The Poetry Society of Vermont

A gaggle of teen-aged girls

huddle under the corner street lamp,

bare legs melded like mermaids

against November chill.

In light weight jackets they hug

school books for insulation

and stand away from the boys in jeans

hunch backed under back packs.

I smile and wave as I drive by,

remembering that being cool trumps

being warm in each generation.

My eyes meet theirs, but fail

to melt the frost on their icy faces.

Next day I repeat the greetings,

receive cold glances.

I quiz myself.  Haven't most of them

come trick or treating at my house,

gathered from me for their charity drives,

sold me Girl Scout cookies?

Today, leaving home, I resolve to ignore them.

One girl only is waiting at the stop.

I approach intending to look the other way.

She sees me, beams a toothy grin, waves

and makes my day.

Being so young and knowing not how old

ones wait in fear that there might be no end

this time -- or that there may, if abject cold

should prove, at last, to be a desperate friend;

discovering not, in seizing a brief catch

of chance, how love pursued could seem so small

with so much lost behind the final latch

release (the parting having become the all);

only later, learning through love met head-

on, which filled at once the inner gaping

spaces and left all hatred quieted,

could I, made whole again, transcend escaping.

Then I knew, recollecting earlier hints,

that you must have forgiven me long since. 

Driven by youthful hunger,

we shared a music

beyond the shuffling

of midnight madness

in bawdy saloons.

Can you remember our love?

The desert moon spun slowly

in its celestial orbit,

while our dreams covered ground

like wild horses.

The passage of time changed us,

a sad denouement

to the old raucous music,

and far beyond

where we wanted to ride.

Oh gentle hand of night

That guides my path to sleep.

Reassure me the fondest dream I have

Can be mine to keep.

There, laughter, candor, hope, despair

Hold each other at bay.

Only early morning hours chase

The relics of fire away.

What pre-dates this dream, oh Muse,

Where reason lingers out of true?

I have little understanding

Of how I come to you.

With the sun, my awakening

Brings me back to deserted light.

Yet, I remain shaded and touched

By the spirit of this flight.

For at day's end I beg the hope

To dream again tonight.

When I see a raccoon

lying on its back by the roadside,

plush body, paws in the air --

as if it had just let go of a bird

or a comet, or its soul, that white bride

of the living -- it looks like ballet,

the way the paws curve toward

each other, not touching, and I hear

my teacher's voice "Pretend

you have a string attached to your head

pulling you to heaven."

I would lift my chin, align

my neck and shoulders, feel each bone

rising out of my spine.

"Pretend you are holding

a beach ball . . . " and I would curve

my freckled arms around a circle

of empty space, lay them lightly on the air.

It's July, my birth month,

I am born tomorrow, sixty-six and still looking

down at my life as if it were a fine

gold chain, hopelessly tangled.

Hunched over, in the middle of the night, I try

to loosen knots with my silver pin.

"Look up . . . " my teacher says "at white clouds,

at mountains stretched at ease

like reclining women, at leaves that step out

fearless, to the end of the branch.  Pretend

you are holding . . . " and I curve my arms

around this grace, my full and open life.

I see a blue-wattled tom

posturing on the rise,

tail spread wide, gobbling

without a hen in sight.

Was it a poem for me, watching?

A porcupine lumbers,

a small dark tank

across my moonlit lawn,

accompanied by coyotes

in chorus on Scrag Mountain.

Whitetails come to eat

low-hung hemlocks

and denude the euonymous,

again, while raccoons glean

our apple tree of frozen fruit.

My window, a perfect view

for poems, and for your figure,

grey fedora snow-trimmed,

as you push branches aside

on your way to me.

I draw my hand

across the cherry wood wing

of his piano,

down the slender curve

to the keyboard

begging me

to harvest sound --

yet my fingers are idle

dumb against desire to play.

If only

I had settled myself,

leaned in close

to learn his ways,

I might have understood

how my grandfather wove

resonant tones

into a prayer

for such moments to last --

an evening together,

grandma

busy in the kitchen

weaving her gift into his

chicken, dumplings, apple pie,

savory fragrance

to melody,

quiet smiles that warm me

to this day --

had I tried a little harder,

I could play for them

better now, just to remember.

I always err toward the promise

of sex.  It is not diamonds

I seek, keep your rubies

and sapphires too.  I want

to be a savage butterfly

who rules the meadow, filled

with milkweed and honey,

nourished and bold.

It is not a partner I want,

it is to dance.  Razor-sharp

and hell-bent, I step

into the light, ripe

and unafraid, searching

for what, I do not know.

Our eyes meet.  Did not

the gypsy warn to stay

away?  Who am I

to court such misplaced

fortune? "Come,"

you say, swaggering.

