Poetry Workbook: 2016

Here is a letter of introduction, of sorts, to an imaginary young manager, who has not yet faced the disorientation of a corporate downsizing. Such a reality has become all too common as the knee-jerk reaction to--dare I say--disappointment in the market. At its core a downsizing means that management has failed, whether by growing and hiring too quickly, by misinterpreting the market, or lacking the courage to retrain and redeploy a workforce. Ultimately it is a failure of imagination. The impact is that life is literally sucked out of the organization. The ancient practice of bloodletting is an apt metaphor. As the poems that follow say in their own way, this is a death, with grieving from which it is a fundamental human struggle to overcome. And as is also a part of our human struggle, there is hope and redemption.

Dear Adam,

Hear is a story of adventure and losing your way.

There was a young man who lived all his life in the village surrounded by mountains where he was born. All the people and ways of the village were familiar to him.

But as a young heart is wont to do, he set out one day with some water and bread, for a hike to see what was on the other side. He crossed streams, slogged through mud, cut through vines and briar. Eventually he came to the edge of the forest where the rocks rose up around him, and the climbing was rough.

Not to be deterred, he pressed on. Near nightfall, he made it to the top where a small cabin awaited him. Putting down his pack, he turned slowly in all directions to see if he could see his village or any village. But he could not.

He knew that the next morning he would need to go back thru all the trials he had to get him here or press on to the unknown. But he did not know the way. He awoke early before the sun and walked outside where he saw a familiar bright morning star that seemed to say to him, come this way, whether to the next village or to home. And so he set out again confident that he was headed in the right direction.

Best regards,

Blood.let.ting n.

Bloodshed.
The removal of blood, usually from a vein, as a therapeutic measure.
The laying off of personnel or the elimination of resources.

The Free Dictionary, http://www.thefreedictionary.com/bloodletting

Pruning

The late fall pruning in the park

I wander through at lunch

has begun in earnest.

The chainsaws and rakes

are busy reducing

dead or errant limbs

to stacks of logs and wood chips

that are so fresh before they

fade to gray and blend with

the underbrush;

so I come here to the now dormant garden

to clear my head of the brush

and weeds that snare the average day

and I think of the looming changes

the cuts and downsizings just

before the holidays

and note that when trees of all ages

are cut,

they bleed

The frost chooses

The frost chooses;

it brushes the grass,

broad leaves of kale,

beneath the wired stalks

of last year's berries;

but it is not on the pines

or lanky cedars,

the vines that drape

on the limbs of leafless trees;

as the edge of sunlight

crosses the valley

the icy traces ebb

and the old green shows

like washed hair

combed with a part

and rows of hidden gray.

Ebola training

We stop on the wide path

each walking the other way;

he stops and motions to the tents

where the trainings have been,

the Red Cross truck

parked idly,

the body bags behind its closed door.

"maybe we can take these down now"

he says, the dozens having taken flight

into the eye of the storm;

maybe it will be over soon,

maybe we will all

find our rest

Memorial

The three sisters arrange the fruit

on the table in the temple

where they have come each new year

for nearly twenty.

The mother looks on with

hands clasped behind her back

occasionally reaching out to point

a move here or there

even in the mourning there

is a teaching and a doing.

Later, up a tall staircase

in an aisle of numbered doors

just higher than the urn it opens to,

a photo of the father

small as a passport

looks back while the daughter

softly weeps.

Toward

Each face that comes

towards me

as I walk to the station

they walk from

tells a different story

some eyes downcast

some coy

some still carrying sleep

troubled

delighted

hurried

carrying a briefcase

wheeling luggage

a cup of coffee

croissants in a bag;

were this later

it would be me

coming at myself

as a morning

lifts its shoulders up,

the sun not quite warm,

the bell for the door

about to close.

