without a negative test result and I’m really bad at thinking these things through beforehand in enough time to make them happen. Even in the age of 48 hour delivery. But our home star and our elliptic orbit don’t care if we’re at the computer or on the dance floor or on the back step watching the earliest darkness descend. A solstice is a transition and, this year, the human family needs one of planetary proportion. But first, there was a lesson. Six days earlier, we were stacked safely in our Brady Bunch squares. Our poetry group meeting for the last time in 2021. The sun groaning low to the horizon, daylight pooling at its ankles, almost fully undressed by the approaching solstice. I watched the grid, familiar faces, friends and poets. And so, at first, I did not understand what I was hearing. The white beatnik poet’s discordant protest. As the young Mexican American poet offered her feedback about the insensitive portrayal of Black lives within the piece the woman just read. Another white woman joining in, etching little blind words into her brown skin as if it would not bleed. Censorship! they cried in unison when asked to lay down their sharp tools. How a denial of color snuffed the light from the screen. My heart flew to her but she was alone in her cube, cornered in a geometry of white faces. And when I spoke, it was not enough to speak second, the damage being done. And so I spoke a prayer for the solstice to make its move. The human family has gone as far as we can into darkness. New Year’s Eve // 2021 I hate to say goodbye: father, dog, jasmine nights, birthday parties, lover, indigo shadows and sunlight braided beneath the oak branch that burned. I suppose we all do. How the zero hour is a regret. Which explains the human buffering we’re all up to lately. But we’ve borne too much loss together to pretend to be strangers anymore. I don’t know how long each one of them cried about it or what they learned because they never spoke to us again. I’m sure they did suffer, though, being poets and friends. I would still love to hear that poem. Her tears made a wide green place of this loss. She stood at its center and roared in her quiet way. How a woman becomes a conversation about truth. Her midnight bravery. Because we are never turning back. Midnight // 2022 It is done. The light of the stars is reaching us, after all this time. And they aim to enrapture us. Theirs is a great love, lit millions of years ago and still burning. So great it transcends their own death. They only have one thing to say to us: dust. It is an urgent message. About ourselves. We have been bright for so much longer than we realize. And we are their stories, playing out. It is time to notice this new pattern, emerging, or be left behind. Now our ocean and the white buffalo and the little seedlings are rising. No matter the cost. A season of truth arrives. At first: a howling lament for those who walked before and were cut down. Then: what the heart sings into the smoke of their pyres. Now: the unfurling, quiet as a poet’s daffodil. Sweet and earthly. This change has been happening at the root, longer than fear and its sulphur. It was all unnecessary. It was all inevitable. See the bright we pierce in the velvet dark with our broken—and we are all a little broken, aren’t we?— how the light shines through On this side of the eye is a spectrum New Year // 2022 The moon, half-open, in the morning sky Narcissus lift their fragile white heads to an early spring Rosemary expresses fluoressence in purple Work to be done to clear an honest path for the colors blazing in

I was on my way down the right path after a fork in the road, manzanita lined, wild autumn apples on the ground, dappled horses in the distance, no pain, when a deer faced my body. a look on her face as if to say, “not today human”, not a day to accidentally end a life, not a day to disturb the peace of the precious animal beings. I think to myself, when is the right time to die? After the rest of the loved ones have died? After you’ve found love and said the obligatory I love you and I hate you? When is the right time to say I’m no longer needed? When is the right time to say to the river, I am alright with not seeing you for one more day.
Spending more time alone at home due to sheltering in place (when I’m not working my full-time day job), I’ve spent quite a bit of time on reflection; whether it be about my childhood, my career, my mistakes, my accomplishments, or what offers me the most solace in the midst of a pandemic. I have also spent time reflecting on my life as a writer: considering how my writing has evolved, where I want it to go, and where it is now.
My early memories of poetry include being read nursery rhymes, writing a poem about caribou in the winter around third grade (why caribou? I have no idea), and taking a college English class at age 15 where I learned about Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf for the first time and read books from brilliant writers like Barbara Kingsolver and Gish Jen. Between ages 15 to 17, I was writing regularly and had written an unknown number of poems that typically explored my depression and childhood trauma. I was incredibly shy and rarely shared my poems until I met a local artist who had put out a call for poetry submissions for the Lake County Arts Council’s website. He became one of my first supporters and a mentor of sorts. He started publishing my work regularly on the LCAC website and encouraged me to continue writing.
And this is what I have done. I’ve continued writing year after year, taking some breaks in between when I encountered “writer’s block” or didn’t have the energy to write. But I always come back to it. My writer’s life has mirrored the rest of my life: ups and downs, streams of productivity followed by lulls, people telling me that I’m a great writer and others telling me I am not. There is a sense of resilience and continuity that can be found as a writer if you keep at it and keep working the muscles of memory, of expression. My poetry can be described as lyrical free-verse and it carries my life experiences, my love and respect for nature, my heartaches to name a few. This year I’m mostly working on new poems for my full length manuscript for a book of poems. Some days, especially in the time of COVID-19, I don’t write at all.
