Spring Cleaning

It was one of the first warm, sunny weekends and my husband Michael got the project bug. So he went into the garden to see what he could do.There was no shortage of possibilities and he settled on taking down some old trellises, planting pansies and petunias, getting rid of old planter pots, cleaning up the green house, and he seemed very happy doing these spring time chores outside. I looked at my closet in our bedroom. It looked like an overstuffed bag, bursting out of the invisible seams of the available space it was violating. It looked ridiculous, time to get this mess cleaned up, no matter how much I enjoy the lived in look. I found things I had forgotten about for many years, as I decided to strip my closet space to the bones, everything out, onto the floor. I found a ton of pictures, going back 20 years, old letters, books, a ton of my son Nicholas' elementary school art projects, and in the midst of all of these sentimental treasures, I found a book of poetry, in French, written by  my maternal grand mother, Agnes Tinel, back in Belgium, in 1909. I found copies of photos of the private East Asian art collection of a German philanthropist, Dr. Kurt Herberts, a very wealthy industrialist and senator, who had an extensive private collection of art, among them also paintings by Frans De Cauter, my mother's oldest brother. I wish I had the book with the pictures and stories behind Dr. Herbert's East Asian art, because I looked at it so many times, and when I saw the photos in the leaflets from the exhibition my father attended, I recognized the glossy brightly colored photocopies like old friends. I found some never used, still in their wrapper oak frames, and carefully measured my favorite pieces from 19th century Japan, and put them in  the frames, dreaming back to the time when looking at those pictures transported a solitary teenager to exotic and romantic places. Where did 40 years go? I was amazed at the intensity of the nostalgia the sight and touch of these art pictures evoked and I smiled gratefully at the memory of my father's passion for art, and how he instilled that curiosity and passion in me. Even though my mother felt superior to my father because of her mother being a Tinel, a name associated with art and creative talent of significance in Belgium, and because her father was a De Cauter, a name at one time associated with wealth, my father was the one who had the knowledge and passion for art and intellectual pursuits of all nature, from history, to literature and photography. Why my mother despised my father and his family so remains a mystery. Her father was raised by his grand parents, because his father had gambled and drank away the family's rather extensive fortune. Any way, my father did a lot to promote my mother's brother's art, and introduced him to Dr. Kurt Herberts and also to Dr. Maurice Boyd, a history professor at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas, who arranged for uncle Frans' paintings to be bought for the permanent exhibition at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort worth, and who wrote a wonderful book on Frans De Cauter's life and art. My parents had hundreds of Frans' paintings, I ended up with three... and the memories of spending time in his art studio when I was 16, where uncle Frans taught me the basics of drawing with pencil and oils. I still remember the wonderful smell of all the paint, and his gracious wife, Ina, who was a marvelous cook. Today it is raining like crazy, and my spanking clean closet feels very satisfying, as do the memories of my father's intellectual astuteness and my uncle Frans' art. I put several frames together of pictures of my son at different ages, with me and my husband, such a sweet walk backwards into time. Spring cleaning is good for the soul.

Pablo en Manneke

I keep my first teddy bear I ever got in our bedroom, as one of the very few relics, together with some pictures, of my childhood in Belgium. I got this bear when I was about four, and my brother, who was a year younger than me, also got the same kind of teddy bear. I called my bear Pablo, perhaps in reference to the exotic name of the famous Spanish artist, Pablo Picasso, of whose art my parents were very fond, and who must have been a favorite topic of discussion. To a small child, Pablo was an intriguing name in a Flemish household. My brother named his bear Manneke, literally, "little man". The bears were identical, but my brother and I always could tell who was Pablo and who was Manneke. I felt a twinge of sadness looking at my bear, wondering if Bart still had Manneke. The bears are more than fifty years old now, the oldest toy I have. Innocence is such a precious commodity, there was a time when my brother and I played together with our bears, happy, unaware that a time would come where our parents' awful marriage would make us drift apart to the point where there no longer is any trust, any communication. I haven' t seen my brother in 14 years, since Ludwina's funeral in Georgia, after her suicide. Pablo en Manneke, Pablo and Manneke, a sister and a brother, now thousands of miles apart, in distance physically and emotionally. Bye, Manneke and Bart, Pablo and I are still here.

