03/05/09
Longing
The highway is treacherous with this fierce rain. Drivers
Braver than I try to jump lanes, dance through invisible holes
Their cars are wiser than they and hold tight no matter what the spur
The drivers fury is for naught; it leaves them as it
Leaves the rest of us. Still in the saddle. Motionless. The windshield wipers
Cannot handle such sheets of sluicing water. At last, the torrent slackens
Even as the stalled traffic will not yet
Feel the heels in their side and move. My eyes drift up, all unwillingly
The tall hills, where our farm sits, the undulating hills of the
High plateau. I am an unwilling lowlander now and it
Pierces my heart to see the fleece blanket of snow.
My children must be out in it now, as would I.
Building walls of snow and ice for the coming contest
Of strong arms and tossed snowballs till too much
Cold and laughter leaves us abandon this pursuit
Fresh gloves then and on to the sledding hills.
Whooping over running launches and daredevil jumps
Which call for a wise parent who councils caution
Yet, somehow, in this one amusement only, it is I
Flung back, delightedly, to my Midwest childhood
Throwing wisdom away till all the years are gone
Infected with their madness, I would try to
Best all these on the hills. Where was the prudent parent on
Those snowy days? Gone to laughter, delight, and
My own happy youth. Only later, walking back home
Did I regain the proper years, planning dinner,
Where to dry the wet coats and gloves, and wasn’t I
The fool, someone could have been hurt! Grown foolish thing
After we had settled back in that drafty house
Tripping over the sodden clothes
The chill of accidentally stepping in icy puddles from
Tipped boots, ruined shoes, and lonely solitary socks
Back out to the barn, the clamor that would greet me
First pouring the dusty sweet corn while the chickens
Stepped raptly over, peering pirate like each eye individually
The Jerseys, roused from sleep, stomping and lowing
Their breath reaching under the stall door
The familiar sweet cloud of grass and slightly sour milk
The restless impatience of the horse who cannot decide
Are her chances better inside or out?
Dancing back and forth, fine limbs
Like pistons. Wide black eyes catching and
Holding the bit of moon that has risen
Over Leth’s pasture. Beauty, so well named
Flinging her fair mane and now trots
Back and forth along the low fence, annoyed
Shaking her head sternly. In such a state, she little
Notices, her orchard grass now rests already in the hayrack
The light pours out of the house’s many windows
The children scattered till the
Lovely moment when they are called
For Dinner. They will protest about this food and that
Yet altogether they are still my rumpled darlings
Even now, after play, they must be sitting there
Where I am not.
In this wretched valley. Apartments roll
One unto another. There is no snow
Nor quarreling teens who are my own
No sweet smelling barn waits with
Animals restless for grain and grass
No forest to be loved and guarded
No silly beasts of dogs who wait
And wait for an owner who does not come
And laugh at them when they roll in the snow
And chase her children to make her chuckle
Call them back and mock scold them
Before they all head off to conquer hills together
Just this one last time
His Peace is an Arrow Piercing
How do you bury anguish when all you do is wear it?
Dragging these tattered recollections, this ardor
As this weary, pallid cloak upon my arms
Inculcate these memories and let
These obsessions, this treasured love;
My darling fledglings pulled hard away
By my husband who merely demanded his due season
Yet whose aim scattered wide to our guileless
Fresh faced urchins; never thought I,
Could they be beyond the safety of my arms, my wings?
Outside even my somber, desperate, enchanted love.
He lives in comfort still, he who never loved
Farm nor forest nor, sometimes, even the fretful teens
Whom he must now preside over as best he may.
Enough solace, one prays, to make the lightening
King’s extortion, the boxes and the bags. Directing me
Toward the door, as if, after twenty six years,
I might struggle to locate the out of doors.
Truly meant, stunned and unaware I thought it
Some joke that we would laugh and slap our thighs
And gather close in bed, making love
As the farm drove us dozy toward dreams.
Perhaps I may still awaken in the midst of some beguile.
