Author: Laura M Kaminski

Laura M Kaminski (Halima Ayuba) grew up in Nigeria, went to school in New Orleans, and currently lives in Missouri. She serves on the editorial teams of Praxis Magazine Online (Nigeria) and Right Hand Pointing (USA). Her most recent poetry collection is Anchorhold, and The Heretic's Hymnal: 99 New and Selected Poems, is forthcoming from Babylon Books / Balkan Press in 2018. More about her poetry is available at arkofidentity.wordpress.com.
Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Morning Shadows

The morning porch — mine has no railing
beyond the stems of dandelion, red
and purple clover standing too close
to the concrete to be eaten by the mower.

When the first full burst of light arrives,
sun escapes the tangled brush around
the creek and crests the gambrel
of the barn, these wildflowers cast dark

shadows, charcoal against light gray.
I twist the lid from the small jar of water
that lives beneath the window, reach
for the fine-tip paintbrush on the sill,

begin to fill the silhouettes with water.
I work quickly, make dark marks with this
clear ink. By the time I’ve water-painted
a meter stretch of wildflowers, the sun

has risen further, added another tier to our
collaborative design. Occasional butterflies
alight, stop and sip damp clover before
the shadow blossoms vanish from the sundial.


In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Observer’s Credo

Defining ecopoetry, I would begin as follows, defining not in terms of form but as an observer’s credo:

To say that I am an observer, a participant, not the end of a process of design but merely a momentary slice of time that’s wearing skin—

to begin at the assumption that I am no more important to the cosmos than a tube worm or a wood duck—

to derive my understanding of myself from what I observe and experience in the world around me, rather than to derive my understanding of the world around me from what I observe and experience in myself.

To say that a poem about the little woodswallow of Australia—one that documents and calls attention to its habitat, behavior, and appearance, gives the reader a nonfiction introduction—is of more value and significance than a poem about my own hopes or fears or discomforts, successes or failures.

To suspect the horse “knows” more about grass than I do,

to recognize that the dog’s capacity to read history and news about what’s happening now and has happened here is more developed than mine, that she has skills and information available to her that I do not.

To wonder about the decline of the golden-winged warbler, wonder how much is due to human-induced loss of habitat, how much to interbreeding with blue-winged warblers—

to learn all I can and know that I do not know—

I do not know if the interbreeding is preparatory to better traits to survive weather and environment shifts, or preparatory to extinction.

To acknowledge not-knowing,

to try to create as little disturbance as possible,

to understand more.

To view the human species as one of many,

to acknowledge that, to a greater extent than any other species, our waste products are more often toxins than nutrients, that we can rank ourselves “above” other species only in this: we are the most venomous and deadly, taking as our prey, unthinkingly and unknowingly, everything within our reach.

To recognize that, as a member of this species, I am probably a sociopath by both nature and nurture.


In response to Dave Bonta’s “Statement of Ecopoetics” and the resulting Facebook discussion.

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Coming to my senses

Moonlight reflects
from snow-encrusted surfaces,
bounces a single
immense shadow
up to the side of the barn.

I watch the moving silhouette
of some large owl, species
uncertain, but make simple
identification from the turret-
turning of its head.

It bends low over
the snow, listening to something
there beneath. I hold
my breath, as if I too might
hear it, some small thing

tunneling invisibly
between the smothered
blades of grass. I hold
my breath, I am become
like owl, a hunger

and this listening
is all there is.


In response to/inspired by Dave Bonta’s “Early” and Luisa A. Igloria’s “Landmarks.”

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Opening

Mortality estimate, life expectancy the sand,
invisible hourglass handed over by a doctor

(this once, not wearing gloves), little bottle,
prescription of one day a day, no refills.

Hand grenade. An empty urn that has been
pre-engraved with best-if-used-by date.

An erosion, top to bottom, losing ground.
Used the guess to calculate, translated into

months, counted slowly with a finger, found
the anticipated final square upon the calendar.

Did not share the projection, merely took
red ink and marked a question in the space.

Reluctant to remove the pen, turned that
final point beneath the curving symbol into

a circle, a little window with no shutters
open on unknown.


In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “What could we know” and Dave Bonta’s “Camping.”

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Spanish Lullaby

Small hour of the morning stop, platform
bathed in yellow light and fog, grating
of the wheels on the rail. Luggage bumping

blends with footsteps up the narrow
stairwell of the sleeper, I hear the car
attendant offer extra pillow, bottled water.

Click of luggage latches snapping open breaks
the silence, then a child’s startled wail as
the train begins to move. Discomfited sobbing

settles quickly, soothed by a woman’s gentle
humming. I tiptoe in sock-feet, press my palm
against the thin compartment wall, sit quietly

on the carpet to eavesdrop on this comfort.
As I move my lips to shape the unsung words,
a father’s voice lifts, whispering soft tenor:

este niño lindo / ya quiere dormir / háganle la cuna
de rosa y jazmín / háganle la cama

this lovely child / wants to sleep / make him a cradle
of rose and jasmine / make him a bed

—Laura M Kaminski
12 07 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Poem with a line from Ilya Kaminsky,” ending with lines from “Arrorró mi niño.”

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Manifestation

we face the calendar, pen in hand, readily ink
in our presumptions, as if each day’s a caravan
each hour a beast of burden to be packed with
actions and commitments, so much baggage

we try to carry on the journey, much of it
just legacy, souvenirs of habit, but we stay
too busy to take the picnic-stop, savor
the small treasures we have gathered

reaching end of day with marked-up manifest,
a cargo checklist of what’s been accomplished,
what’s deferred, this only leaves the hours
hungry, exhausted, weak, unable to bear more

so as again we’re planning, filling saddle-bags
securing bundles, this time let’s slow a bit, discard
a few things we no longer need, let go those items
whose purposes we’ve outgrown or forgotten

and when we rearrange what’s left
after this lightening, leave two of these hours
free of other baggage, open and available
for guests:

one camel for wonder,
one pony for joy

—Laura M Kaminski
12 06 2014
In response to/inspired by the last line of Dave Bonta’s “Broadcast.”

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Found

I didn’t expect to be seen by anyone,
caught down by the creek, damp
and muddy knees before the dawn,

sleeves shoved up above my elbows,
both hands plunged beneath, fingers
raking sediment below the eddies —

I could offer some excuse, tell you
my wedding ring was loose upon my
finger, slipped into the water, and I’m

dredging for loop of silver, small
missing symbol of all that matters —
but that would not be the truth.

Truth is I only came to listen,
a pre-dawn prayer that’s less an act
of asking, more of waiting

for some sense of direction to reveal
itself, burn off the fog, burnish me
with sunlight’s permeating clarity,

but I’m not so good at meditation,
I’m still prone to distraction, and what’s
really happening is just small bliss:

December creek-water, cold
and almost crunchy, floating flecks
of ice that bump and scrape my wrists,

a contrast to the smoothness of stones
beneath my palms, elusive silt between
them velvety, responsive to the touch.

—Laura M Kaminski
12 04 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Process.”

Posted on by Laura M Kaminski

Resynchronization

the house was empty when they woke
the absence a tangible thing, a raw place
where a comfortable companionship

sat content last night between them
borrowing a bit the corner of her afghan,
reading unobtrusively over his shoulder

but it slipped out before the dawn, left
the length of the breakfast table longer,
two glasses of cold orange juice, apart

in silence, they pulled on shoes, light
jackets, went down to the beach, reset
the timing of their heartbeats

to the metronome of breaking waves
returned together to together

—Laura M Kaminski
12 02 2014
in response to/inspired by “Ocean view”