Like the butterfly whose wings

touch the sun, I dare to burn.

Beyond le Palais de Justice

in the peaceful park

laughing barefooted children

toss balls, swing and slide.

An enfant toddles

after his bourk'ed Mama;

she pushes his stroller of toys:

blue plastic bullets and bright colored guns --

early education for Baby Ben.

How many daisies have been picked before

on this spare hill, that long ago have died --

clutched in a fist pushing a patched screen door,

then offered up to anxious hands inside?

Or, when presented by some blushing lover

to grace a picnic under that far tree,

did they, hidden by its lush young cover,

help him claim his kiss on bended knee?

Perhaps (and just as likely) one has stood

precisely where I find myself today,

chanting an age-old saying (It does no good

insisting one doesn't care what it will say!) --

with a lover's fate decided on the spot

by these same cruel white petals -- "He loves me not!"

I leave the barn

to walk up the pasture path

into a cold, autumn fog;

a shroud,

of white and grey

that envelopes the hillside

where I stand.

Fence posts fade,

grassy slopes

and bare trees slip

into shadowy forms.

I could enter this swirling

emptiness that surrounds me,

go on forever,

inwards

into that timeless world.

(After my husband's suicide, 1970)

On the evening news that night

a scientist predicted

an asteroid was on its way,

though I didn't hear when.

Before dawn we woke to wild light

swinging meteorically across

our faces, and then the blow

of metal crushed against wood

and ground.

A drunken boy, rushing

against fading stars

missed the earth's curve

and failed to hold

the wheels of his father's pick-up

from the edge of the ditch.

Somehow alive, he stumbled

from the tangled hulk.

We led him to the house.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry,"

pleading to a presence

through the phone line.

By sunrise, the wrecker came

and the father, with papers.

I looked through our splintered fence

at the hole

in the laurel hedge

to where deep in the gouge

forests shriveled, great cities burned,

hillsides crumbled into ashen rivers

tat flowed backwards,

auguring deserts.

I can't say I really knew her.

When I took my daily constitutional

past the Homestead --

a figure sometimes appeared

at an upstairs window.

My neighbors thought

they could see her white clad figure

in the garden at night --

a ghost tying up her foxgloves,

while fire-flies flickered light.

We all knew she was a gentlelady --

her being the granddaughter

of Mr. Dickinson

who built us our own college

here in Amherst.

Some claimed

she spent most of her time

in her bedroom making up rhymes --

Of course few of us read those line.

I heard the world wasn't overly fond

of the hundreds she finished,

'though they tell me

she lived to see a few printed.

Poor thing, she's gone now.

I'm nobody to judge,

but if that's all the thanks she got

for writing year in and year out,

to my way of thinking,

she must have had grit --

and a peck of genius to boot.

Ribs are inflexible

They have no comprehension

Of the sweep and clutch

Of fingers

That can speak to deaf people.

No subtle beauty

Like the arch of a brow

Or an eyelid brushing tears

Over the soft roll of a cheek.

They are less agile than knees or hips,

Anatomically quite simple.

But they live next to the heart.

In my next life

I will dance -- my fine, strong feet

will keep time with the music;

then with perfect pitch I will sing jazz

while playing the piano.

My hair will be auburn and thick --

I will wear it loose, so it falls

in waves down my back.

I will speak seven languages

fluently -- especially Italian.

My passport will be stamped full

as I travel to coastal towns

where I will stay in small hotels

with views of the sea.  There

in sunny courtyards, I will sit

reading, among persimmon trees

and lemon trees in terra cotta pots.

I will swim every day in the ocean

or a pond, a river, a blue pool.

I will know how to find morels

in the Oregon woods,

how to stitch a straight line,

skip a stone,

fix an engine, fly-fish

start a generator.

I will not be afraid in my next life,

not be intimidated, not give up.

And sometimes I will hear

memory's breath -- a whisper

of what I was, of what I had,

of what I know now.

The woods

are wet today

where my footsteps go

between the trunks all stark

and dark

against the sodden snow.

The sky

is pewter gray

above the dampened spruce,

and limp, pale leaves are furled

and curled,

a pale and yellow glow.

The rain

is gently strumming

a steady rhythm-beat,

and twigs have drops that string

and cling,

row on row on row.

The brook

is freshly drumming

underneath the ice,

plunging into pools of green

now seen

beside the brook where I like to go.

I used to try to portion out my love

The way I'd do for ice-cream in a dish,

With hot-fudge sauce dripping from above,

To puddle at the base.  Oh, how I'd wish

I could have more!  And so I'd eke it out,

Agonizing for the end too soon --

And all the while, until there was no doubt;

No sauce remained to grace the final spoon.

