Nostalgia

April 1, 2024 / Juliana Lightle / 1 Comment

Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. I am committing myself to write a poem a day. Here is the first one for the month.

Easter yesterday made me sad,

remembering children, grandson,

egg dying, egg hunting, family

together, laughter, joy.

Found photos of my family,

I, a child, dressed in Easter finery,

a family tradition. Dad bought us

corsages to wear every Easter,

pretty dresses in spring colors–

my favorite a pink dress trimmed

in scarlet, a unique combination

explained why I liked it so much,

felt special wearing it.

Today I wear pink and orange

together, admire the deep purple

and red bougainvillea, scarlet rosebuds,

snowy freeway daisies,

shining in the sun and wonder

will I live long enough to teach

a great grandchild to color

Easter eggs.

Sunday Sunshine

March 10, 2024 / Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

emerald hills

snow-capped mountains

Sunday sunshine

Eye Drama

February 20, 2024 / Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

Kohl

Kajal

Sormeh

Mebari

Ancient names for eyeliner

still in use today.

Kohl-Arabic

Kajal-South Asian

Ithmid-the purest kohl

made from galena

Surma-powered kohl in Urdu, Bengali

Sormeh-loose power preferred by Persians

Tiro-Nigerian

Mebari-red eyeliner, Japanese

Nefertiti used it.

Today the Worso and Wodaabe

African men use it.

Where women must veil themselves

the eyes are everything.

Bedouins use it for protection

from the desert sun.

In defiance find Cat Eyes

in Chola culture.

In Kerala Kathakali

dancers use it.

Geishas in Kyoto use red.

Find influencers on TikTok

Instragram, they will

teach you how.

Note: The above poem was inspired by my most recent read:

“Eyeliner A Cultural History”, Zahra Hankir. Hankir is a Lebanese journalist whose history of eyeliner throughout the world informs the reader about places and people and customs many never heard of or know about.

One Book a Week-51: “The Watch”, Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

December 6, 2023 / Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

I could not stop reading this book. The setting is a US military outpost during the Afghan war in the middle of nowhere in the mountains of Kandahar. The weather is brutal–extremes of cold and heat, sand storms, heavy fog early in the mornings. Suddenly, after a brutal battle where they lose some soldiers, a young Afghan woman, Antigone, with stumps for legs shows up pulling a cart. Her brother, who the soldiers think was part of the Taliban, was killed in the battle; she wants her brother’s body for a proper Muslim burial. The soldiers do not know whether she is who she says she is or a suicide bomber. It confuses them even more when she plays hauntingly beautiful music on her rubab every night. All this leads to a lot of confusion over and raises many questions about morality and duty. Each chapter is from a different viewpoint, the young woman and various soldiers in the outpost.

Note: The rubab is a traditional Pashtun 12 string guitar-like instrument. You can find recordings on YouTube.

Mother’s Roses

September 28, 2023 / Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

roses, lush

pink, red, coral

roses floating in crystal bowls

remind me of my mother

her rose garden by the barn

summer roses on her kitchen table

National Poetry Month-2: Butter Love

April 12, 2023 / Juliana Lightle / Leave a comment

Is it inherited?

Six year old me watched Grandmother

look around, take silver knife, cut into pale

yellow rectangular prism, plop a chunk into

her mouth, close her eyes,

smile.

In Aunt Julia’s presence, this never occurred,

Was it our shared secret,

Grandmother and me?

Yesterday, I told the cafeteria lady,

“Please bring me biscuits, extra butter.”

Less courageous than Grandmother,

I use blue corn pancakes, homemade bread, pasta,

excuses to eat butter, lots of golden, melted

butter.

Who eats butter on conchiglie?

I do, scooping out a tablespoon

from the butter bowl, watch it melt

in hot, drained Italian pasta from a

six-hundred-year-old monastery,

sprinkle on some sea salt, plop

a spoonful in my mouth, close my eyes,

smile.

Note: This poem is published in my book “You’re Gonna Eat That? Adventures with Food, Family, and Friends”. My grandmother, Mom’s mom, rarely smiled. When Mom went to the hospital to have my sister, the family story is that Grandmother fed me so many bread, butter, and sugar sandwiches, I became fat. I was two. I remember a mint patch in her backyard. She’d gather mint, boil water, and make mint tea with cream and sugar. I liked it. When Aunt Julia traveled out of town, I remember seeing Grandmother eat butter and smile. This is Grandmother’s wedding photo.