14. Cynthia Bale ~ everything has a story

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
—Mary Oliver

Cynthia Bale's poetry embodies this maxim of Mary Oliver. In Bale's own words, poetry is a way of living in the world that recognizes "everything has a story worthy of the attention a poem requires, both in its writing and in its reading." On reading Bale's skillfully crafted and deeply felt poems, I experience poetry as an act of love. Poet and reader attend to, recognize, reflect, and magnify the being of another, as it touches our own beings.

With this loving attention, Bale's poetry centers those on the margins, from the lowly spider:

still chilly
but spring's first barbecue
sparks to life—
three frantic spiders
flee the grill

To the collector and their empty bottles, the latter who Bale questions, and in that questioning accords them with aliveness and agency:

in the heat
a packed shopping cart
left alone
I ask the empty bottles
where is your collector?

To the body and mind that diverge from the social median, the oppression of that difference, and still its dignity:

first hint of twang—
a couple vowels' difference
and you decide
how much I understand
how much agency I'll get

Bale's poems tell of all these beings of the world, revealing and reveling in their steadfastness and splendor—all "stor[ies] worthy of the attention a poem requires." Their work inspires me to ask myself, what beings am I overlooking today? May I listen more closely to their whispers? How can I open my heart to their mystery?

Ryland Shengzhi Li, confluence editor

magpies on the walk
exchanging chatter
I can't understand
each day we pass through
worlds we'll never know

still chilly
but spring's first barbecue
sparks to life—
three frantic spiders
flee the grill

fire hall open house—
children trying the hose
saturate the grass
dividing its history
before and after this flood

Complications

I don't think I was supposed to see the note on my patient file; under Complications, someone had written from Kentucky. "It just explains why we don't have a complete medical history for you," I was told. Just in case that wasn't the whole story, I reckoned I'd best use my well-practiced Canadian accent throughout childbirth.

first hint of twang—
a couple vowels' difference
and you decide
how much I understand
how much agency I'll get

creeping bellflowers
by law are weed-on-sight
invasive
I look the other way
I'm from elsewhere too

squawks alert me
to an avian squabble
I peer upward
but a leafy curtain
says mind your business

in the heat
a packed shopping cart
left alone
I ask the empty bottles
where is your collector?

funhouse mirror
makes a small thing
falsely immense
this simple task
I am resisting

my pencil skates
through a newsprint puzzle
unscrambling words
a well-practiced skill
after six concussions

a whale will emerge
once these thousand dots
are connected . . .
this is the certainty
my sixth-grader craves

familiar things
grow claws and fangs
in darkness
my son turns on every light
between his bed and ours

beloved children
I'll be with you
in fifty pages
the murderer must make
a fatal mistake

sun ahead
strikes sidewalk quartz
with sparkles . . .
my path now lit
by everyday magic

my gender
knows no bank
only the river
adjacent to both
part of neither

traffic roars
along this busy street . . .
still, the rain
makes itself heard
pattering on leaves

on the sidewalk
a leaf shape I don't know
I show it
to all the nearby trees:
excuse me, is this yours?

After the Rain

I cross paths with a worm on a rapidly drying sidewalk. There's no more glide left in the gritty surface – the grass is too far. When I pick the worm up to return it to soft soil, instinct tells it I must be a bird, making this the end. It squirms, frantic, even as I restore it to its green home.

small one
my interference
means no harm . . .
if only the gods
told us so in advance

picking bird remains
from the jeep's grill
I do my best
to tuck some dignity
into a paper-towel shroud

on my fingertip
a peacock feather
balancing—
so much effort
just to stay standing

pill bug
in your armoured ball
I understand
I also want to curl up
when others see me

one pigeon
finds another dead—
pecks at the corpse
so eager to tell you
she's not like other girls

I was wearing
gray wool pants and
a black blouse—
dressed appropriately
to mourn my peace

grieving a fire
I embroider trees
my needle a wand
raising old growth
if only on cloth

at forty-one
I have finally earned
a gold crown—
alas, my coronation
in the dentist's chair

crows touch down
at the corners of my eyes
when I smile
it's the proof
I am still a shiny thing

four petals
shriveled and dangling—
one left upright
flips the bird
at the inevitable

on my porch
the dead spider left behind
a cenotaph:
her web in the rafters
beyond my broom's reach

Invitation

I can't tell you how, but I know they come. On the last night of October, I open the doors and they slip back into my kitchen from the next world, flickering greetings into the silence we hold for them. I raise the cup of remembrance and drink deep. Tonight, food is not the main nourishment.

family dinner
before the candy rush
candles glow
at the place setting
saved for our ancestors

I knit, crochet, and cross-stitch, crafts that have taught me how beautiful works come from small actions performed with skill and thought. Similarly, each word of a poem, in both its sound and sense, contributes to its overall beauty and impact. Contemplating something closely enough to write poetry about it calls for both empathy and curiosity, the two qualities I hold most dear. This is why D.H. Lawrence's "acts of attention" is my favorite definition of poetry.