Sitting among my brood while one son fights to win the conversation
At dinner, where, by dearth of skill and shouting and much waving
Of young arms. Even, if needed, by throwing a hand or two
Across the next loudest brother’s open lips and jaw;
Win at any cost. If only the spell would whirl me there.
Oh but doesn’t he enjoy greeting me with his wordless, happy gaze,
The bovine stare of one who has all he has ever needed?
As if, his newfound desire is now only to leave an aching void,
A knife in what’s-her-name’s heart. To take whatever will leave
The wife’s eyes wounded; scrape her flesh from her bones. End her joy.
*****************************************
02/28/09
He Demands the Rose Sheets Return
I fold the marriage sheets carefully and slow
I hymn the death song
There should be fresh blood here
As the long years end
He demanded the soft flannel rose
That we had drawn up each night against the cold
A dirge as the last shreds, the fawn falling
Before the hunter, no more, no more
Husband and Wife have yielded
Knife’s grief has severed us here forever
His hard face and muscled arms
No remorse, reaching for the bedcovers
Demanding now as a stranger
Crushing in his fist the gentle rose pattern
Now lifeless with pale buds throttled
A specter, the remains of what once
Nourished a flame so faint
A love, which cannot even whisper at
A long ago vitality, a quickening
Which has not stirred in fire nor smoke?
Alone in my bed, face in hands
Such sobs burning, tears as relics of this fatal loss
Weeping and shed as silent epilogue
Scattered in hopeless supplication; too late
What I mourn has already been slaughtered.
Rests even now beneath the shadowed barrow.
Wet earth holds an echo of dark keening and lost laments
There is no one now to listen, or pray, or weep.
Where is the bed and the soft flannel’s rose?
Oh! Requiem! Fading toward morning’s softening grief.
***************
Slumber in frost, fast in winter’s dream
Stillness and an empty sky.
Throw open the windows and doors!
Let the old year escape, run away!
Flawed fortune chased by firecracker flowers
In my father’s distant realm.
Dragons breathe scarlet flames.
The lions dance in splendor in Ningbo
Beneath peach wood charms, and pussy willows.
While banked coals, ruddy and warm,
In tangerine thrones of hope,
Sing in bright lanterns of welcome.
The warm steam wreathes your face,
Flowers your cheeks a soft rose.
As you cup the warm jiaozi in your hands.
Let us spy the red throated swallow
For luck. And touch the first plum blossoms.
Of bruised damask and gilded saffron.
Banish the cruelty of bone and cold ivory
Bad fortune of white tallow, driven snow,
And unfeeling alabaster of death.
Together, we shall pray to the ancestors,
Though, we are lost and adrift from,
My father’s far away land.
The New Year sings in the moon.
Even here, on this forlorn shore of grief
We must only reach out to clasp this treasure.
Stalwart the bright crimson hearts of old friends.
Carrying verdant bouquets of bamboo and evergreen
Keen to draw and hold us within the garden of the New Year.
*****************
Icarus Too, Has a Tale
The saga never alters or relents;
Icarus, we hear, drowned by his own hubris.
Fool of a boy, forever inattentive
Even here, pacing their high prison
Towers of Minos; Even here,
In
Daedalus, clever as wise
And always told the hero.
The grieving Father, his tears
Falling forever into the cyan, ruinous,
The valiant parent’s final futile warning;
Icarus’s lethal lack of care.
We remember, we are taught, how Daedalus,
Whispered the sacred secret of that wicked maze
To helpless Theseus and Ariadne, as they fled,
Daedalus’s words freed the lovers whose daring ended
Poseidon’s White Bull’s calf; Pasipha’s son.
This feasting beast, this Minotaur slain.
None spares sorrow for Naucrate,
Thrice a slave; this last now to grief.
Did she, Icarus’s mother, berate his ghost?
Weep at his conceit or plead, too late:
Oh, my winged fledgling, pray
Attend your father’s words.
Forever, each scholar, the same haunted tale.
Wasted youth, careless, deaf, and daft.
Icarus lured by the divine; lusting
The brilliant bloom of sun’s fire.