Morning Poem

Every sixth umbrella

passing me in the morning rain

has some color

or radii of stripes

mixed in this stream of black;

they lean to one side

as if to nod

when I nod past;

some stretch an arm up

to pass over my edge;

the crisscross of the rain

is delayed from its ground,

so I am walking more slowly,

more aware of the art of passing

when carrying an extra load,

more apt to smile

at the little courtesies

of living.

Graduation

It keeps me up at night

wondering the date

and how the professor

picked hers,

from not too late

and not too early,

circled it on the calendar

and after drinking her Socrates,

had to pee,

the dignity oozing out of her;

there should be a ceremony,

a taking of the rolled paper

on a stage,

tossing hats in the air,

but it was being helped back to bed

by the one she loved,

tucked in,

lights dimmed,

breathing easing away

like evaporation

that stayed with me.

After reading the story of Sandy Bem's planned suicide in the NY Times Magazine

Bee on the Roses

On this patio table

with its color-pattern cloth

and squat pitcher

filled with fresh sprigs from

the rose bush

I watch the honey bee you pointed out

getting his legs dirty

with each twirl

of his kazoo dervish

Years ago my daughter

read that bees so intent

on their work

could be stroked

like a cat or sleeping dog;

so she had to try it.

I still remember her wail

holding her stung pointer

half from pain

and half from disappointment.

I tell you this story

and you ask if I will pet

the bee;

no, I assure you,

I am much too wise for that;

but later watching the bee return

and his crooked-finger circle dance

I am disappointed I have not

yet been stung.

Batter

There are three pitching machines

whipping their metal arms

and I am swinging the bat

as fast as I can

cracking a fly ball here

a grounder there

trying not to miss

and hoping the fast balls

don't arrive at the same time.

that's when I notice the coach

wheeling another machine

up to the mound

with a fresh bucket of balls.

Hangers on

I usually text "rolling"

when the train

starts its heavy pull

from the day left behind,

but I do not travel alone;

the seats are occupied

by a burley report

a smoking email

and a lunch half eaten

I rustle though my backpack

for a soft red lozenge

I close my eyes and chew.

I do not offer one to my

entourage

I do not give them names.

Foreign Assignment

It's all quite tenuous

even the label is questionable:

“expat.”

though this post has all

the right papers—

quite legitimate—

it could evaporate

in an instant,

thirty days to vacate

the country

at the end of an assignment,

known as the grace period,

transition time,

deportation;

there's a quaint expression

that at the end,

God called him home.

I should have expected

all along this was temporary.

Falling

From high on the tall

horse chestnut trees

that shadow this path,

empty cars parked along

the way,

the sound of falling

seems more rapid than Galileo,

a caroming off branches

to the rooftops of the cars

cracking open and spilling

their core and spiny husk

to the ground;

one must walk carefully

here

among all the dying

and wailing infancy.

Nagging Quote

"Ideas pull the trigger, but instinct loads the gun." --Don Marquis

At first, I like this quote

posted by a friend

on his Facebook wall

on Halloween

It lingers as if its face paint,

graffiti on the door,

my instincts often keep me

from loading anything,

and ideas have a way of exploding

like the balloon on the party chair;

but what matters

is when it all slows down,

that moment before slinging the rock

at Goliath,

that nagging question

of what just happened here,

rewind,

put down the gun

and take up the pen.

Midday Poem

The wet sycamore

leaves stick to the path

as if iron-on patches;

I remember them,

these were the hardest

to gather with the long-

fingered rake

or whining blower;

it was as if they were

saying, "we're here;

we're not moving.

I admire such anchoring

against wind and whisk

such adamancy

such grounding

such unwillingness

to bend

to yield

to grow.

All the King’s Horses

Some exude the power

of balance

by keeping all others

off their equilibrium;

ah, the even kilter

of those five syllables,

one the focal point,

the others teetering;

weight and balance--

that my words and yours

matter

and without either,

a falling,

breaking,

a divide between

those seemingly above

and those grounded

in the dust

The Call

The late fall wind

is drag racing

the dried maple leaves

down the macadam path;

the scratch-brush-tire

on the snare drum

turns with each step,

and I'm aware

I am walking in the opposite

direction,

not blown in the ways

of the breezy tide

that carries all things

float-able on the common

journey;

but this way

toward the call behind

the cloud,

the end of the golden string*.

