Kim Noriega: California Poets Part 7, Five Poems

Kim Noriega (photo by Sarah Luczaj)

July 1st, 2024

California Poets: Part VII

Kim Noriega

Five Poems

Variation on the Words Sleep Related Eating Disorder

after Margaret Atwood 

I would like to watch myself sleep,   

without eating,

which may not happen.

I would like to watch myself sleeping,

without disorder, without related eating.

I would like to sleep

with myself, to enter my sleep

as the dark wave slides over my head

and walk with myself through that lucent

box of left-over casseroles and bluegreen loaves, 

with its fluorescent sun & silver rooms,

towards the frozen cave where I must descend,

towards my worst fear.

I would like to give myself the glittering

branch, its rose-gold fruit, the single

word that might protect me

from the hunger at the center

of my dream, from the misfiring

brain at my center. I would like to follow

myself up the long hallway

again & become the calmed

neurons that would lead me back

safely, without the lit flame

of my gas-burner stove, or wandering

from where my body lies

to the taco shop drive-thru, 

to sleep easy 

as breathing air.

I would like to wake 

nourished

by my sleep, 

that my sleep would be 

that necessary

& that unnoticed.

Bough Down

and when the bough  breaks

has broken

when the baby you

cradled  a preemie you visited daily

in the NICU to nourish with your milk

falls  not in a spectacular collapse

tree    bough    cradle

but sleeping beautifully  in the blue

bean bag chair

beside the emptied bottle

her cat, Rook, purring,

rubbing his face

against her  slack hand

just one month shy

of her twenty-eighth birthday

you  bow down

to the weight of grief

                                              walk the cold floor 

         planks creaking beneath your bare feet

head cradled in your hands.

the why of it

he was drunk

he was out of his head

he was traumatized 

by childhood events

he was sad, at his wits’ 

end—defeated, depressed

downtrodden

she’d made him feel 

small, like less 

of a man, had said 

he was just pissed 

cause he couldn’t 

get her to suck his dick,

that he couldn’t even 

fuck her right

(what an uncouth bitch)

his attorney told us (the jury)

it mattered—

the why of it

his frustrations, her provocations

but I was thinking 

about hollow-point bullets 

fired at point-blank range

of a woman bleeding out, 

begging for the lives of her daughters

of a girl’s severed spinal cord

of the look on his face

when his wife took the stand—

just a quick glance up 

I’d have missed if I’d blinked

his black eyes

his (nearly) imperceptible grin—

guess I fucked you right this time, didn’t I, bitch?

After Jury Duty (How do I love thee?)

for Ernie

Three weeks of mandated

silence, each night I’m desperate 

to tell you why I’ve come home weeping, 

again, but can only offer: the trial, 

with a futile wave of my hand.

But now, it’s done. 

We, the jury, have delivered 

a modicum of justice and tonight

when I walk in the door you say:

tell me whatever you want to tell 

and I say:

the gun—huge, .357 Magnum, 

hollow-points, shot his wife, 

left her bleeding on the floor

‘guess who’s next’ he’d told her

then went to find the girls, 

in their beds, in their pajamas

I say:

the 911 call

we had to listen to it three times

her labored breathing

her fading voice

she had dragged her body

to the bed, to her cell phone 

God, how did she manage it?

she tells the dispatcher 

her address, says ‘Hurry. Please hurry.”

In the background, we

can hear a girl screaming

‘Help me. Help me.’

We know, from body-cam footage,

that it’s Rachel, the older daughter,

who is lying in her own blood

on the bedroom floor, where she fell 

when he shot her in the spine

she had tried to run 

out the back door

but it was stuck shut.

I am sobbing now,

barely able to get 

the words out:

and here’s what really kills me, I tell you,

we know he’s standing right there

emptied gun in hand

we saw the photos, his bloody footprints

where he’d stepped over Rachel’s body

and when I look up,

I see that you 

are weeping 

too.

After the Verdict

On July 27 after one day deliberation, a jury convicted P. Ramirez of all counts and allegations, including attempted murder, attempted manslaughter and possession of a firearm by a felon. Deputy DA Lorens prosecuted this case.

—Office of the District Attorney, San Diego County

Just like that—as if we haven’t been required to sit 

here, to be dragged through the wreckage of these 

people’s lives day after day—for weeks—we’re up 

and out of the courtroom. We’ve delivered our verdict. 