Daedalus a tautology of anguished fatherhood,
Opportune survivor; echoes down the chapters of time
Perhaps because it was the father only, who lived,
And later told the tale; no other’s voice.
Not from Icarus any means
Children have a way of such silence
In the force of their parents’ will. Truth hides.
We must stand where Hercules stood
Chilled from the depths of an
Where he carried Icarus to land and a final home.
Sapling children weary of the chop and hew of
Sharp lectures. As Icarus had heard,
Eighteen years of echoed advice
Conforming, seething, but bending, complying.
Arching wide his weary shoulders
Even in sleep Icarus nodded Yes
As he does now, dipping into the eve’s soft slipstream
Samos and
Lebynthos ahead, floating on the eastern Aegean edge.
Like Diomedes friends, above these crippling winds
Arms taut against his Father’s words, endless words
And still he obeys.
Clouds scuttle the sun and Icarus
Feels himself stutter and stall
The
Shifting to somber sullen slate
Daedalus the father and hero calling back to the son
Too late. The words plummet earthward and fail.
Icarus banks awkwardly, snapping to the west
His glossy ink Cormorant feathers howl and fray as the boy
Plows hard through sudden fog.
For Icarus, courage in the yellow sheen of his Falcon’s plumage
Which holds fast along his knotted arms
But more grief, more clouds, eat away the sunshine.
Neither you nor I, nor certainly, Daedalus,
Can find the dear lad now, in such cinereous skies
Whether rough winds plucked him down
Or Prometheus’s Eagle crushed him unawares,
Our cries and warnings will not alter the mournful flight
It ends as always; Hercules carrying the broken body ashore.
We do know he sought warmth before his end.
Icarus climbed through the silver headed clouds
Weary beyond measure, he circled above the sullen sky
Even to the end heeding his father’s words:
Rain would burden these wings; already
Grim with our heavy bones and muscled flesh
Who found him first if we could not?
Was it Daedalus, seeking sanctuary in
Or Naucrate still chained within
Perhaps Hercules, worn from the world’s cruelty
And thinking only to offer surcease; Hercules, fresh
From his Labors. And little older than this boy.
When I found him, Hercules answered,
He had not his Father’s wings.
Yet, as I pushed him, from the water
Poor dead boy, already stiffened to the bone
He dipped and skipped one lonesome feather
Through Poseidon’s dancing waves,
In my arms, I carried Icarus, one last journey to this shore
Where, now asleep beneath us, he clutches
The raptor’s bright unbroken, solitary crest,
Fallen hero, with a falcon’s gilded gift
The sun’s plumage, held forever in your hands.
I shall go and bring your father, so that he may see you home.
**************************
Who died too young The thin crescent moon hangs low, Sharp and dangerous in the midnight sky. Only come away from the open door. We will hold bright candles in our hands, Here among the circle of your friends. We will make you a starry night within. Do you see how our arms reach and turn you From the hueless twilight, Always towards dawn? Must I point to the east? There is much to hold you here And bind you to this life. I hear the owl calling to you, Pledging a cold freedom from misery. Who am I to gainsay your release? To block your crossing from pain to peace. Who pulls you back from the dusk? A candle and a friend. The silver footed queen rolls up Her leaded veil to whisper. That only she can Acquit you of your torment. Oh, that I could keep you from such lonely wanderings Ruddle the dawn’s cape And throw it, warm and safe, Over your bitter grief. For Julie, let our prayers discover The rosiest, most tender dream Or distant memory of some sacred bliss To lure you back, to tempt one more try A crossing back to life To call to you across this canyon of pain Come back to us. Follow the sparks of our love The strength of this flame. We have brought the stars inside They dance within our tears Oh, see how you shine? The Evening Run At supper, the dog and I slip down Down the unworn track to their home. Counting, in the dim cold twilight Cloistered farmhouses, one, two, three. The shabby lane winds perilously Past tall sober cedars in grim skirts, and Hemlocks lost among the barren plum trees. Crouched in grizzled darkness Afraid always of the newest steer. His unshorn horns sharp on the tender bark. Unseen, the calf lays waits to catch us As we slip passage through mud and torn grass Feeling along the soft wood long rails Fenced rigging