Photos of Mom and me with our children

My Recital At Temple Square, Sept.14, 1990, To The Children, by Rachmaninoff, Jeffrey Price, piano

Coulrophobia*

I don't remember why I chose to draw a clown.
Probably because I don't know how to draw mouths
and make-up covers up a lot
for clowns and others.
 I have no fear of clowns,
only the fear of being left at home
while everyone else goes to the circus.

pastel by Kathryn Schoenhals (Feigal), 1964,

clown copied from 'Painting Faces' art book

*Coulrophobia, the fear of clowns

Haunted By Hope

She appeared as religious

as girls got in that city,

fresh, hopeful;

the requisite pose of

paralyzed glee.

Had she wanted more

and pretended less,

her jewelry

would have been

different.

But she chose 'the right'

and wore the ring

and oh my, yes,

she felt the spirit.

It filled her

with sacred whimsy

and tempting tales

of indecent promise.

On account of love

she banked on limited trust

and withdrew

her sense

of balance.

With the truth

varnished

and reality disordered,

she assumed the pose

of one who is

haunted by hope.

© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Green Lake

Bark beetles derange the Elms,

Thickening the path with leaf rot.

Naked limbs of Ash, stripped by downy mildew,

tap coded insults

on the cottage roof.

Inside, albino spiders

sentry the walls

with mazes of webs.

Here, miles from Wayzata,

we make love on the bed you have loved on before.

We sleep

and in your dream

she walks the beach,

tempting the tide to take her.

billowing with a passion

that is not her own,

she becomes the wave,

surging

through the engorged channel

toward the cabin,

teasing,

licking the edges,

nipping the trusses.

When we wake,

the air is dank

with her name.

It seeps between the eaves,

through the floorboards,

driving us outside.

It is too cold to swim

and every direction we walk,

the wind is against us.

In another place,

the day will be warm

and the evening full.

We will have cool drinks

and sit on a porch

listening to crickets, who,

only when the heat

is most intense,

sing of love.
© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

I studied poetry with Mark Strand at the University of Utah. This is one of the poems I wrote in his workshop.
(see some of his poetry here)

Mark Strand was born in Summerside, Prince Edward Island, Canada. His collections of poems include: Dark Harbor (1993), The Continuous Life (1990), Selected Poems (1980), The Late Hour (1978), The Story of our Lives (1973), The Sargentville Notebook (1973), Darker (1970), Reasons For Moving (1968), and Sleeping With One Eye Open (1964). He has also published a book of prose, entitled The Monument (1978). His books on artists include William Bailey (1987) and Hopper (1994). His translations include two volumes of the poems of Carlos Drummond de Andrade. He has also published three books for children. He has been the recipient of Fellowships from the Ingram Merrill, Rockefeller, and Guggenheim Foundations and from the National Endowment for the Arts. He has been awarded the Fellowship of the Academy of American Poets (1979), a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation Award (1987), the Bollingen Prize (1993), and has served as Poet Laureate of the United States (1990). He is currently the Elliott Coleman Professor of Poetry in the Writing Seminars at the Johns Hopkins.

(translation into German from an earlier draft)

Grün See

Du bringst mir zu Grün See,

wo du in frührern Sommern

mit eine andern Frau gewohnt hast.

Der dunkele Himmel liegt schwer auf uns

wie eine muffige Wolldecke

bedeckt mit Hülse vergangenen Lebens.

Borkekäferen zerrütten die Ulme

und Netzen von Blattfäulnis,

den Weg verdickend.

Auf dem Hüttendach, klopfen Nackte Lindenäste

ihre Beleidigungen heraus.

Drinnen, albino Spinnen mit labyrinthischen Geweben,

bewachen die Wände.

Hier, Meilen von der Welt entfernt,

erfüllten wir die gegenseitige Sehnsucht

an dem selben Bett,

wo du mit ihr gelegen hattest.

In deinem Schlaf,

schlendert sie den Strand entlang,

und fordernt die Wellen,

sie hinunter zu ziehen.

Mit fremder wogender Leidenschaft

verwandelte sie sich

in eine Mächtige Welle.

Die Welle Wälzt ihre Fluten dir zu,

wo du liegst, voller Sehnsuchts

um ein Überfluss Wasser.

Die kursierte durch deinen Leib

erreichte die Hütte beleckend

die Klinke versuchend.

Als wir aufwachen hat sich

der Himmel seine Enttäuschung entladen,

und der See murmelt seufzend.

Zum Schwimmen ist's zu kalt

und in jeder Richtung ist

der Wind gagen uns.

Ich verlange von der Luft,

sich zu verzehren

verbrannt zu werden.

Ich will, dass die Liebesperlen meine Wunde heilen.

In noch einem Ort, zu noch einer Zeit 

wird der Tag bequem sein

und der Abend befriedigend.

Wir werden kühle Getränke schlürfen

und an die Veranda sitzen,

die Grille zu hören

als sie in der wärmende Luft

von Liebe singen.
© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved. 

Pencil Sketches

David


"I sung that song with all my soul
and everybody were emotionated"
Enrico Caruso

Unsent Note To Sister/Friend

Unsent Note To Sister/Friend

Are you delight-prone or accident-prone?

When you play your tunes, is it music to wallow to

on the uneasy listening station?

Do you miss the whole show

waiting to see who gets credit?

Did you name your closet, "The Holder of The Unworn?”

or "Things I Meant To Do Where I Could Wear These Clothes?"

Have you rigged your mind with explosives

of what might happen?

Are you the cold snap that changes summer to fall?

Did menstruation and childbirth teach you

to regard suffering as "natural?"

Do you live a hazardously wasteful life

trying to avoid pain?

I want to fashion a sweatshirt for you,

that has a burden-carrier stitched to the back,

a heart sewn on the sleeve,

a wheel rigged right to the shoulder,

and a big braided knot in the stomach.

Under it, I want you to wear an Ego Bustier,

to lift you up out of your mantle of despair,

into the bloom of boldness.

We are beautiful and complex as we age,

savvy to the unrealistic expectations and insecurities

that haunted us in our younger years.

We know that for a mother, we were given melancholy,

for a father we were handed absence.

They taught us (apparently) by parenthetical expressions –

tightly held brackets

inserted with slogans to live by.

They confined us faceless in a mirrored house 

where our imaginary friends: Pretend and Denial

taught us a game of excuses

called survival.

There is no assurance of ANYTHING.

There is no security even in nature.

Avoiding pain is no safer than running directly into exposure.

Life is a chocolate mess.

Let’s eat.

© 2009 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.