words: POSTCARDS FROM THE ROAD

Wrote this one early on and forgot to post it.

 

flagrant

underneath

travel

lavender

 

POSTCARDS FROM THE ROAD

How travel assaults the senses!

Black pudding and grilled tomato

with a poached egg stealthily pocketed

for who in full jetlag could eat

such things so early, or at all?

And who would offend 

the dear old hosts of the Irish B & B?

 

Pushed underneath the lumpy bunk

in the smoky German hostel,

what might once have been

a chicken wing.

And who could forget

that rainful cycling trip through France,

the flagrant scent of lavender?

TOTAL EECLIPSE OF THE SUN

Last year at this time, we were heading South. I wrote this description of the event when we returned.

 

A TOTAL EECLIPSE OF THE SUN

 

We drove to Virginia and picked up John’s sister, then drove on to North Carolina and put up in a hotel about three hours from totality, planning to get up early and drive south if the weather looked good. In the morning, reports indicated very little chance of clear skies in South Carolina, and perfectly clear skies where we were, so we opted for 100% chance of 96%.  With the blessing of the hotel clerk, John set up a sun-filtered scope in the courtyard of the inn, and we made our headquarters in the long hallway just inside. Staff people, who had seen John setting up, asked us if we were there for the “ee’-clipse.”  (We decided that we much prefer the southern pronunciation.) We said we were, and invited them to come back at 1:15, if they could, for a look.  And they came. We shared our ee-clipse glasses and John kept the scope aligned, and for the next hour people came and went and came back again to follow the progression of the moon across the sun. The manager stopped by and offered us coffee and told us that he’d studied astronomy in college. A few guests came out—one a remarkable woman whose blonde hair was piled on top of her head and decorated with plastic fruit. Two people told us that the last time there was an ee-clipse was when Jesus was crucified. We said, “Well, that’s interesting.” A young black chef who had joined us several times asked if it was okay if his mama, who had come to pick him up,  looked. “Of course,” we told him, and she joined us. She and I got to chatting after she had looked through the glasses and the scope. I found out that she was from Queens and had a sister in Poughkeepsie, near where our son and his family live. At the peak of the event, she and I agreed that the shadows were different; that the bright sunlight had changed. We were both wearing beige shirts and white caps. Her son stepped back from the scope and nudged me, then turned his head and said, “Sorry. I thought you were my mama.”  And I, a white woman from the country’s whitest state, without thinking, said the perfect thing:  “That’s okay. All of us mamas look alike.” He looked surprised for a minute, and then laughed, and nudged me again. One tall, elegant woman with silver hair stopped to look every time she passed through the hallway carrying a stack of linen, and every time, she jumped up and down and clapped her hands. Another woman, who had promised her husband that she would not look, even with eeclipse glasses, watched her and said, “I’ll just enjoy her happiness.”  After the moon started sliding away, people began thanking us and drifting away. John was packing the car, and I was in the hall, clearing the last of our things from the table, when the tall woman stopped by once more. “Thank you, honey,” she said. “Oh,” I said, “It was so much fun to share this with all of you.” And then she threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. “I can’t wait to tell my grandkids about this,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell mine,” I said. Better than totality.

PASSAGE

PASSAGE

She went to the oracle

bringing an offering

of incense, a white pebble,

a drop of blood

on a leaf of thyme.

I am empty she said.

 

            Go deeper the oracle said.

 

But I’ve seen the crystals

growing from the floors

and ceilings, I’ve slipped

into the green waters filled 

with white salamanders

and blind fishes, 

I’ve touched the walls

covered with luminous worms

and spiders with legs

as long as my arms.

 

             Go deeper the oracle said.

 

I’ve been all the way in,

she said, all the way

to where the walls

are covered with paintings

of antlered men

and dancing women,

of suns and moons

and disembodied hands.

I’ve tripped over the bones 

of wild bulls and giant bears. 

 

             Go deeper the oracle said.

 

But there is no door, 

no passage, 

leading beyond that deepest cave. 

The only way left

is the way back out.

 

         Ah then, said the oracle.

         Ah.

Winter Prompt #25: Sand

SAND

Winter Prompt # 25

Holiday Point, South Hero,

that summer between houses.

 

Popham Beach in the fog,

the first time I met the sea.

 

Fred’s Beach, Fourth of July,

hotdogs. Fireworks over the water.

 

White Strand of the Blasket, inviting,

dangerous, like its mothering land.

 

Kitty Hawk, where the first flight paths

are measured by stones.

WHAT I DID AFTER YOU LEFT HOME

WHAT I DID AFTER YOU LEFT HOME

Went to New Orleans,

walked alone in the early morning.

They were opening windows,

washing down the streets.

Are you ready, M’am?

An old man stood on the cobblestones,

beaming in the steaming light.

He held reins in one crinkled hand,

extended the other to me.

His brown horse shook its head, bells rang.

Ready?  For what?

 

Are you ready for a buggy ride?

I had not planned to act like a tourist,

but how could I do otherwise

in this unexpected land, this place I’ve never seen?

The people sitting above the tall red wheels

were talking and laughing together

like people in a painting, or a play.

The driver cocked his head, waiting for my answer.

I asked the cost.

There was no reason to refuse.

 

I placed my damp white hand in his,

my hand with the split lifeline,

the single crack foretelling a single child.

Twenty years ago a sibyl read my palm:

You’ll live long, but two lives, different.

You’re a musician.  And try not to be so stingy.

Yes of course I’m ready, I told him.

Boost me up.

 

You, I’m afraid, would have been

disdainful, cool.  You would not

have approved of me,

sweating in my purple dress,

gawking, singing along,

leaning out behind the horse’s bobbing feathered head

above the spinning wheels

in that impressionistic light.