beneath my trusting hands We course round the half-tied gate Before his swift hooves tattoo Softly, thudding, dimly through Uncertain night, muffled gloom. The dangerous young cow Who will die to feed us always, Weeks before sweet spring comes to wake. Unknown to him now, his great courage Sweeps him upon this menace, these strangers Who trespass each mantled eve. No lights in my pocket, never, none. There will come, some cloaked dusk A cut bull surfacing, who catches us at last. The aging pup will be too slow Lame in his dull steps and caught His grey coat by the wide pine posts. Or I, held fast in my long boots Against the fading berry vines and savage, Cruelly perched, Devil Weed But not this windswept evening’s roving, Not this happy journey down, To my dearest friends alive. My daily joy in this glad visit Their windows gleam sudden gold Here to my good parents, my laughing folks. The shabby watery lane, misplaced underfoot Has been vanquished, unnoticed, forgotten. The return will be a slow coast downhill Across the same sullen path but winning Simple speed against the steer’s slope. See how the big red retriever has gone ahead Already dancing on the porch decking Pulling myself up by his autumn ruff Disembarking, toweling him dry. The lamps spills warmth and gentle glory As they pull, together, the stout door swings. Always their great love touches me first Buoyant across the good years Wide with wisdom and darling, And what now have you done? The good thick dog thinks the fuss In his favor, he sits squirming and keen While my Mother scolds him with kindness My Zeus, at his true mistress’s knee. Shed of our wet, dark travel’s silence, We enter this bright tender home. Docked here, there are no shadows. Clear yellow daylight spills Off the happy timber walls. My Mother’s quick clever warm eyes Her sigh at my seaman’s bare arms. I can hear my father and his kettle Together they sing to me. My parents’ jewel bright goodness Wry humor, decency, dry wit. Back home I am weary parent Yet in this rafted cheerful kitchen I am moored. Touched with prayer. This ship has always sailed for me In safe harbor and gentlest seas See my Mother’s soft hair Which shines with the moon’s easy grace. Her grandest smiles, sharp Bold tongue, as she holds the ship easy. My rogue Father, carries her sails As he bound his charmed sailor’s life His great good wise fortune, to her glory, her waves. They are mast to each other, worthy vessels tied. Always the day is shining here. Laughing light, and I in their anchor. I float in these splendid waters A salient span less than an hour each day I need not captain here, lovesome isle Not until the skidding darkness or a Hungry wandering child calls me wondering They trail down in my dusky wake. Now gathered like raucous gulls Around my parents’ planked table Feeding on nibbled bits of scone Rapt with tales of old stories Besieged by seven smitten children I tow them home gently back into the night Night Grief Somber night shrouds This gaunt lane. Lean light from a sinking moon Too frail to shine a path beneath my feet. Barred by these sharp notched Cedars Spider laced Hemlocks And brawny Rowan trees The grudging glow barely illumines This chalky trail; its light comes not From that grave and waning moon Only the indifferent and pitiless stars Their faint luster sparking through Where the giant trees have shed their Parched needles and suicidal golden leaves Blinded by more than sullen shadows My eyes close over my grief Alone, only I know the truth Lost, abandoned, defeated, By my own hand. Such bitter words I can only whisper them to this Nearness, this night. My apology, my prayer is so soft The gray owl never stirs from his perch In the split Ash tree, though his eyes Follow me through this haughty dark. My words dissolve in the callous silence This moon, these stars, this sky, have always turned Away from such human cries and whimpers. As they do now, as they will forever We are each and always so alone In our despair, our sorrow and Our shame. I move quietly as a thief as my feet Touch the familiar grass path through the west woods Familiar as this sorrow I carry through the night. September Fifteenth Already the fruit is heavy Branches bent low, sweeping the tall, wet, grass Cheerful trees of Liberty, Hale, Gala, and Braeburn Sturdy trunks of Spartan, Glory of crimson, cerise, cherry, and cardinal Wine red, ruby red, claret, and blush The orchard drifts down the long hill Your faces, your lives, your journey More loveliness