CAMP FIRE WOMEN
My friend Julie is a Fire Keeper.
Sometimes all night she watches,
holds the flame at the center
of the world. It is her sacred way.
And mine? To search the forest,
to gather the wood: This for kindling,
this for tinder, this for cleansing,
this for a long and steady burn.
tough sleeve bag wave half fire
l.
WHAT WE CARRY
Each of us carries a bag, a tough bag,
filled with the weight of our times and years.
Each of us is half-dead these days. We wave
to one another across the firewall.
We wave, and blink our eyes. For each is still
alive, one sleeve rolled up, scrubbing along
however we can, lugging our bags,
bearing our bit of the impossible load.
ANOTHER ZUIHITSU because I have to write something
1.
It’s as if someone is deliberately making things so bad that nobody can stand it. Almost enough to make me believe in the Beast, the AntiChrist, or something like that.
2.
We hoard dark roasted coffee beans in little brown bags in the freezer. I think I have enough now.
3.
I’ve been trying not to look at the news every hour, but I can’t help it. It’s the only way I can participate, living here, in this little green bowl.
4.
Chipmunks live under the front steps. They scurry out to get food, scurry back in for fear of hawks and weasels and our dog. But they’re never safe from weasels.
5.
A very satisfying conputer game: drag random clusters of jewels into rows and columns on a board laid out in squares. When I place a cluster, I hear a lovely “click.” When I complete a row or column, I hear a very satisfying “ping.” I can’t stop playing this game even though it makes my neck sore.
6.
I had to get coffee beans out of the freezer last night. They were so hard that I couldn’t grind them till this morning. I know that some people don’t like to freeze beans, and some people say one should grind the beans right before brewing, but I don’t care.
7.
I have painted a piece of cardboard with a color called “Tea Room”—one of those small samples of paint available for a dollar at the paint store. When the paint was dry, I drew square tiles with a black marker and installed it in the cardboard box castle we made to illustrate fairy tales for the grandchildren.
8.
The Great Crested Flycatcher sits on a high perch to hunt for insects. If she misses an insect on her first pass, she pursues it in the air. Unless her nestlings object, she offers the whole insect, wings and all. If they do object, she pummels the insect until the offending wings break off.
9.
Many twigs, new-leafed, blew off the trees last night in the wind. When I walked the dog down the driveway early this morniung, I picked them up—at least, most of them—and tossed them back among the trees so they wouldn’t have to dry and turn to dust on the driveway stones.
soil
flight
farther
tingle
ZUIHITSU for a day when there should be no words
1
After the scanty rainfall yesterday (or was it the day before?), I planted beans. Six rows of black beans. I crawled along on my hands and knees to set them in the furrows and cover them with soil. As I patted the soil in place, I left my handprints to show that I’d been there.
2.
On our morning walk, the dog and I noticed a red-tailed hawk watching us from a power line. As we approached, she took flight and landed in a dead elm tree beside the newly cut hayfield on the other side of the road.
3.
Most days, I walk a bit farther than four miles. Today I was cold and wanted to get home to start the laundry. When the washing is all in the machine, perhaps I’ll vacuum the rug. That seems about all I can manage these days: walks and housework.
4.
Tomorrow—no—the next day—tomorrow is Tuesday—my husband and I will sit in my study and wait for the computer tingle that signals our son’s weekly call. It will be good to see the children. The three-year old tries to touch us through the screen. She has skin like a bisque doll, and enormous blue eyes. There are so many things she will never have to know.
NAME THAT ROOT
Knobby, greening, hard white twists sprout in spring.
Planted, they draw stripy bugs who leave orange eggs
and thick red larvae that squash to a gooey mess.
Their poisonous leaves draw spores of blights.
They soften, slime and perish.
So basic their absence can mean famine.
Growing them is a chore, a back-breaker,
but in late summer, grabbling them
with your grandchild means a feast.
REHEARSAL
It was all rehearsal: ways to dampen
anxiety. Yoga, Qigong, prayer.
meditation. Long walks. Gardening. Art.
Old household skills: bread and soup and cookies
and soap. Getting along with others. I
recall how the Brits kept going during
the blitz, my aunts and uncles in Poland
after the war. You’ve had the dream, I think.
You’re in a play, about to go onstage,
but you don’t remember your lines or worse
never learned them, or worst of all you’ve never
even seen this play, and the director says,
“It’s theater, for Chrissake. Fake it. Make
something up! The curtain’s rising. You’re on.”
APRIL FANTASY
The sun used to shine early every morning.
At least, that’s how I remember it.
And the breezes were very gentle from the south.
I would stand on the front step and breathe
the air scented with white daffodils.
A bluebird would light on my shoulder
and whistle in my ear. I’d go inside
and make breakfast for the family
and we’d sit around the table
enjoying wild raspberries and cream
before we went out into the world.
I’d have another cup of fresh-brewed coffee
in the garden, and then the bluebird and I
would clean house with the other birds,
all of us singing all the while.
warp
sidewalk
twisted
cave
PLAY OF PASSING SHADOWS
Seventy years and more in this cave
learning to weave. Firelight flickers
shapes on the walls, twisted shadows
of things unimaginable passing
on the sidewalk wound around
out under the sun, or so I’ve heard.
What is the sun but a bigger fire?
All I know is here: shuttle, warp.
The threads are given, the pattern mine.
COMMUNION
All morning we cleaned the shed beside the church—
one of those places all over America
where the hungry poor come to stand in line
for day-old bread and canned beans,
for commodity tubes of hamburger,
bags of shredded orange cheese,
MRE-style pouches of beef stew.
We hauled out the cardboard and the plastic
from the cases of cans of corn
and mac-and-cheese and fruit cocktail.
We scrubbed down the rusty metal shelves;
we vacuumed up the dust, tidied the refrigerators.
We made room in the freezers
for the dated meats and donuts and pies
another crew pickes up from the market.
We didn’t talk much.
We know each other well enough
to work in silence—
four women, the Tuesday volunteers,
each of us old enough to have a few scars.
At noon, Phyllis handed out some
blueberry muffins she’d baked.
We took a break, ate
standing outside in the parking lot
in the late September sunshine.
Then we got back to work.
THE END OF POETRY MONTH
~a manifesto, or possibly just a rant
People who write poems do it ALL THE TIME.
Even when they aren’t writing.
When they’re walking, eating,
sitting in the coffee shop staring out the window.
When they’re watching movies,
running errands,
drinking with friends.
ALL THE TIME.
And once a year,
in the cruelest month,
you haul them out,
put them on display,
act like you care.
THEY ARE NOT LIKE A DISEASE
requiring an awareness month.
You do not pay them a thing
and they do not ask you to.
Maybe they should.
Maybe they should
go on strike.
In April.
No bookstore readings,
no interviews.
No new poems.
The extremists among them might
knock poetry books from library shelves,
might stand on street corners.
Their placards might read
NOT POETRY MONTH
HAVE YOU NOTICED?