We’re done. We’re free to go back to our own lives, 

but instead, we linger in the hallway, all twelve of us, 

basking in the palpable relief—of the victims, of their family members, of the first responders who saved their lives two years ago.

One by one they thank us, hug our necks—weep.

I join the line of people waiting to shake your hand,

where Sophie, one of the girls the defendant tried to kill,

is passing out silk flowers she made in the hospital.

She hands me a rose, whispers, thank you, and though

my part was small, I beam at her, think of the assertion

made by the defense attorney in her closing argument:

We cannot undo what has been done. There is no justice.

And your reply:

No justice? Oh, no, there is justice.

When I reach you, I begin to cry, explaining that I, too, have

survived, that my daughter has survived. You are kind and tough,

you are here, fighting—pregnant and in four-inch heels—

for justice for two young girls and their mother, and for the young

woman I once was, sleeping daughter in my arms,

husband’s knife-blade cold against my throat.

Interview

October 2nd, 2024

California Poets Interview Series:

Kim Noriega, Poet, Creative Nonfiction Writer, Teacher

interviewed by David Garyan

DG: You’ve taught creative writing in different settings and contexts. Can you talk about some of the ways which you’ve done that, how teaching has influenced your own aesthetic, along with the challenges and rewards that are inherent to this type of work?

KN: I’ve taught creative writing in quite a few settings, including a poetry workshop in a recovery home for alcoholic women. Some of the women in the group were newly sober—couldn’t sit still—but wrote raw, deeply moving pieces. I taught poetry to first and second graders in the English Language Literacy Intensive program. I facilitated a series of workshops for teens on the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe, which was a blast! The teens decorated T-shirts with their favorite lines from Poe’s poems and wore them when they participated in a culminating performance at the library.

Teaching has definitely benefited my writing—composing eight to ten comprehensive critiques each week for my month-long workshops through The Poetry Barn honed my eye (and ear) for revision. I’ve learned to play around more, to try things out. It’s what I encourage my students to do.

I’m also a writing mentor—a poetry “doula,” as one of my mentees calls me. I’ve been fortunate to work with brilliant mentors myself, and I draw on those experiences when I work with others. I love the intensity of working one-on-one over a period of time—especially on a book manuscript. It requires a significant dedication of time and energy—for both parties—but that commitment heightens the reward. There’s something magical about the process.

DG: Apart from writing poetry, you’re also a creative nonfiction writer. Given that a lot of poetry is in fact about real events and people, does the decision of which medium you’ll use come naturally, or is there, at times, some indecision?

KN: I tend to make formal decisions through trial and error. I’ll try something out in prose, decide it needs to be a pantoum, then realize it would work better as a series of sonnets. I love blurring the lines between genres. I have pieces that I consider to be both poetry and creative nonfiction—for instance, the poems I wrote about the trial I served on as a juror. I have poems that I consider to be flash memoir. One is a personal reflection on my grandfather’s suicide; another is a piece I wrote for my dear, departed friend Dave Hogue. (You can read it here in Split Lip Magazine.) The important distinction, as I see it, is that by designating a piece as nonfiction—or any equivalent term—the author presents the work as factual, perhaps autobiographical. A poem may indeed be both of those things, but the poet isn’t necessarily saying so.

DG: You’ve worked for the San Diego Public Library for over thirty years. How has the very conception of what a library is and should do changed since you started and are you more concerned, these days, about censorship or an apathy towards reading?

KN: I’m passionate about libraries. I’ve always been impressed by the way librarians proactively adapt library services to meet the needs of their communities. I retired from San Diego Public in 2020, after working there for almost 30 years. Libraries changed dramatically over that time, primarily due to the internet and digital resources. That said, libraries have remained the same in important ways: they employ professionally trained information specialists who provide vetted resources; they encourage a love of reading and lifelong learning; they welcome and serve everyone who walks through their doors; and they offer programming—everything from S.T.E.A.M. for teens to storytime for toddlers to seed and garden tool libraries—free of charge.  

As for apathy toward reading, I think we’ve all scanned a TLDR summary. We’re velocitized and impatient, but reading is still a valuable source of information—and a joy for most people I know. I spent thirteen of my years at SDPL helping low-literate adults learn to read, to inspire a love of reading in their children, and to break the intergenerational cycle of low literacy. I believe that apathetic readers either lack the proficiency with reading to make it pleasurable or simply haven’t found the right book yet.

