Hummer
Then there is the hummingbird,
the newest visitor to our kitchen window feeder.
They are in another time zone altogether.
Before I finish saying hello, they’ve recited the daily news,
downed two cups of coffee and are off to the office.
Everything seems to be accelerating for them.
Perhaps that is like getting older,
but in a ways we may not expect.
We seem to slow down in many ways as we age.
We don’t move or think as fast;
we take turns on the road more deliberately,
as if the cues need to catch up in our minds
before we can act on them.
My father liked to say,
“I don’t know why they call these the Golden years;
they’re more like the rust years.”
In all these ways, we are not the hummingbird.
But something that does seem to speed up
as we get older
is time.
Whole seasons seem to fly by.
In the morning mirror, we age before our eyes,
like the fast motion videos of flowers blooming
and fading in minutes.
"when did all that grey happen," we mutter.
The little bundle of frenetic, humming energy
is challenging us to slow down
in ways that are coming alive
rather than getting busy with dying.
To delight in the grace of a divine visit,
that pauses for only a sip of time,
that is the poem of the hummingbird.
11 Aug 18
__________________________________________________________________________
The following poems were referenced or alluded to in a theological reflection, "Come with me," for a Sunday Mass, Labor day Weekend, 2018. --E.G. Happ
For the Song of Solomon, Ch. 2:8-17
Two Chairs
 |
| Lynn Tait, "Santorini, Two Chairs" |
We may look at these two chairs
that face us as empty,
sitting outside this rugged house
with the closed blue shutter
and stucco falling from the field stone,
but I see all the conversations
that have not yet happened,
the laughter that has not yet
rung out across this path,
the glance that comes
before the kiss;
what has been behind this window
tied shut with a bit of straw
has been,
and what is yet to come
cannot be kept within these walls;
come sit with me
and start a story
as if it were tomorrow,
and I will dream with you.
To the Bride, for Christmas, 2013
Ode to M. Fagan
you stood behind
the gray metal
Steelcase desk,
one shoulder turned
to the chalk board,
holding a fledgling poem.
with the eyes of Osirus
and the mouth
of the great I Am
you read silently.
the young author
barely a teen
stood uncomfortably
on the other side,
her heart stretched
like a silver moth on
the sheet wet with the ink
of a fresh cut yellow
bud from a spring garden
"oh this is deep, really deep,"
you said with a smack
of the lips
and a dance of the eyes.
her heart beat faster
the ink flowed, the wings
folded and stretched
the bud opened
and called out her name.
6 Oct 95
Ode to M. Fagan
you stood behind
the gray metal
Steelcase desk,
one shoulder turned
to the chalk board,
holding a fledgling poem.
with the eyes of Osirus
and the mouth
of the great I Am
you read silently.
the young author
barely a teen
stood uncomfortably
on the other side,
her heart stretched
like a silver moth on
the sheet wet with the ink
of a fresh cut yellow
bud from a spring garden
"oh this is deep, really deep,"
you said with a smack
of the lips
and a dance of the eyes.
her heart beat faster
the ink flowed, the wings
folded and stretched
the bud opened
and called out her name.
6 Oct 95
She stares at me
ears homed on my breathing
this may be a gazelle
paused in mid chew
by my coming over the rise;
I have caused a ripple in time
and she must decide to run on
or welcome me;
and though we have both stopped
for this brief moment
there will be a step taken,
then she will bolt
back to the safe unseeing
of the forest;
I will bow my head,
and drink in the dappled air
11 May 18
Zambia
“The name impala comes from the Zulu language meaning Gazelle”
https://www.dreamstime.com/royalty-free-stock-photos-impala-image11059888
Scarborough
Fair
Simon and Garfunkel are asking
the same question almost three decades
after I first
bought the album and sheet music
I can feel the guitar in my arms
my fingers on the strings connected
to notes I pressed into the rosewood
as leaves in a book
"Are you going to Scarborough
Fair?"
The melody is a time machine
tossing me back through the years at once.
I am driving
down the highway to my boyhood home.
The road is still the same though the stores
along the way have changed names and hands
or been replaced
like the fields and woods once in between
One town and the next now run from sign
to sign, and never seem to begin
or ever end
home has spread like the years in between.
The Hills market where I worked in school
is now a discount computer store
Hills is no more.
rows of corn flake cartons now software.
"Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and
Thyme."
The gen'ral hospital has changed names
Church tulip garden has gone to shrubs
nursery greenhouse
now a post office with new zip code
Soon within a mile of the driveway
I felt like geese must feel when the spring
time flight draws to a close,
slowing down, circling, landing in ponds.
When we moved in, trees were only twigs
Between two stakes that were chaperons
holding up the lad
like the first night I had too much beer.
The wood houses did not fare as well
they were small as if rain had shrunk them
like old sweaters
accidentally tossed into the wash.
"Remember me to the one who lived
there."
It was on the corner, diff'rent color
three or four skylights poked in the roof
new wood siding
with the deco mail box built to match.
I remember much more land and lawn,
'specially in fishing season when
I was mowing
against the Saturday morning clock.
Bicycles scattered in front of the garage
not a child in sight, strangely quiet
a photograph
with yellow edges they tried to change.
"She once was a true love of mine."
