Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Rain all week, off and on, and road construction— orange cones and men in hard hats holding SLOW signs remind me that that is really what I’d like to do— As if on cue, downpour diminishes into drizzle— Droplets tremble on hydrangeas. And from behind the windshield, water is fractals, multiplying; is the moment’s architecture repeated, scaled, sheerer than paint spatter.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
This was, I believe, our fourth hike in the Monongahela National Forest’s Otter Creek Wilderness Area since we first ventured down that way in 2005. Back then, my camera was primitive, so I had to make up for it with more eloquent writing. This time, I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking.
“…the song of my dark hour.” ~ Carlos Bulosan
Something knocks twice against the dark to make her sit up
with a start: what sound? what presence? what flicker?
There’s a pile of laundry, stacks of books on the floor.
Blinds still drawn: against them, what is that flicker?
One of the neighbors smokes Cuban cigars. She smells
the whiff of smoky leaf, but never sees a match flicker.
She dreams in disconsolate cycles: in one, winged ants gather gossamer,
a dress about to drop over her head. Then they’re gone, in a flicker.
In another, nothing but white cotton sheets stretched out like
clouds. Her feet don’t touch them. She floats, light as a flicker.
That was from long ago: now that door, that dream, seems closed—
Wistful in that dark hour, she mouths a name, longing for its flicker.
As ever, the sun labors across the steep slope of hours; then
quickly descends with what it’s gathered, faster than a flicker.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
The fire is a thorough & voracious reader.
Page by page my old manuscript turns gray & brittle
& when the mist thickens into rain,
the smoking pile emits a long thin sigh.
Even in silence, amid the leaves,
there is speaking: moist tongues,
clawed and feathered missives.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
The stamp on the creased letter reads: No forwarding address.
Three cypress trees whose roots grew networks in cracked sewer pipes (the landlady sent two men to chop them up).
Two maple keys dangling in an old spiderweb: remnants of a winged creature’s wings.
Assorted metalware (25,000 light bulbs, 6,000 vinyl records, 2 gold rings) in an 80-year-old Serbian stuntman’s stomach. And the bike pedal that did him in.
The world’s largest pig hairball and two deformed calves, sitting in glass cases in an abbey.
Last year we read of cheese and ice cream being made from human milk; the other day: an article on cat owners knitting cardigans from spun, shed fur.
That faint smell of wet dog? Probably mildew from the water reservoir in the steam iron you use to take wrinkles out of traveling robes.
Truthfully, I’d rather wash than iron: soap and water, dirt wrung through the cord. The iron’s false promise: uncreasing some small part of life. Singed polyester therefore a kind of revenge.
In response to Morning Porch and small stone (93).
The shadow of a tiger swallowtail crosses my legs; I’m in the sunroom, reading,
when the phone rings. It’s 1 pm. There’s a man on the other end asking for Pomona.
His voice isn’t urgent or pleading, just a little gravelly, and matter-of-fact.
I tell him there is no one here by that name. But he simply insists, Pomona.
For a minute I consider asking him if he knows that is the name of the goddess
of fruitful abundance; in tapestries she presides over a cornucopia: Pomona.
But I hang up after saying Sorry, wrong number, and think no more of it. Until
the very next day at 1 pm, the phone rings again and it’s him, asking for Pomona.
And it goes on for weeks after this. I’m convinced even on days when I’m not home,
the yellow phone in the sunroom rings at 1 pm: it’s the caller looking for Pomona.
I’ve tried to tell him to stop calling, that no other woman lives here but me. I
write poems. I grade papers. I don’t make enough money. My name is not Pomona.
The teakettle whistles on the stove in alarm. I butter my toast and spoon
some apricot jam, wondering if they’re friends or lovers, this man and Pomona.
I’ll stop sometimes when I’m out in the city: that dark-haired woman running
in the rain, into the arms of a man at the stop— is that him, is that Pomona?
I water orchids in the sunroom, straighten books on shelves; dust photographs
of my daughters when they were younger. Do any of them resemble Pomona?
She married Vertumnus (the goddess, I mean; not this mystery girl): he tricked her,
disguised as an old woman. I wonder what she’d look like in drag, this Pomona?
Call the police, my friends say; call missing persons. But I’m hesitant. Did she
want to be found, did she want to disappear? Ah this man, this caller. And Pomona.
~ with thanks to Tammy Ho Lai-ming for the germ of the story
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
“A candle-flame is mystery domesticated, the profound made accessible.”
The attitude of bodies in sleep, tender and unguarded, sometimes
makes me want to weep. A fist uncurled: almost a prayer.
Ancient epics begin with invocation— The solitary voice, or one joined by a chorus,
calls others to bear witness to the human scene. Thus histories become prayer.
Most days I have no time to sit in quiet contemplation. Ora et labora,
the monastics say: that motto scrolled in gold leaf, itself a prayer.
In Greece, the orologion referred to various instruments by which
the ancients measured time. Night and day, the ticking hands of prayer.
The Horae are the Hours, goddesses of time and the seasons. They stand around
the throne of Zeus waiting to open or shut the gates of heaven: faithful as prayer.
In other legends, they harness the chariots of the Sun before it speeds
on its way; and take the halter from chafed mouths at end of day.
And every morning the wheel begins again: each bead dividing mystery
and work into their portions— barely a pause between one and the next prayer.
For our First Communion, we made white veils with scalloped edges from tulle,
while catechism teachers told us to listen for an inner voice in prayer.
I’ve listened hard, I’ve turned my ear as faithfully as my hands moving to pick up
the yoke. And still I flicker, and still my life is small and fitful as a votive’s prayer.
Or it feels my life’s a candle burning at both ends: fingers try to tamp the flame,
but the wick’s course is anchored at the core. At least let me burn slower, I pray.
They are not always gentle, those Hours that Janus praised. A breeze could fan a small
flare into conflagration— And fire rages with its own fierce intention, like prayer.
In response to cold mountain (53).
What do I wish? For now, enough time
to see the long grass bending under day-
long rain and decide it is time to go
into the kitchen where I can knead
something with my hands: flour and some
water; salt, oil, a handful of rosemary—
Enough time put the kettle on to boil,
to plant one dried tooth of anise
in the stew to help me remember
to dream; to lay one extra plate
for the one who isn’t here.
And even then night falls,
day slips away, restless as this
body craving respite: languid
thoughts, elusive sleep.
In response to Morning Porch and small stone (91).