As for censorship, I am indeed concerned about the increase in attempted book bans. I teach a poetry workshop called “I’m With the Banned” that explores banned poetry, think “Howl,” and delves into self-censorship in our writing. I was a member of the Intellectual Freedom Committee of SDPL for many years. We worked to raise awareness of the danger of censorship and the importance of diverse library collections. Book challenges aren’t new, but legislation like HB 900 in Texas and Arkansas Act 372 is alarming.

My favorite attempted censorship story comes from San Diego. Two women checked out a slew of LGBTQ+ books and intended to censor them by keeping them unless the director agreed to remove the titles from the collection. The director explained the library's censorship policy, noting that the women would receive a bill for the books if not returned. But here’s the best part of the story: a local newspaper reported the incident, rallying support for the library and resulting in a huge number of donations designated for LGBTQ+ books. Censorship thwarted! You can read the story here.

DG: In an interview with Grace Cavalieri, you vividly describe the traumas and difficulties of your youth, facing depression and death from all sides, and all this culminates with the line “Everyone I loved became mortal.” You wrote to cope and ultimately overcame these ordeals. How do you feel about those early pieces years down the line? Do you go back to them at times, or have you tried to use them as a foundation for new work?

KN: The traumas I describe and the line you mention above specifically relate to my life at age 16. In retrospect, my greatest loss that year wasn’t my “invincibility” (typical of teens) or even the recognition of my loved ones’ mortality, but my joie de vivre. I lost faith in life. To quote a dear friend of mine, life is hard, even when it’s easy. I didn’t live in a war zone. I never wanted for nutritious food or warm shelter. We weren’t rich, but I’d had the opportunity to travel to Europe with a school group.

Still, I was not equipped to deal with the events that transpired that year—my boyfriend’s breakdown, my grandfather’s suicide—and the adults in my life were not either. It would be decades before I’d transmute those experiences into poems, but that early writing gave me a place to express the overwhelming emotions I felt.

I don’t have any of those pieces now, but I remember bits of them. They were my rough, first attempts to articulate events that changed my life.

DG: If you could send one poem you’ve written to your younger self, which one would it be, or would you choose something you’ve yet to write? And for the latter, do you think it’d be a long piece or short one?

KN: This is such an insightful question! I use a similar practice. I write a letter to myself at my current age from an older version of myself—say, twenty years older—giving myself wisdom, reassurance, perspective. It’s always helpful.

As for a poem I’d send to my younger self, I guess it would depend on which younger self, but if I had to pick one, I’d send my poem “Gift” to my thirty-six-year-old self. That year was tough for my daughter and me. “Gift” would let me know that we are thriving and closer than ever.

DG: Issues of social justice feature frequently in your work. Is there a specific event, poem, or person that motivated you to become politically active?

KN: I do often write about social justice issues—an inclination that revealed itself early in my life. I grew up in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, on a street lined with 100-year-old trees: buckeye and maple, pin-oak and poplar, and of course butternut, the street’s namesake. 

This was the 1970s, smack in the middle of the Ecology Movement. The environment was a regular topic in my elementary classroom. Innocent that I was at age ten, I assumed that if we wrote to him, the President would do something about environmental destruction! My friend Dave and I wrote the letter together and were thrilled to receive an official reply from Patricia Nixon acknowledging our civic engagement and encouraging us to stay involved.

We did. When we learned that the local government planned to widen Butternut Ridge Road to accommodate increased traffic heading to the nearby, newly built shopping mall—cutting down the beautiful, century-old trees in the process—we went house to house the length of Butternut Ridge, gathering signatures on a petition to block the expansion. We won!

I wrote a poem about materialism and its impact on the “web of life,” which I shared at an assembly in front of the entire elementary school—my first big reading! To my joy, I was named poet laureate of Butternut Elementary.

And those glorious trees grace Butternut Ridge Road to this day, protected as part of a designated historical district. 

DG: In addition to teaching and creative writing, you’re also the editor at The Poetry Barn. Editing is a consuming activity and an underappreciated one—not an ideal combination, indeed. Can you talk about the mission of The Poetry Barn in general, along with how these activities have shaped your own work?

KN: I’m so glad you brought up The Poetry Barn. Lissa Kiernan, poet and founding director, calls it “a pollinator habitat for poetry.” Isn’t that great?

The mission is “to nurture poetry education, inspiration, and appreciation by sponsoring poetry-related workshops, retreats, readings, and a comprehensive poetry lending library accessible to the public.”