Others' related poems and writings:
- Billy Collins, "Workshop," https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46704/workshop
- Billy Collins, “Introduction to Poetry,” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46712/introduction-to-poetry
- Cummings, “The Hound of Heaven: a Study Guide,” https://www.cummingsstudyguides.net/Guides3/hound.html
- Barbara Crafton, "Death in the Small Basket," Mar. 25, 2015, https://vimeo.com/123207844 (see 09:30 - 12:36 in the video)
__________________________________________________________________________
Roots Below
The book jacket said
his poems were accessible,
not the obscure words
and images that dot the fringes
of intelligence and madness.
but the common words,
the ones we might use
to tell a family story,
or what happened
in the movie we saw last night.
It's not surprising
that Emmanuel was often found
in the midst of sinners,
probably drinking a glass
of non-vintage table wine.
no doubt this incensed
the learned folks of the day,
the guardians of the secret knowledge
that takes years of study
to travel to the outer reaches
of logic and appreciation,
finally reaching the holy of holies.
But this cup, this vessel,
stained with fingerprints
sitting on the picnic table
of the local pub,
was more apt to quench
the thirst of the gardener.
If the words of the poet
reach you in such a place,
God speaks with His arm
wrapped around your shoulder,
slaps you on the back,
and whispers a word more divine
than all the mysteries of heaven.
3 July 93
Gloria
She was a colleague
alone
and we thought it
the right thing to do
to come sit with her.
It had been a long illness
and she kept it from us,
as the modest
discretionary thing to do;
but now we sat in a row
on either side of her;
there was no casket
just a blanket
or dusky sheet-- we did not touch
and what lay beneath
was accented
by arms up and a knee crooked
as if a bent tent pole
as if the sheet were lain
on the body still falling
from some window
or cliff.
the rabbi who did not know him
said a few kind words
and we touched her shoulder
in soft earth tones.
I remember all of this
after reading three
mournful August poems
that took me back;
and anxious to turn the page
before anything hit
the ground.
24 Jun 18
Diane
She had her fingers deep
into the dough of life,
the yeast of living;
and live she did,
inviting all
to gather round her table
and home;
here we would come
to celebrate a birthday
share a meal
bake with the master;
learn that the bread
to be bread
must be given away.
Though the oven is now bare
and the light has gone out,
the taste of presence
from her hands
to our mouths
goes on in the food
memory;
that whenever
the aroma of living
comes,
she is among us,
fingers deep in the dough
soon to be
given away.
24 May 18
For Diane Faxon, who died this week.
This poem took a while to come together. I kept thinking of the birthdays gathering Diane hosted in the spring of 2012, and the aromas from her oven when I walked in thru the sliding glass door of her kitchen. She was as busy as ever, creating the feast, yet still the gracious host, smiling and laughing with each one who arrived with food or wine and gathered about her island. She was so much more than this vignette. And yet, this is the memory that rose up thinking about her.
The Soil of Heaven
He was found
backing up
to the earthen door
of life's common experiences
and listening
to the whispers just inside,
these were voices
of the Angels' song
and he was thirsty
for the Holy sound.
29 May 95
Roots Below
The book jacket said
his poems were accessible,
not the obscure words
and images that dot the fringes
of intelligence and madness.
but the common words,
the ones we might use
to tell a family story,
or what happened
in the movie we saw last night.
It's not surprising
that Emmanuel was often found
in the midst of sinners,
probably drinking a glass
of non-vintage table wine.
no doubt this incensed
the learned folks of the day,
the guardians of the secret knowledge
that takes years of study
to travel to the outer reaches
of logic and appreciation,
finally reaching the holy of holies.
But this cup, this vessel,
stained with fingerprints
sitting on the picnic table
of the local pub,
was more apt to quench
the thirst of the gardener.
If the words of the poet
reach you in such a place,
God speaks with His arm
wrapped around your shoulder,
slaps you on the back,
and whispers a word more divine
than all the mysteries of heaven.
3 July 93
Gloria
She was a colleague
alone
and we thought it
the right thing to do
to come sit with her.
It had been a long illness
and she kept it from us,
as the modest
discretionary thing to do;
but now we sat in a row
on either side of her;
there was no casket
just a blanket
or dusky sheet-- we did not touch
and what lay beneath
was accented
by arms up and a knee crooked
as if a bent tent pole
as if the sheet were lain
on the body still falling
from some window
or cliff.
the rabbi who did not know him
said a few kind words
and we touched her shoulder
in soft earth tones.
I remember all of this
after reading three
mournful August poems
that took me back;
and anxious to turn the page
before anything hit
the ground.
24 Jun 18
Diane
She had her fingers deep
into the dough of life,
the yeast of living;
and live she did,
inviting all
to gather round her table
and home;
here we would come
to celebrate a birthday
share a meal
bake with the master;
learn that the bread
to be bread
must be given away.
Though the oven is now bare
and the light has gone out,
the taste of presence
from her hands
to our mouths
goes on in the food
memory;
that whenever
the aroma of living
comes,
she is among us,
fingers deep in the dough
soon to be
given away.
24 May 18
For Diane Faxon, who died this week.
This poem took a while to come together. I kept thinking of the birthdays gathering Diane hosted in the spring of 2012, and the aromas from her oven when I walked in thru the sliding glass door of her kitchen. She was as busy as ever, creating the feast, yet still the gracious host, smiling and laughing with each one who arrived with food or wine and gathered about her island. She was so much more than this vignette. And yet, this is the memory that rose up thinking about her.
The Soil of Heaven
He was found
backing up
to the earthen door
of life's common experiences
and listening
to the whispers just inside,
these were voices
of the Angels' song
and he was thirsty
for the Holy sound.
29 May 95
All poems © Copyright 2018, E. G. Happ, All Rights
Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment