Death of a Poet, an Appreciation

Death of a Poet—

                        for Wisława Szymborska

There’s a hole where you used to be.

No, that’s not quite right,

there’s a lot remaining—

in your poems’ wit and compassion,

and perhaps in your apartment—

shelves of books, well-worn pots,

dishes both cracked and shiny,

bedclothes, plants, a cat dish,

but all these objects will disperse

and roam to other places,

find other hearts or at least homes.

The memories of you remain with

your friends, your admirers

who knew you daily or never saw you once.

I don’t know your life, just the reflections

of it in your poems,

the bumblebee bumping the windowpane,

the soul that is there, as you said, sometimes

then vanishes when it’s time to do taxes

the percent of people who deserve compassion, 99,

who are mortal, 100.

There’s a hole where you used to be

you who had the nerve and generosity

to give us such fire and ice.

I hope to catch your spirit by the sleeve

before you leave entirely,

whisper Thank you.
.
 

Winter Solstice Poem

When the first light

of winter solstice

touches the doorframe

just a hint of pink

and then the wall

eggshell delicate light

infant day asking to be held

another year turning

how strange these eyes

have seen sixty-seven

such beginnings and still

each one is more

unknown than the last

.

Faith

You don’t remember it, my children
the endless trek across the dry places
the lone tree with a pump beneath
a few handfuls of grass greening.
One clear Mason jar full of water.
Stop! You must not drink a drop.
This is what you don’t know—

You must pour it all down the shaft
your parched mouth watching it disappear
into the workings below, the leather cuffs
and steel pistons. Then you pump.
The steel shrieks and groans.
Nothing comes. Despair closes
your throat. Keep pumping.

More resistance now
your arm protests
then great gushes
speed over your hands
cool your feet
open your throat.

In the end you must fill the jar.
Leave it for the next traveler.

This poem was just published in Solace in So Many Words, edited by Ellen Wade Beals, Weighed Words Press.
.

Pond in April

You crunched last-year’s leaves

underfoot, down to the pond’s edge,

sat in the clear spot at twilight

and the hush was a bowl

of soft light placed gently

over the water, bugs

skittering the surface, the gentle

high shish of the stream entering

and leaving by the beaver dam,

hemlocks bowing, and the high

dead snags holding up the sky,

one heron watching you with legs

astraddle. Slowly you painted

yourself into the picture, breath

dropping lower. There was

nothing more you desired,

nothing needed, nothing omitted

and not a thing happened

all that evening.

I know this is out of season, but it was just published in a volume of meditation poetry, Moments of the Soul, now out on Amazon.

Sometimes the breeze

from the north touches
the skin of your forearm
and suddenly thoughts are gone
and it is only this moment
smoothing your mind
like a gentle wave
stroking sand, repeating
now, now.

on being apart

silence draws me
like a silk cable
like a deep well
and as I flail and fall
I feel the gravity of my need

during weeks of activity
and engagement you’d think
I’d feel connected
with all these people
these important projects

but it’s in the quiet
of separation
that I surrender
sometimes, in bits,
into unity.

Beyond

the definite edges of maple
buds itching with sap
the clouds’ luminosity
out of nowhere they form
and race, dissolve
and grow again
soft-verged
what a day when
such as these
can form before our eyes
move with majesty
and boil into nothing

Every morning after I meditate, I write a poem. They are humble little containers like clay cereal bowls, but sometimes I like them enough to share. This came to me today.