*63. From ‘Jerusalem’

By William Blake (1757–1827)

To the Christians

I GIVE you the end of a golden string;

Only wind it into a ball,

It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate,

Built in Jerusalem’s wall.…

Evening poem

In the dark

between the cars

beside the house

walking is tricky,

the paving stones

heaved from frost and rain

turn up their edges

where a boot may catch;

staring down, trying to discern

the shadows,

I shuffle

one foot ahead of the other;

at the corner, not yet the lighted window

the shadows border on lighter shades;

turning slowly and peering

over my left shoulder

a three-quarter moon

horizons above the rooftops,

once hidden by the house,

now rolling back the dark;

it stops me on the line

where hints of the way

are clearer

As from a cable car

A Swiss train closes

its doors at once

with a chunk-click

heard a block away;

the rushers will

push the doors button

or pull on its latch

in vain

but there is no denying

the train is leaving

at the scheduled minute

and will ease out

of the station so slowly

it would seem you could

catch it, hop on

and swing from the doorway

as from a cable car.

He handed me the golden string

and before I could tug and wind

tug and wind

a matched flared somewhere

its licking petal of heat

set the string dancing

like a sparkler

a rocket trail

a fuse;

and I had to write

express it

till it reached its end,

to its end

with it

horror,

not that some

dynamite may detonate

and swallow all sound,

rather that it reaches the end

of its length,

fizzles out

with a small puff

of obscuring smoke.

After a week of burning the candle down

We called it wasted,

the off balance

numb humming

between the ears

that made a short step

feel as if on the narrowest of floors

with a chasm on either side

where

breathing would topple

a mind

that was so sure

the pen could not keep up.

But here I am

at the end of a week

where the mindless demands

of avoiding

a tsk tsk

has me mumbling,

closing my eyes to any light

and craving the balm of sleep

after burning the candle down.

Re-found

The sun spills over the Alps

a few minutes earlier each day

and there is a sense of hastening

in the air;

all that seeks the sky know this;

the spring comes for them;

hope is not as much an ache for,

as a pull toward;

it reaches through the frost

and pulls out yellow trumpeters,

white bells,

purple maracas;

each plays an old song:

that we are not forgotten;

once in the dead of winter

we are re-found.

Easter

The wind is howling this morning

the French doors creak and rattle

with each intake of breath,

the rain clouds have been blown

through the valley,

the blue sky trumpets,

daffodils bow,

and still empty branches wave as palms

to this day,

the one that tells us death is empty

and new life follows winter

as sure as the swallows return

An Evening Sonnet

She is tugging at her Dad's hand,

impatient to go nowhere in particular,

but somewhere;

she stops and points

exclaiming in a language I

do not know,

but with every gesture I remember;

then she does that little skip and dance

to the joy of walking

and making noise on the pavement

as if this was a canvas snare drum

and the curtain is about to rise;

"if you become as a little child",

my tired feet implore,

heaven may be the first act

when we move from standing up

to stumbling with a hand held high.

From train platform 5, Gare Cornivan, Geneva

Bamboo after spring rain

To where are you going,

dark pointed shoots

marching up the slope

thru our garden

and up the lawn?

The pine tree knows

the lake is too far

and the peonies

are not yet ready to guard

with their beauty;

you have parted the spent

daffodils

and the wild flowers

in the grass don't care,

but she pointed to the ancient

saying

before stepping outside

to harvest your tender shoots,

before they grow hard

and resisting

any passage.