I've found tanka's small but strong spotlight a wonderful way to showcase parts of life that we often overlook as mere background, or worse, obscure in memory as wastes of time on the way to more important matters. I also like using the juxtapositions of tanka to suggest multiple perspectives, inviting readers to reconsider prior judgments in a more compassionate light. Tanka's brevity is delightfully deceptive as well: one thinks, "Oh, this is short; I can consume it and move along," but the poem lingers in the mind, forcing the reader to pause and reflect on what's been said and what hasn't.

As an animist, I believe that everything has a story worthy of the attention a poem requires, both in its writing and its reading, and that telling these stories is critical to creating healthier relationships between humans and our neighbors. If we can care about something on the page, we can extend that care to the rest of its existence. This is how poetry makes a better world—welcoming readers into experiences that make them think, "Huh; I hadn't thought of it like that before," or "I thought it was just me." If I can evoke such a response in the reader, I consider the poem a success.

Margaret Walker

Cynthia Bale writes with empathy that resonates, using tanka to share stories to see the world, our world, their world and that of others, through a new lens. 

magpies on the walk
exchanging chatter
I can't understand
each day we pass through
worlds we'll never know

Bale’s own story emerges in first person in tanka prose.  With these three words,  “Complications . . . from Kentucky”  we learn that the poet is being judged not by who they are but by where they are from. 

I reckoned I'd best use my well-practiced Canadian accent throughout childbirth.

first hint of twang—
a couple vowels' difference
and you decide
how much I understand
how much agency I'll get

When they change their speech, this reader thinks “It’s not just me!” and stops to wonder how much more prejudice exists for those whose speech reveals that their first language is not English. Is that what the poet intended?  Will other readers also understand and empathize?  Will they, like me, now want to learn more about the poet and their story? 

Throughout Bale’s words of small everyday happenings closely observed, we read of grief, kindness, acceptance, fears, and hope. 

sun ahead
strikes sidewalk quartz
with sparkles . . .
my path now lit
by everyday magic

Anthony Q. Rabang

Cynthia Bale exhibits their mastery of contemporary tanka. Their poems are packed with social significance without sacrificing universality, lyricism, and economy of words. Their poems are inclusive and serve to amplify the voices of people across borders, cultures, genders, spectrums, and spiritualities.

Bale’s poems on mental health including “funhouse mirror”, “on my fingertip”, and “pill bug” are resounding anecdotal accounts of the struggles neurodivergent individuals face daily, such as inferiority complex, anxiety, and bullying, which may interfere with their functioning. What may seem like an easy task is perceived as too enormous to overcome due to overthinking, low self-esteem, or being preoccupied.

In “one pigeon,” Bale is able to explore deeper aspects of mental health. In the age of the “influencer era,” being called out, labeled, or “canceled” over rumors or mistakes may negatively affect one’s mental well-being, leading to depression or even suicide. As Bale writes in their personal essay, their poems should be read with empathy and curiosity.

one pigeon
finds another dead—
pecks at the corpse
so eager to tell you
she's not like other girls

Furthermore, Bale’s tankas about their personal experience as an immigrant deeply resonate with me as a Filipino. I have relatives and friends working as Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) to make ends meet. Often unnoticed, OFWs work tirelessly as domestic helpers or manual laborers, take on extra hours, and do odd part-time jobs. Some even collect tin cans in exchange for money that will be sent home to support their families. Although often praised for their quality of work and industriousness, they are not immune to discrimination and racial hate simply for being non-natives in the countries where they work.

​​creeping bellflowers
by law are weed-on-sight
invasive
I look the other way
I’m from elsewhere too

In sum, Bale’s poetry invites readers to journey beyond their known horizons.

Sophia Conway

Cynthia Bale’s essay is a reminder of one of many things I love about Japanese short-form poems. To quote them directly, “If we can care about something on the page, we can extend that care to the rest of its existence.” It’s something I’ve seen in my own time writing more traditional haiku. Taking a moment to observe a strike of sunlight or capture the dance of a falling leaf allows us to fall in love with the natural world all over again. This love and admiration naturally lead to greater care for the world, and hopefully, its occupants, too.

Bale's desire to inspire care and compassion, to help bring about positive change in the world, draws on their experience as an autistic nonbinary immigrant. You can feel the strong desire to be seen and understood between the lines of their tanka prose, Complications. It’s one that’s mirrored in the "creeping bellflowers", "squawks alert me", and other tanka that follow. Their honesty is striking and invites us to consider another perspective from one we may be used to. Their hope for us to extend more care to the world paired with their own small acts of compassion brought to life in After the rain and "picking bird remains" feel like a full-circle moment. 

picking bird remains
from the jeep's grill
I do my best
to tuck some dignity
into a paper-towel shroud

Thank you for reading!

On a wholly different note, editor Matt Snyder has been hard at work designing a map of all our confluence Fellows, Councilors, and Editors, past and present. We are now all across the world, across four continents.

We invite you to continue the conversation by hitting the "comment" button below and letting us know where you're reading confluence from. Feel free to also share your favorite poem of Cynthia's, and reactions to their work. Cynthia and the editors look forward to reading and responding to your comments.

If you liked the issue, we invite you to share this with others in your community. Stay tuned for the next issue in December, which will feature work by Fellow Sam Renda.