The Monster in the Closet

There's a monster in the closet,
I don't quite know what to do.
I can hear it belching, sniffling, snoring.
I think it is by my shoes.

There's a monster in the closet,
I've seen it, it's green and black
and slimey blue,
it's got bulging eyes and crooked teeth,
it smells bad, too.

How did it get there, I wonder.
I hear its belly grumble,
so I feed it twice a day
and hear it slurp the water
I put there before noon.

Sometimes, I hear it laugh.
Sometimes I hear it cry.

In the winter I make sure
it has a blanket and a pillow, too.
It is sure to get bored,
so I sneak it toys, balls and story books.

I thought of chasing it away one time,
but it is a dark, cold world out there,
and what is a monster to do?
I hate to hurt its feelings,
even though it scares me to a shiver.

There's a monster in the closet,
and I've seen it watch the stars
at night, and sigh.
Perhaps it's got a home somewhere
and misses those it loves.

There's a monster in the closet,
don't disturb it, it is sleeping now.
I will keep it, I know,
for a very long time,
because that monster up close
looks a lot like you and I.

Trudi Ralston
April 14th, 2012.

I wrote The Monster in the Closet as a humorous, and also, somewhat sad reminder,
that we all are tainted by life's experiences, and that those we love are only flawed as badly
as we turn out to be. 

Footsteps

The poem Footsteps was born out of the painful, deep awareness that relationships we value can tarnish over time. Sometimes life itself, and the merciless passage of time, intertwined with habit, rhythm, necessity, and the annoyingly persistent tendency of people to take each other for granted out of sheer repetition, can bleach the most passionate and most tender relationships.

Footsteps

I live in the hallways of your mind,
hearing doors open, close,
Only to get to the next room
and find it empty.
You have left me behind.

Perhaps if I left a trail
of crumbs to
Crunch under your step
You might notice
Someone was there.

Perhaps I should ring
the doorbell, and wait outside.
But what if you lock the door,
change the key,
And I lose the chance
For magic to break the trance?

I live in the hallways of your mind,
hearing doors open, close
Only to get to the next room
and find it empty.
I have left you behind.

Trudi Ralston
July 10th, 2010.

Wound

This poem too, I read the same night at the Olympia Poetry Network gathering downtown Olympia at Traditions. It is a poem dedicated to the people I lost in the chaos of my family falling apart: my father, my brother, two sisters, a good friend named Jeff. It is a poem that to me reminds me of the destructive power of hope, dreams, trust and love gone wrong.

Wound

Ne pleure pas la bouche pleine,
My great grand mother used to say.
Don't cry with your mouth full.

I don't know anymore where you are
But I'll always know where you'll be.

On the beach of my dreams
Roaring your laughter
Against the crashing waves,
as I watch you forget everything
About me, even my name.

Don't cry with your mouth full,
I remind myself
as I watch you and the night sky
Disappear.

Trudi Ralston
June 24th, 2010.

Request

This poem too I read at one of the readings I participated in of the Olympia Poetry Network. I wrote this poem at a moment of insight therapy was giving me about the bittersweet experience of loss coming to terms through healing.

Request

Embrace these bleached bones
Of my soul,
the clattering hollow
bruising my steps.

I want to make chimes
with these silences and clutter
That make up the story of me.

If you but touch this makeshift
Instrument,
It will sing, it will sound.

Trudi Ralston
June 24th, 2010.

Blue

Jeanne Lohmann encouraged me to read a few poems at the readings of the Olympia Poetry Network of which I was a shy and somewhat reluctant participant, at the encouragement of my therapist a the time. Her encouragement led to me read some of my poems out loud, in front of an audience, for the first time in my life. I wrote this poem for her, to remember that moment she asked me to read some of my writing. I actually read this poem, too, with her permission, at the reading.

Blue

You looked at me, smiled.
I noticed your eyes, ablaze in blue.

Blue, a cornflower's petals
Against the sky.
Blue, a cabbage moth's wings
fanning summer's heat.

Blue pathways full of
Breath and light.

Like a benevolent breeze
On a most unlikely day
Your smile and blue eyes
Moved my soul, to the next spot
On the road, I wish to
Untangle, define.

Trudi Ralston
June 30th, 2010.