a song of mary
somewhere it being yesterday.
i a maiden in my mother’s house.
the animals silent outside.
is morning.
princes sitting on thrones in the east
studying the incomprehensible heavens.
joseph carving a table somewhere
in another place.
i watching my mother.
i smiling an ordinary smile
–Lucille Clifton
Beginners
Dedicated to the memory of Karen Silkwood and Eliot Gralla
“From too much love of living,
Hope and desire set free,
Even the weariest river
Winds somewhere to the sea-”
But we have only begun
To love the earth.
We have only begun
To imagine the fullness of life.
How could we tire of hope?
– so much is in bud.
How can desire fail?
– we have only begun
to imagine justice and mercy,
only begun to envision
how it might be
to live as siblings with beast and flower,
not as oppressors.
Surely our river
cannot already be hastening
into the sea of nonbeing?
Surely it cannot
drag, in the silt,
all that is innocent?
Not yet, not yet-
there is too much broken
that must be mended,
too much hurt we have done to each other
that cannot yet be forgiven.
We have only begun to know
the power that is in us if we would join
our solitudes in the communion of struggle.
So much is unfolding that must
complete its gesture,
so much is in bud.
–Denise Levertov
Hoorah! Spring is here! Playdates at the park. Digging in the dirt. Reviving our morning “green hour.” Coffee on the porch swing. Picnics. Wind and apple blossoms. The heady scent of jasmine.
Norah says I’m a seashell. And in my belly she can hear the ocean.
She’s describing the sound of the doptone searching out elusive heartbeats.
A nurse I’ve never met sent me three seashells. I received them today. One for each of my children–the born, the born too soon, and the soon to come. A precious treasure.
May I daily remember to dive.
.
For weeks now, you and I
have been eating tomatoes as if the harvest’s
bounty will never cease. My breasts, too,
are tomato-heavy, the bowl of my belly
dense with the curve that will only continue
to deepen in the months ahead. Lingering
in bed this morning, I lay my hands
along the rise, palms and fingertips
listening for our daughter. Quickening,
the doctor called it, the desire
for the coming child. Imagine:
next August, we will carry our daughter
into the garden. We will hold
the fruit to her face;
we will teach her tomatoes.
(from the poem “Quickening” by Jacqueline Kolosov)
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and old things go, not one lasts.
–Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg.
Salsa and salads and sandwiches and sauces and soups. And biting into them right off the vine; warm from the sun with a basil leaf from the plant nearby. I want admiration for my tomatoes. I held them up to my husband and demanded he note their perfection. “Yeah, they are tomatoes.” (Though he bragged later to my mother about how beautiful they were–he did notice!). Secretly, what impresses me most: I put plants in the ground and added water. No other effort expended. Grace.
The street filled with tomatoes, midday, summer, light is halved like a tomato, its juice runs through the streets…Unfortunately, we must murder it: the knife sinks into living flesh, red viscera a cool sun, profound, inexhaustible, populates the salads…happily, it is wed to the clear onion, and to celebrate the union we pour oil, essential child of the olive, onto its halved hemispheres, pepper adds its fragrance, salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding of the day, parsley hoists its flag, potatoes bubble vigorously, the aroma of the roast knocks at the door, it’s time! come on! and, on the table, at the midpoint of summer, the tomato, star of earth, recurrent and fertile star, displays its convolutions, its canals, its remarkable amplitude and abundance, no pit, no husk, no leaves or thorns, the tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness. –Pablo Neruda
Yes, Scott–we’re having roast for dinner. Don’t work late.
An unexpected gift celebrating no occasion.
Results in an apple pie baked with all my love.
And I thought of your face that sweeps over me like light, like the sun on the apple making a lovely show. So one seeing it marveled the other night, turned to me saying, “What is it in your heart? You glow.” –Not guessing that on my face he saw the singular reflection of your grace like fire on snow–and loved you there. –May Sarton
Scott and I indulged in unintentional mimicry last night. In our pre-parent times, when we lived on an escarpment above Albany, we had a standard date night: chips/salsa at Chili’s, coffee/book-buying at Borders, and then the treacherous winding climb home.
For last night’s date, our plans went awry and before we knew it, we were sitting in Chili’s; a place I love only for salsa. Unable to help it, we gravitated to B&N. The coffee was not wonderful and–ahem–not fairly traded. Like old times, I found myself on the floor passionately gazing at the poetry shelves. I could buy a book. Which one? I chose to pass over my beloveds. I pushed Neruda back in place. I lingered for a moment on Clifton, Sarton, Levertov, and Oliver. Atwood held me for a breathless second. I refused to make eye contact with Rilke–he is too powerful and would overcome my intent for new words. Without looking back, I snatched Anne Carson’s The Beauty of the Husband. Someone new! Would I like her? Would she me? Clutching her in my hands, I sat in the car as we drove in the snow (also a frequent occurence on NY dates). In the warmth of home, I absorbed her words:
Beauty convinces. You know beauty makes sex possible.
Beauty makes sex sex.
You if anyone grasp this–hush, let’s pass
to natural situations.
Other species, which are not poisonous, often have colorations and patterns
similar to poisonous species.
This imitation of a poisonous by a nonpoisonous species is called mimicry.
My husband was no mimic.
Off to a promising start.
Having a two-year old is like having a puppy all over again. We are potty-learning. Which means the wee one runs bare-bummed about the house while I cross my fingers that she will tell me she needs to potty or I will see the signs. We do not always succeed. Which is why Scott’s shoes and my friend Joy’s book “Song of the Bride” are sitting on the front porch. Yep, Norah released the flood on these lucky objects. Sorry friends.
Meanwhile, Norah and I continue to fight our cold. The illness has motivated Norah to use grand sentence structure, “My nose hurts.” We are taking a homeopathic treatment derived from a geranium that the Zulu tribes used. Somehow I can’t picture Zulu warriers with colds. On top of that, I bought an ear candle but haven’t worked up the nerve to use it yet. I’ve been using a remedy my 4th grade teacher told me about: heat salt, place into a towel, hold hot salt pack against ear. I don’t know why that helps…but it really does. Thanks Mrs. Allen!
We celebrated Norah’s two-year birthday Sunday. She received a Radio Flyer wagon, an indoor tent (to be her new comfort corner), plan toys vegetable garden w/ grandpa and grandma dolls (Nana), Haba wooden fruit, the book Mom and Dad are Palindromes (Zach and Noelle), and a shopping cart full of play food and goodies (Grammy and Papa). Oh, and of course, Grammy and Papa added to Norah’s college fund. She may not appreciate it now but I know we all will later! It was a lovely, low-key celebration.
I give you names like nails, walls that withstand your pounding, doors that are hard to open, but once they are open, admit you into rooms that breathe pure sun. I give you trees that lose their leaves, as you knew they would, and then come green again. I give you fruit preceded by flowers. Venus supreme in the sky, the miracle of always landing on your feet, even though the earth rotates on its axis. Start out with that, at least. –birthday poem by Lisel Mueller
Inexplicable Ways 
