Janet the Writer
Long before Janet picked up a stick of pastel or paint brush, she was a writer. She holds a Master of Arts in English/Creative Writing from the University of Missouri -- Kansas City. Her skills as a writer and communicator allowed her to teach and to work for arts agencies, marketing organizations and newspapers. All the while she continued to write poetry and personal essays. Should you be interested, you can read some of her writing here.
A Conversation with Edward Abbey
I heard about your death
and thought you’d be pleased to know
the news passed
from hiker to hiker
at the bottom of the world
with the roar of Hermit Rapids
in our ears
and the foaming brown Colorado
numbing our blistered feet.
You would have like it too,
I suppose,
that on the way down
the canyon threatened
to consume me,
swallow me into its bedrock
first at Supai
then Red Rock,
Blue Angel
and finally even at the Vishnu Zhist,
but, I think, you’d also like
how I fought back, Abbey,
in spite of unmistakable
profanities hurled at the earth
and tears which evaporated
before they reached the ground.
And you would have answered
my repeated question:
How in the hell am I ever going to get out of here
quite simply.
Don’t, you’d say.
Stay.
Previously published in Earth First! Journal. 1999
The Practice of Marriage
I am only seeking redemption
in the silk of your skin
and the whisper of your breath
against my shoulder.
This life, this love we have
is only a practice
not unlike learning
to play the clarinet,
training our fingers
to fall at the right time
on the right keys and
teaching the tongue
to press the wooden reed
with just the right amount
of tension and moisture
so a song erupts instead of a squawk.
This practice of marriage demands
the discipline of a monk,
the tenacity of a yogi
and the patience of saints.
And we, this silly hopeful pair,
are poorly equipped to live
such an ascetic life, being tethered
to these demanding egos.
Unlike birds who are born
with the tools to fly and sing,
lovers aren’t gifted with
a box full of words and gestures
that will let marriage soar
like ravens on a thermal.
We are earthbound,
chained to rock,
pummeling our heads against sandstone
trying to wear it away
into some form, some beautiful form,
that pleases the eye and the heart.
But we lack the wings and the song,
lack the language of love
that could take us
across a cloudless sky
in a straight line.
And so we stumble,
like ducks stepping
on their own feet,
quacking instead of singing,
flightless, imperfect
but mated for life.
Janet Buckingham, 2016
​
May 28, 2023
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