Marianne Betterly

Oct 13, 2007 was a warm night in the Mission District. The lit-crawl lasted from 6 until 9. Hundreds of writers, poets and lovers of the word, spoken and written, roamed Valencia Street with maps looking for Ritual Roaster or New College Creamery, the Makeout Room or the Marsh where over 200 authors were reading poems or short exerpts from novels, short stories. Since I am one of the authors of the newly published ‘Hot Flashes 2, more sexy little stories‘, I read a few poems in the front window of Lost Weekend Video to a small crowd. The air was electric, full of expectation. My voice carried over the rustling of people, cars and buses as I read this poem to a mostly tattooed crowd:

my scars are my tattoos

I wear my knife wounds,
straight lines on belly
and arm,
permanent medals
of victory over death

some ink their necks and arms
with kanji or tibetan words
for dharma or hell
my arms are white
flecked with freckles,
a mole or two

my scars are my tattoos

some lips are lined
with eternal pink,
brows tattooed
into thin black line

I want to remove all patterns
and dots from my body,
erase spots from skin
pray for purity

I want to be blindingly white
not a trace
or footstep marking time

my scars are my tattoos

why ink your skin
with name, face or fleur,
a constant memory –
maybe you want to forget

I don’t want tattoos;
needled reminders
of passing passion

your smile is
embedded
on my wall of faces
no tattoo could ever
replace

my scars are my tattoos

I’m back in the maze of cubicles…working for corporate USA once again. I plan to write on a weekly basis if time permits. I’ll add pix, video, poetry and more as I get back into the daily rhythm of BART rides, SF streets, people, new tastes, smells and living in the Matrix. I actually like to plugin to corporate USA, feel the pulse of immediate deliverables, meetings, conference calls, spreadsheets. They even have Peets coffee there. My only regret is that it sucks out so much of the day, I’m often too tired to boot my laptop, no less have a coherent thought to write. So I’ll try for weekend journaling.

Here’s a poem written during my 8 month sabbatical -

Orchid Time

my orchids listen
as I breathe the chill
of Bay fog,
exhaling sighs
for lost loves,
prayers for patience

a flower bud
slowly grows
from tiny speck
to size of a pea,
days pass,
becoming
pale green
robin’s egg;
a week now,
soft petals emerge,
moth wings,
surrounding pink and green
petal face,
joining cluster of mouths
sending smiles
to the world

their quiet beauty
fills my room whispering
inhale,
exhale,
drink the white sky,
warm to sudden sun
and rest in shadows,
change will come

in orchid time

I went to The Crucible in Oakland on Friday night, July 12, for their annual fire show that includes kinetic fire sculpture, music, fire dancers, and more. The theme this year was the Fire Odyssey, complete with a 15 foot Cyclops, the enchanting, seductive Sirens and an operatic Penelope all surrounded in flame. I shot some video of the fire pendulum and a fire dragon protecting her egg.

Here’s a fire poem I wrote not too long ago…

Fire

fire sounds like wind
licking wood and air
popping
Chinese firecrackers
Year of the Dog
howling
in my living room
begging for my attention
demanding
that I keep watch,
feeding almond logs and twigs,
poking house of flame
with iron stick
and if I turn my head
fire spits
a snake hiss warning
and smoke fills the room.

Finally wall of fire is tamed,
contained behind metal mesh
as I stand before hypnotic heat,
he warms my fingertips and face,
injects my lips with cayenne,
radiates my blood
with his fire breath,
blowing heat rays
into cool underside
of my pale feet
warming them
until toenails
turn scarlet
and the only
color I see is
red