Tag: Family

Michelle Reads Poems—A Little Podcast Thing

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

In honor of National Poetry Writing Month, I started a podcast.

This is, in part, the fault of Natalie Goldberg, who insists on the importance of reading our work aloud to someone. The trouble is, I don’t have any poetry lovers in my house, and when I start talking poetry, they all pretty much… zzzzzz.

So I decided to bring my poetry—along with a bit of classic poetry—to the world via a podcast, because the world clearly does not have enough podcasts yet.

For now, it’s very simple: just me, in a quiet room, reading three of my own poems and one classic poem, all organized around a theme.

In the future, I’d love for this to grow into something a little larger—something like an audio literary journal featuring contemporary voices from all walks of life. A place for fresh, energetic poetry that may not exactly fit the shape and size currently being allowed through the literary gates.

The first episode’s theme is family, and includes three of my poems—Ophelia’s Opal, My Mother’s Attempted Slow Death by Refusing to Eat, and Easter Portrait—along with “The Children’s Hour” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Please forgive the occasional blips as I start and stop. Me in a quiet room reading poetry is still getting the hang of this thing.

You can listen right here, or on Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

If you’d like to share your poetry for possible inclusion in a future episode, you can send it to: MichelleReadsPoems@gmail.com

Until next episode… Happy Poet-ing!
-Michelle

It Grows and Grows

~ M. Ashley ~ Leave a comment

Talk about disease.

It puts me ill at ease when my mom starts talking about my grandparents’ cancer—how they were dying at the same time, in hospital rooms next to each other. Lung cancer.

They smoked together. I’m sure he lit her cigarettes when they were dating. A sexy gesture. A sexy pull. Firsthand smoke to firsthand smoke. Breathing in each other’s breaths. Secondhand to secondhand. Thirdhand smoke in each other’s clothes. They breathed it in when they were dancing close.

Thirdhand smoke in their clothes still, even their clean clothes that my mother had to divvy up amongst relatives or donate after they passed. You never really can get rid of the smoke, the breath, the illness, the cancer. It grows and grows.

My mother’s marriage was falling apart as her parents were dying. My father was useless.

One day, after having worked a full day and spending most of the evening sitting at her parents’ bedsides, my mom came home to find that my father had put my sister and I to bed in our day clothes. She tells me he didn’t even bother to take our shoes off. That’s the part she couldn’t get over.

Unemployed and couldn’t be bothered to take our shoes off.

Unemployed and he would do the laundry at three in the morning with all the lights on in the house and Hank Williams roaring from the record player.

She wasn’t spending her evenings with him. He couldn’t throw a toddler’s tantrum, so he chose Hank Williams instead and, “You did say you wanted me to do the laundry, didn’t you?”

The cancer grew and grew.

My grandparents died and my mom got a divorce in the same year.

I once asked my mom if she was glad my grandparents weren’t around to see her get divorced. I asked her if there was some relief in it for her—in their passing. I don’t remember how she answered. I know she spoke, but all I really remember is the silence while she thought about it.

-M.