This particular time of the coronavirus challenges us to maintain our relationship with our creative lives and it very well could be a time of pause. One may find it hard to write when we’re worried about our health and livelihoods or our families. One of my favorite writers, Nicole Gulotta, recently discussed in her podcast Wild Words how writing is certainly essential but in a way that is different than our basic essential needs. This may very well be a period of time this year where we slow down or even stop writing because we feel exhausted, we don’t have the energy or the motivation, or we just don’t feel like it. All of this is okay and I would even say that it is certainly a part of living a writer’s life.
When I find myself in this kind of headspace, I like to make sure my life is still surrounded by writing even if I am not writing myself. I’ll try to be aware of my comfortable pace of daily doings and writings but not set any firm expectations. I may choose not to write on any given day but I’ll still read the work of some of my favorite poets or new writers I’ve come across. I’ll make note of any ideas or poetic lines that strike me in any given moment and save them to come back to later.
It’s a particularly good time to think about your own writing, where you are in your own writing life, or where you want to be. I’d love to hear from other writers about where you are in your writing life.
I leave you with a quote from one of my favorite poets:
“Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
-Mary Oliver
It hit all at once. You know, the moments in life that are real. Not just real, but most real. That’s what it was like when I first met Georgina, a poet and artist.
“I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all day today,” I said as my husband David and I shook her hand, then found our chairs in a quieter than normal restaurant on a late Monday evening.
“I have, too,” she replied warmly. Her presence invited me, soothed me. She seemed larger than life.
David didn’t waste any time. As we settled in our seats, he asked, “Did you bring any of your poetry with you?”
Georgina’s etched smile broadened. “Yes.” Her dark brown eyes lit up like warm coals. “I brought one with me.” She leaned over, reaching deep into her purse and came back up with a chapbook in her hand. Black, hand-tied, with an image of Clearlake in fog, it glowed on the table. David immediately flipped it open and began reading, so I chatted with Georgina–about herself, where she grew up in Napa County, and what she does in the real world when she’s not writing. I couldn’t get over her larger than life presence and knew I was in for a real treat. Her voice soothed me as much as her presence. At that moment I realized David and I were the luckiest people in the world getting to meet people like Georgina because we had to, you know, for the paper.
After a minute, David handed the chapbook to me and I flipped it open. Her words danced off the pages into my imagination as beautiful poetry does.
The images still lingered, taking shape and texture in my mind. I love the power of words, the various combination of letters that bring meaning, life, and imagination. Funny thing, words are. Words bring us information and knowledge. They are not fixed like mathematics or science. They have the power to pull emotions buried in the deepest parts of our soul and humanity. They can move, empower, motivate and liberate the reader from the inside as only spells and magic can. As David and Georgina talked, I was spellbound, lost somewhere deep in the depths of a poem. Then the food came. Jenny, our friend and owner of the restaurant we were meeting in, greeted us.
“I wanted you to try out my new sauce. Tell me what you think.” Two pasta dishes presented themselves to us. The three of us enjoyed a new presence to our company, that of comforting food. We smiled and thanked Jenny before she left, and as we were brought back to reality, I noticed the trees outside our window swaying in the warm spring breeze.
“Poetry is art,” I said.
“My friend tells me the same thing,” Georgina continued our conversation. “She says, ‘Poetry is like verbal painting.’” She had found the words hidden in the cracks of my mind. The moment lingered, like her poetry. Something compelled me; I needed to know more about this artist. “What else do you do when you’re not working or writing?” I asked.
“I believe in causes,” she said. “I feel like I’m in touch with low-income families, working for the WIC program (Women, Infant, and Children). There’s a lot of poverty, and I want to make a difference both in my job and in my spare time.” Georgina thought for a second. “I don’t think people realize how hard it is to do the most basic things when you don’t have what most of us take for granted, like a car. And babies are so expensive just to feed.” Her passion ran through her words. “I feel like poetry is an outlet for me, a break from reality and the issues I face daily,” she continued. “A way for me to express myself and what I am feeling.”
“It’s very personal, too,” David interjected. “It reveals the deepest parts of your soul. And that hurts.”
Georgina laughed in agreement. “Yeah, I have some deeper work you’ll read towards the back of the book,” she said, pulling back her black hair from her face, revealing her seashell earrings. She took another bite of pasta, now cooler than before. Her peach-colored sweater brought out the highlights of her high cheekbones. And without saying another word, there was a deeper understanding and respect for the personal that we would read later.