Of whether death had come

I come back to the place

on the platform

where the man collapsed

yesterday

waiting in a sea of suits

for the morning train;

I’m looking for the shadow,

the stain where he fell

that marks his dropping

down in the queue,

and even though he was

helped up

and the responders called,

there was a piercing in the side

here

a test of whether death

had come

April Night

Entering into darkness

on an April night

I do not know what to say,

I can only breathe

and feel the chill on my ears;

when I heard the news

I thought I could not imagine such grief,

that this is not my life

and I would be presumptuous

to say such things;

but it is my life

when I imagine its end

with each page of turning years;

so if I truly stand here

next to your grief

and breathe

with ears toward the catch

in your breath,

a passing life

is my life

and your grief

my grief

For Julia

Cf. Barbara Brown Taylor, “Barbara Brown Taylor: In Praise of Darkness,” Time, April 17, 2014

Shiva

I am sitting

in a chair that should

be lower,

waiting for

some words to say

that will not come;

there should be

a candle lit

that will burn

for seven long days

and the mirrors covered

because reflection

is already saying too much;

so the sitting,

is what we are told to do--

a Noah in the Ark

waiting for a glint

of something divine

in all this rain.

for Betsy

Berlin

In the bustle of the city

other voices shout

those that cling onto door jambs

locked brass knobs

homes from which they have been

yanked as teeth,

on the cobblestone walks that step

through these gentle neighborhoods

brass plaques set among them

have their names

and to where they were taken;

at each turn

there is a reading

to be taken in,

marks of exclamation,

ellipsis, commas,

but never periods

never periods!

Cobblestone plaques on a Berlin Street

Swallows

Every edge of night

in this season of long days

the swallows race and whistle

scooping any small gift

in their path; the relentless noise

is as if referees are calling

a continuous off-sides;

these are the fighter jets

of the avian realm,

chattering their ordinance

against the dark cruel night,

the we-will-not-go

without a fight.

The travelers

To the woman in the bus window

with the dark eyes of profound sadness,

staring off to a place

I cannot go,

I dream I journey with you

though it is not my bus or city

and our language likely pulls

from different places;

but there you sit

and though I step into another carriage,

I sit with you.

Crossing off days

Old man with a folded face

rimmed cap pulled tightly down

takes a paring knife

cuts a careful x

in the chestnut

and flips it into the pan

to roast with the others

that have gone before.

Each year has

it's special curl,

each burlap sack

slung over his shoulder

has made it here

to this same place

on the street that ambles back

to the train station

where the inter-regio waits.

In the evening he decides

with the rest of us,

bag emptied of the day,

to get on

and let the door close.

Getting off the train

The man in front of me

exiting the aisle of an evening train

suddenly lurches to a stop,

the strap from his bag

having caught on the arm

of a seat;

and we must all step

back in a rewind

so he lifts his case

above the bench

and alights into the evening

as a firefly

released.

Two Chairs

Two chairs

in an empty room

are what were left

by its residents

who are already

a month gone.

They angle toward

each other

as the conversation

that may have floated

between the colleagues.

Now there is only

imagination

and a goodbye

that lingers.

Two Chairs, Nyon

The Ditch

Who is your Samaritan

she asks?

and we can all recall

first hearing this story

and perhaps learning mercy, kindness.

later we may think on

the one least expected,

the one least like us,

and in the story

there would be a cornerstone

for peace--

all this would all be true;

but now that I am old and gray

I think about the ditch

and who will come down

into this darkness with me,

the citizen of life

for me?

Who has not

quickly filled it in,

paved it over,

planted grass or tree?

A hand stretched out

in this soiled gully

next to the road,

this I can grasp,

with this

I can be lifted up.

Ball

Riding my bike on the path

through the freshly cut barley

or what I imagine was barley

a man sits with his dog

ahead

bouncing a ball a bit

while the dog watches

like a hose swells

before the nozzle is turned;

such a short toss

across this page

and his friend catches it

on the fly

as if the arc were known

before it was released,

something akin

to writing this down

or perhaps you, dear reader,

catching it.

Poetry Workbook

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Bloodletting

Introduction