I am a bit behind so decided to share three poems I wrote more than ten years ago about my favorite animal obsession, pumas. These poems were first published in my poetry memoir, On the Rim of Wonder, which is available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
I
My neighbor walked out her door
found a puma lying in the lawn.
Puma rose, stretched, disappeared.
At night when I open my gate
I wonder if she lurks
behind the cedar trees,
Pounce ready.
My daughter dreams puma dreams:
a puma chases her up a tree.
There are no trees here big enough to climb.
A Zuni puma fetish guards my sleep.
I run with puma
Night wild
Free.
I scream and howl
Moonstruck
Bloodborn.
I hike the canyon,
stroll around my house,
look for puma tracks.
I see none.
I would rather die by puma
than in a car wreck.
II
I watch for eyes, blue changing to amber and back.
I put my palm, fingers stretched to measure, into the footprint.
Too small, bobcat.
No puma.
My thin body squeezes between the rocks,
climbing quietly down the cliff.
Watching, listening, searching.
No puma.
Pale amber rushes across my vision line.
My heart quakes.
I watch; I wait.
It is Isabella, a golden whir chasing rabbits.
No puma.
At sunrise, I walk the rim,
watching.
At sunset, I walk the rim,
waiting.
At night, I walk the rim,
dreaming.
No puma, not yet.
III
I want
to walk
with you
in my dreams
scream your screams
feel your blood
rushing
your heartbeat
mine
soft golden fur
wound in my hair
your amber eyes
glowing
through my brown
death defying
together walking
moonlit
wild
free
Note: My puma obsession continues. This painting and several others of pumas hang in my house. I now have two puma Zuni fetishes. I hike in the mountains hoping to see one in the wild.
If you have ever felt enchanted by a trip to Rome, you will find this memoir delightful and informative. It made me want to return just to stay a while, wander around, visit the more obscure places Doerr describes, people watch, eat, and drink local wine.
In 2007, Anthony Doerr, the 2015 Pulitzer Price Winner, won the Rome Prize to become a fellow at the American Academy in Rome. He and his wife, Shauna, moved to Rome with their newborn twins, Owen and Henry. This memoir memorializes the four seasons they spent living there. They learn to care for babies; wander throughout Rome visiting tourist sites, local restaurants, the butcher, the baker, the toy store; learn enough Italian to acknowledge all the Italians who stop to admire the babies; and attend the vigil for the dying Pope John Paul II.
While there intending to write his later novel (the one that eventually won the Pulitzer) and failing to do so, he does manage to write a short story which I have read in one of his collections and to read everything by Pliny the Elder. His discussions about his readings makes me want to read some of Pliny the Elder myself. As in his short stories and novels, Doerr’s descriptions, language, and observations delight and enchant. This is a wondrous book about one of the world’s oldest and most fascinating cities which he calls, “a Metropolitan Museum of Art the size of Manhattan with no roof, no display cases…
“She was Christian but American Christian, the kind that believed Jesus just needed a bigger gun”–part of the description of the main character’s rich, not dentist mom rich but oil, trust fund rich, blue-eyed, blond girlfriend. Cyrus, the main character is an Iranian American whose father immigrated to the US when Cyrus was a baby after Cyrus’ mom was killed when the US shot down an Iranian passenger plane thinking it was a bomber (July 1988). His dad acquires a job at a Midwestern chicken farm, counting eggs, but special eggs. This farm breeds chickens to grow faster to get to market faster. He works six days a week, long hours, until Cyrus, who excelled in elementary and high school, becomes a sophomore in college. Suddenly, his dad dies.
Cyrus becomes an addict using alcohol and drugs and writes poetry and eventually finishes college. He becomes obsessed with and researches martyrs throughout history–people like Hypatia of Alexandria, Bhagat Singh, Emily Wilding Davison, the Soulit Women. He gets sober and obsessed with his own past. This eventually leads him to travel to Brooklyn to talk to a famous artist whose last exhibit is herself talking to visitors as she dies of cancer. In researching this woman’s paintings, he discovers a strange painting of a young man dressed as an angel whose job as a soldier is to ride at night with a flashlight through the fields of the dead and dying Iranian soldiers consoling them during the Iran/Iraq War. Cyrus knows that his mom’s brother had this actual job during that war and wonders can there be a possible the connection.
Throughout these events the reader is lead to not only explore Cyrus’ thoughts and beliefs but also those of his father, mother, uncle, and best friend, Zee. It is rare for a novel to be both heart wrenching and funny. Akbar accomplishes this task. One moment I found myself laughing out loud and the next almost in tears. I could not stop reading even though the paperback is long. Perhaps my knowing something about Iranian culture, food, etc. helped me appreciate some of the book more than I might have otherwise. Nevertheless, this is a universal story about love, discovering oneself, relationships, parenthood, human nature. It is definitely worth taking the time to read.
While his previous novel, Book Seven for the year, focused on map making, what it is like to be a refugee, and the stories of two, strong girls centuries apart, one of this novel’s main focus is birds. One narrator, at first no name and then later Nadir, relates part of the novel. His mother was an ornithologist who died in a tragic fire. Her ghost often speaks to him. The other main character, Laila, was a famous artist, an illustrator and painter of birds who mysteriously disappeared decades ago. She and a Black ornithologist insisted they had seen a new species of ibis, and she is supposed to have made drawings and paintings of this rare bird but all evidence disappeared with her.
This is also the story of various non-cisgender characters, some of whom hid their true identities from even those closest to them. Additionally, it is the tale of the lives of Syrian Americans in a NYC neighborhood, plus its destruction and renewal. As in his previous novel, the language and descriptions are poetic, often haunting, and sometimes heartbreaking. It also illustrates how our lives are often interrelated even when we are unaware, only to be discovered after years of searching.
I am guessing that the novel is at least somewhat autobiographical given that Nadir, born a girl, knows inside that he is really a boy. Between this novel and the first one, the author transitions from female to male.
Both books are beautifully written and I highly recommend reading them.
Two young heroines dominate this fascinating novel which switches back and forth between the Syria of 2011 and the 12th century. The latter is a girl who disguises herself as a boy to join the quest of a famous mapmaker. Nour, the first girl, lost her father to cancer in NYC. Then her mother, a mapmaker, decides to move herself and the three daughters back to Homs, Syria. They barely settle into their new life when the civil war breaks out and a bomb destroys their house. They become refugees. This is the tale of their harrowing journey from Syria to Jordan to Egypt to Libya to Algeria, then Morocco and finally to Cuenta, the Spainish city on the north coast of Africa, where their uncle lives.
To keep sane, Nour repeatedly tells herself the story of Rawiya, the disguised girl who is an apprentice to the map maker. When he was alive, this was the favorite traditional story her father told her. The book alternates between what is really occurring to Nour and her refugee family and this ancient story. At the beginning of the section for each country through which they travel, there is a touching and beautifully written poem in the shape of the map of that country. The poem for Jordan/Egypt is printed below.
writingontherim 