As I mentioned earlier, I teach writing workshops through “The Barn” and serve as the poetry editor of its online journal, The Poetry Distillery. The journal is a natural extension of our master-level workshops, and my editorial duties aren’t too demanding. I’m proud of the work we feature, and I love to send out acceptance notices. Plus, I get to announce our nominations each year for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes. That’s my favorite job!

I wouldn’t say that editing the journal has shaped my work, but it does remind me that I am part of a fabulous writing community.

DG: Your affection for cats is well known. When did you get your first one and are any of them named after writers?

KN: This is so sweet of you to ask. I grew up with animals and loved them all—dogs, cats, rabbits, horses—even a pet pig—but over the past fifteen years or so, I’ve become more and more enamored of cats. I often joke that I am a cat, but am I joking? I’m highly sensitive to my environment. I require a lot of solitude. I’m offended by loud noises, strong scents, and bright lights. I tend toward being crepuscular. I love the hunt—researching craft topics, tracking down the precise word, finding the perfect image.

We have six cats, including the (former) ferals who showed up in our yard about seven years ago. I intended to TNR them (trap, neuter, return), but the return part didn’t work out so well. One turned out to be nursing two six-week-old kittens, so we had to keep all three of them. Then Mama Kitty’s brother showed up with his buddy, followed by a coyote. You get the idea.

Three live in my writing studio, two live in the garage, and our original shelter-adopted girl—who doesn’t play well with others—lives in the house. My husband, best cat-daddy ever, built these amazing catios for them so they can safely spend time outside.

None of them have literary names, but I’ve learned a lot about writing from them, particularly the adult ferals. Wild kittens are easy to tame. They hiss and spit, but it’s all bravado. Pet them till they purr, multiple times a day, and they calm down in no time. Ferals adopted after three or four months of age require more patience. They haven’t been socialized to humans. It takes time and presence to gain their trust. And you can forget any agenda you might have. They come around on their terms, not yours. You must show up, try to be consistent, and pay attention. Treats help. Pushing them too fast sets you back. (Notice the parallels with writing?) Mama Kitty wouldn't let me pet her for five years. Then, one day she did. I know it’s a small thing to help a few feral cats, but every time I see them contentedly napping in their catios, I feel immense joy—quite Dickinsonian: if I can ease one life the aching. I'd never have guessed how much I'd love having a clowder (also known as a glaring) of cats! 

I also support organizations that help cats. Locally, I love East County Animal Rescue, the folks who helped us trap our kitties, and Lions, Tigers, and Bears—a sanctuary for big cats! Nationally, I admire the work of Alley Cat Allies.

DG: What are your favorite places in San Diego?

KN: Oh! San Diego is beautiful—I love Coronado’s beach—but I must confess that my favorite places are not in San Diego. My favorite place to be is sitting on a park bench beneath the flowering chestnut trees behind Notre Dame de Paris on a spring day, preferably listening to birdsong. My other favorite place is a park (notice a pattern?) at the bottom of Cedar Point Hill in Cleveland’s Metroparks. I love the cathedral of trees there and the nearby river, where I learned to skip pieces of shale (almost) bank to bank as a girl.

DG: What are you reading or working on at the moment?

KN: I’m not working on anything specific right now, though I am intrigued with documentary poetry and how I might use that form to shape my juror poems into a collection at some point. As for what I’m reading, I recently read—and loved!—I Tell Henrietta by my fellow Aim Higher, Inc. author, Tina Barry (2024). Now I’m reading Wolf Centos by Simone Muench (Sarabande Books, 2014), which is stunning.

Other than that, I’ve been busy doing readings for my own recently released book, Naming the Roses, which you can purchase here. You can find my upcoming readings on my website: kimnoriega.com.

Thank you for your thoughtful questions!

Author Bio:

Kim Noriega is the author of Naming the Roses, released in June 2024 by Aim Higher, Inc., and Name Me, published in 2010 by Fortunate Daughter Press. She is an award-winning poet, creative nonfiction writer, and teacher. Kim has won the San Miguel de Allende Literary Sala Flash Nonfiction Prize and has been a finalist for both the Edna St. Vincent Millay and Joy Harjo Poetry Prizes. Her poem “Heaven, 1963” was featured in former poet laureate Ted Kooser’s syndicated column American Life in Poetry. She is the poetry editor of The Poetry Distillery and a teaching artist with The Poetry Barn. She is a certified facilitator of the Creative Regeneration Process and an expert-consultant in family literacy through the Pacific Library Partnership. She lives in San Diego with her husband, Ernie, and six cats, five of whom were once feral.