But love is not like that.  Love shared with you

Was doubled -- maybe even ten or twenty

Hundred-thousand times it grew and grew

Till you and I were giddy with our plenty!

When it's not hoarded, kept in spare seclusion

There's no known limit to love's rare profusion.

Asylum gardens

beckon the man

ruined from within.

Van Gogh weeps,

peers into the depths

of the bearded iris,

pursues details

as if sanity

might reside beneath

the regal standards --

beautiful fleur-de-lis.

One bloom,

then many --

bouquet as full

as his emptiness,

abundance

before demise.

Frantic to grasp

the strange allure,

capture unflagging

strength,

he raises his brush --

paints for his life.

The "King's Speech" gave Americans a peek

At life among the Windsors, long ago.

One thing we learned was that they always seek

To hide a family flaw, so none would know.

The media have given us their word

That something huge will happen in the spring,

Before this coming April all have heard

The promised nuptials will be just the thing

To bring in pounds and dollars by the ton.

Prince William and his lovely lady, Kate

Are totally adored by everyone,

But royal eyes will monitor their fate.

Elizabeth should hope that panorama

Brings her stodgy reign much-needed glamour.

Consider the woven silk vest

handmade on a German loom,

a gift from Bettina, my first

student in my first class

teaching English at Berlitz,

dumped in a Goodwill box

the spring I left New York.

and the collection of monthly 

"T" passes -- 1996 to 2008 --

saved in a vinyl pocket sleeve,

plastic cards swiped on buses 

and trolleys keeping track

of bustling years and memories

of commuting to a high wage job

in Kenmore Square thrown out

with the Tuesday trash the week

I moved to Vermont, and the love

letters from a man married

to someone else, still piled

near an open window, waiting

for a gust strong enough to lift,

carry away their weighted words.

I can recall my urge to paint his face,

his pale blue eyes, calm as a summer lake;

a fair-skinned Swede, proud of his Nordic race.

My palette filled, I thought of ways to make

a finished portrait, capturing the man,

a true and worthy likeness, for my sake.

His smile encouraged my ambitious plan.

I mixed the tints for flesh and silver hair,

picked up my brush and, full of trust, began.

I quickly limned his features, quite aware

that I must catch the sparkle in his eye

before I saw him tire from posing there.

Inspired, I painted on an artist's "high",

portraying Father's features perfectly;

my dedicated debt well worth the try.

He spoke of Viking ancestors to me,

his boyhood dreams of joining in a raid,

dressed in bearskins, frightening to see.

I painted his calm visage, but I prayed

that when he saw the portrait he would know

his dream showed through with every stroke I made.

I hung his portrait in a juried show

and walked among the patrons, keen to hear

if anyone was sharp enough to know

the Viking in my Father's face was clear.

Autumn plumbs a depth in me each year.

I've tried to understand just why it's so.

The cricket chirps as colder days appear.

His singing lures a mate, while I think snow

and fear the winter jailer's icy key.

But I won't write of that.  I'll wait instead

for early mists to shroud our maple tree,

to lift, revealing high leaves turning red.

The milkweed pods will burst in fields, entice

the monarch butterflies to eat their fill,

before they lift their wings and start their flights.

This is the day to hike the pasture hill

where autumn's alchemy is at its best.

I pass the milkweed, climb the rocky crest.

In the latest illustrated rendition

of Darwin's Evolution of Man

it is now a robot who is first

in line, leading the pack.

Not that I wasn't expecting this

eventually, will all the wireless

gizmos invading our daily lives,

but this latest morphology could

seriously eliminate all romance

from our genes when, I like to think,

most real men, with or without tails,

and even monkeys have some charm.

Long ago I gave my heart to someone

in the old line-up -- Mister Second

From The Right, now shoved without

a fare-thee well, into third place.

You know, there's something about a man

with a brow ridge.  He would gladly hold

his head high if his spine would let him.

I can see him now, squatting in the circle

of stone and fire inside our cave that

strongly resembles a panoramic lounge bar,

walls covered with images of wild deer

and bison.  And I am chief decorator --

charcoal, spit and hand prints my forté

depicting the Gatherer, while my manly-man

prefers Hunter's Charcoal Bar Art.

Some people call him Homo Erectus

because his posture is almost perfect.

So, to the robot men out there rearranging

the original Conga Line, I say knock it off

before your loose screws are exposed.

By the side of a stream

On a cool autumn day

I stood watching

The parade of leaves:

Current-swept,

Colors fading,

Sticking to rocks.

Licked off by lapping waters

They flowed beneath my feet

And toward the sea.

Mesmerized, I thought

"There's not stopping time

Or autumn leaves."