as you age Here is your fine harvest, Beyond luck, beyond grief, beyond laughter Stand forever, strong roots, elegant sweep of branches, Grace and fierceness and intellect Fifty years and more Write the poem now Not mournfully at some funeral Too late, the tree cut down or fallen Celebrate my parents today While the apple ripens on the tree So many Septembers before, so many more to follow The path through the orchard and your beloved beside you See these words? You have meant more to me than these boughs can hold A crop of wisdom and laughter and love A yield of strength and brilliance Druid trees with magic lives How is it each of you found the other? An enchantment and a tale Rough bark Deep roots Love is a fruit Crisp and sweet and strong Fifty years of harvest Let me open this gift to my parents Here on their wedding day Your lives shall travel beyond you Children. Their children’s children A harvest of joy Always it will turn to September again With laughter in the orchard Weariness past. And your hearts together Time unmeasured. Time recalled Thanksgiving 2006 Restless, their impatience no longer Stealthy or sly. Edgy. Beyond bored. Secret winks, furtive kicks, escaped sighs. Weary now of the big table, This dry conversations of their elders. Where did my shadow My childhood cloak and dagger Silliness and superiority, vanish? Now I am the blah, blah, blah Of eat your vegetables And don’t drop your napkin, please. In my pockets now, no secret treasures. Or crushed and detested beans. I no longer have silent, sharp, elbow fights With cousin Tom. Nor stare downs With Jimmy, while Aunt Mary drones on About children who should love silence Who are these children here now? And however did they learn To tolerate, with such good grace Adult distances and despair Defects and drifting sorrow? This one brings me coffee with a kiss And this one admires my poor jokes That one there gives strong hugs And withstands my worries and my rants. What kind fortune has dropped me here, And enlivened my grownup days into joy? I would give longer thanks than this But already they are waiting See how they perch even now Almost, they are taking flight before me Rushing away into future’s hope. How can they know How cherished and close I would keep them here Bright flames around the table Blooming with such sweetness And such fearsome fire. I give you this long, winding Benediction and grace. Would that I might wrap As a cape against all your lonely nights And all your sad winters. As my own parents have done. Enfolded with their goodness And kindness and affection; warded me With charms whose power I pass to you. As you, one day, will deliver forward In your own prayer, of love. Whose Death Diminishes Me
For Julie
And storms, and hard winters
**********************
Better than I ever could
Will it be pie or cake?
My thankfulness and this love
**********************
Eychah
I cannot say it, this good bye
You held us all; in the bright
Sanctity of your honor
And the fullness of your laughter and
Your heart;
All you wanted, all you showed to us
To be fully human, humanized
To capacity; to kindness.
To see our fellow travelers of this earth,
As we see our Judaic Family.
Respect in full, and with a heart touched
By Reverence.
We all said it before you left;
n'see'a 'tova
We meant it as an assurance
You would come back to us.
Such tearing grief
I cannot, not even for you
Who deserves only sweetness,
And soft tenderness; and
Treasured calm; whispered love.
Cannot shield for you, this loud anguish,
Nor our unseemly howls of grief,
Welling up from a world of protesting hearts
Peace then on your eternal trip.
Good night forever;
laila tov!
No, I am still too weak.
Ani Mitzta'er
Come back now
Come back before
Step out of the taxi. Please.
We are all on this shore of grief
Waiting, clutching each other’s hands.
The hands of all our brothers, every one.
I have shaded my eyes against
The brilliant sunshine of a foreign desert.
We will wait forever; if only you will teach us
How to turn back time.
To step back a day or two
So we may kiss you and bid you safe passage.
To look at you and say it and mean it
le'hitra'oi axar kax
We will see you later, we will.
I shall see you in the kindness of strangers
And in my own moments of morality and humility.
I will wrestle my impatience and my selfishness;
To the hard floor. As I look up, I will see your smile.
*********************************
Secular Sabra of Humanism
Ha'makom yenahem etkhem betokh she'ar avelei Tziyonvi'Yerushalayim
Shalom