“So, what do you think?” asked Jenny, pulling us back to reality. The distant chatter of the few voices from the bar crept back into our consciousness like a gentle breeze.
“It’s wonderful,” I said. “It’s lighter than most white sauces. How did you do it?”
“Oh good, I didn’t want it to be too heavy, even though there is heavy cream in it,” explained Jenny.
“It’s perfect,” smiled Georgina, taking another bite. Jenny disappeared, leaving us once again to dance with Georgina’s words. I skimmed another part of a poem before setting it down for good, knowing it required a quieter time to allow me to immerse myself and let it envelop me. We talked more about causes and cares we had in common; we shared about how to make the world a better place and somewhere that we can all enjoy together. The evening dusk had slid into darkness, gently whispering that our time together had neared an end. As we parted ways, I thanked her for her time, holding a piece of her soul in my hands in the form of a chapbook. “I will be reading all of this when I have uninterrupted time to give it my full attention,” I promised as we parted ways.
Later that evening, after attending to our kids, I eagerly drew a bath for myself. As I settled into its warmth, I looked again at the cover of Georgina’s chapbook. “Finding the Roots of Water,” it said. I flipped it open, and once again I was gone, swept away as the waves of her words washed over me. A tear rolled down my cheek; my throat swelled as I read the deepest parts of her being that she so bravely put into words. And as I read, my soul’s own words joined with hers, dancing in my mind, not caring if they ever found their way to paper. I smiled as they wove like waves on a beach; I allowed my tears to blend with the waves while they washed my soul and swept me away into their world.
“That’s what good poetry does,” David later said to me as his tears fell and blended with the waves of his own soul. “it pulls your soul open.”
You can purchase Georgina’s chapbook at the MAC in Middletown.
This article first appeared in The Bloom on May 31, 2019.
When the rabbits appeared in the tapestry,
I knew he had come to visit.
I tore their prints and patched them
onto paper.
Ode to honoring love lost.
Before he died he chased a jackrabbit.
Not one ounce of care in the world,
only concern for sinking his teeth into fresh fur,
for running away from me and into the woods.
That wild son.
Since he died, I haven’t gone to the woods.
Maybe I’d find him there
with a collection of fur from small animals
and his sweet canine soul living amongst the blue, soft soil.
My love for him a constant wind, keeping him warm at night.
When he found out I fell in love with peach tulips,
he sent them to me.
Wrapped in burlap with other farm flowers
because I asked for them.
Don’t ask for love.
Ever.
You shouldn’t have to.
He didn’t know this.
I didn’t know this,
yet.
Because of this they made me sick for years,
never seeing them the same way.
No, never seeing their simple charm,
delicate like choices,
sincere like change.
Maybe that’s why.
Maybe they were never peach or pink but alarmingly clear.
In a way they telepathically tell you
about the things you need to change
or steer clear of.
The things you need to love
more than people.
There is no him now.
So if I happen to walk by tulips
they smile.
I pick them for myself and keep them in milk jars.
I don’t ask anyone for them.
I just need to know they’re there
when I need a little reassurance.
I need to do these acts
to elicit tiny responses of romance
when the dark days find me alone
in a house with only dogs and silver spoons.
Spoons to scoop cups full of reminders
of how love
can be cold mornings
with only one human body in bed
and a hundred pounds of dog body
taking up the rest of the covers.
It becomes apparent
when my feet touch the cold floor
for the first time each morning,
before tending my own wounds
with lavender and oats
and the occasional kiss from my old cat,
that this kind of love
is what makes me significant.
Wake up, see the day,
know it is there.
Drink rose tea.
Remember the one you love has died.
Proceed to crumbling on the bedroom floor.
Remember the world is alive.
Pick yourself up from the bedroom floor.
Drag yourself outside.
Stare at the moon.
Walk through mud.
Remember the last time you found yourself
knee deep in mud
with your sister laughing hysterically
as you drowned in solid matter.
Remember she isn’t here anymore.
Find yourself on the ground
weeping into the Earth.
Repeat 800 times until you encounter a day
where the pain doesn’t feel physical.
That day never comes.
So the days are comforted with books,
with bird watching out of your bedroom window
where the oak trees open their long, pure of heart arms
to all species
and to you as a witness.
Attempt to make yourself nourishing meals.
Attempt to fall in love with the world again.
Attempt to resist the sensation that all of your bones
have shattered and now reside in your heart,
hard and bitter.
Acknowledge that if you don’t survive this,
you will still have lived through the fuchsia petals of poetry
because once you are written down
you can’t be rescinded.
Be comforted with the fact that the warm fur
of your canine companion is tear resistant,
that it will never turn away from your soaking wet of despair.
Remember, when the silver survival of another day
has coated the cracks in your body,
asks for your hand,
politely begs you to make it to another day
say yes
say yes.