 

I felt a city dawn that day,

saw men in stiletto heels and black stockings 

prancing down the shining sidewalks,

artists reaching for long moist shadows,

women like statues, painted gold.

The city smelled like fresh coffee,

sour beer, things frying in lard.

On every bright wet corner

were little children, dancing.

 

 

I wrote this a long time ago, in response to the Empty Nest. It ended up being a performance piece.

 

March 24–November 16, 1999;  Jan. 30–April 20, 2001

Quatrain Chapbook:   Sing in me, Muse, Feb. 2005

INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE HOUSESITTER

INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE HOUSESITTER

If the door has blown closed, open it.

You do not need a key.

Feed the birds.

There is seed in the blue jar.

 

Pick the apples, eat the cherries.

Make wine from the grapes.

Do not eat the yellow pears

for they are bitter.

 

The garden is full

of deep green weeds.

Cook them in oil.

They will make you strong.

 

When dew shines on the leaves

go out and wet your feet.

The copper basin holds rainwater

to wash your hair.

 

Milk the goats

at sunrise and sunset.

Drink what you like

and make the cheese.

 

The dogs will kiss

you awake.

The cats will sing

you to sleep.

 

They will tell you

what they wish to eat.

They will tell you

what to dream.

 

At midnight,

the owls will come.

The great gray owl

will speak. Listen.

PORTRAIT OF DAVID NICHOLS, ARTIST UNKNOWN

 

Here’s another of the Sheldon Museum poems, this one about a portrait of an extraordinarily handsome man that hangs upstairs in the Sheldon’s office space. There are a few letters of his in the archives, too.  He died fairly young, in Paris. One woman who viewed the portrait was heard to say, “He could only have been shot by a jealous husband.”  

PORTRAIT OF DAVID NICHOLS, ARTIST UNKNOWN

What is the use of a person’s living if he can’t enjoy himself? 

None! say I–and if one can’t enjoy themselves 

when they are in the bloom of life, 

when can they?

~D. N. in a letter to Dugald Stewart, Dec. 28, 1841

Did I meet your ghost in Paris–

slim shadow brushing by that night

on the street in Montmartre?

 

I like the way you look at me

after all these years.

 

That rose that fell

from the balcony in Pigalle

and landed at my feet–did it drop

from your long  fantomatique

fingers? Maybe it was your esprit

murmuring compliments

in terrible French as I sunned

in a green chair in the Tuileries.

Your breath on my neck while I lingered

in the café drinking red wine

and watching the moon . . .

 

I want to run my hands through your hair,

trace the shape of your long nose.

 

Was it your spectre I glimpsed, waving

an immaculate handkerchief

from the Arc de Triomphe?

I’m glad you died

in Paris.  Vermont was too small

for your élégance, exubérance,

“real Yankee” though you claimed to be.

It was “utterly impossible to raise a dance”

here in winter, and I cannot imagine

you in Vermont, in winter,  not dancing.

There’s something about the gleam

in your eye and–oh, I don’t know–

your Mona Lisa smile.

April Prompt #7:THE CHEAP HOTEL

April #7

COMING HOME TO MOTHER’S DEATH BED:

THE HOTEL JUST OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF

Janet’s #1–The Cheap Hotel

We drove all afternoon and into the night.

My God, Arizona is big.

 

Did we stop for supper?

I don’t remember.

 

Just that one road, on and on.

Mesas out there, black against the stars.

 

Beethoven’s ninth on the radio for awhile.

For some reason, I remember that.

 

Ode to Joy.

When we could not go on,

 

a motel with the desk next to the bar.

Pinpoints of light, nothing illuminated.

 

Carrying our bags through the parking lot.

What did that room look like?

 

It was dark.

We were on the road again before dawn.

EVERYWHERE

EVERYWHERE

 

My mother was a canyon

the green river carved

through centuries of stone.

 

She was a long train winding

between red-mud hills,

wild cucumber springing from her tracks.

 

She was the sidewalk

outside an airport where

a solitary pigeon pecked at crumbs.

 

My mother became a cobble-stone

street slick with rain;

an impassive golden angel

 

watching me from her perch

above the Paris Opera as I dragged

my suitcase with its one broken

 

wheel.  My mother was

my grandmother’s derelict

house in Ostrowy

 

where the jackdaws never change,

calling “Kawka! Kawka!”

their ancient Polish name.

April Prompt # 7: DIRECTIONS

APRIL PROMPT #7

something that is easy for others

but almost if not totally impossible for you 

 

NO NEED TO WRITE IT DOWN

~for John Pratt

 

Take the first left after the traffic light,

head south about half a mile. The road will

kind of divide in three. Ignore the drive-

ways on the right, and bear right. There’s a jog

heading east right after you round the first

easy corner–not the sharp corner with

the yellow sign. There’s mountains to the west

and a little gap in the hills on the

east. Head for that gap, but before you get

there, you’ll see an apple orchard–or a

Christmas tree farm–a commercial tree place

of some kind. Turn left onto what looks like

a little farm road. It isn’t, really,

it’s a town road, but it isn’t marked, or

at least it wasn’t last week. They steal the

sign sometimes, so it usually isn’t

there. If it’s there, I think it’s Orchard Road,

or something like that. Or somebody’s name.

Wilson Road, or Sunderland, or something.

Three or four miles down that road, it will fork.

There are a bunch of little driveways, but

the main road is pretty obvious.  Take

the right fork. You should see a cemetery

on the left. I’m pretty sure on the left

since you’re coming from that direction. We’re

the fourth–no, fifth, there’s some new houses–house

on the north after the cemetery.

 

You can’t miss it.