May_2019

THE POET'S VOICE
Ah! Weather!
By Carol Bjorlie — “THE POET BEHIND THE CELLO”
I immediately quote e. e. cummings: “i thank
you, god, for most this amazing day.”
What an amazement it has been. Yesterday
it was 82 degrees - in April! When I lived in
Minnesota we had snow in May.
I’ve chosen poets with last names beginning
with “K”. I don’t know why. Ted Kooser,
Stanley Kunitz, Galway Kinnell, and Deborah
Keenan. First Mr. Kunitz’s poem, “Change.”
“Change”
Dissolving in the chemic fat
Of time, man (gristle and fat),
Corrupting on a rock in space
That crumbles, lifts his impermanent face
To watch the stars, his brain locked tight
Against the tall revolving night.
Yet he is neither here nor there
Because the mind moves everywhere;
And he is neither now nor then
Because tomorrow comes again
Foreshadowed, and the ragged wing
Of yesterday’s remembering
Cuts sharply the immediate moon;
Nor is he always: late and soon
Becoming, never being, till
Becoming is being still.
Here, Now and Always, man would be
Inviolate eternally:
This is his spirit’s trinity.
Now, Mr Kinnell’s poem, “Sex.” (How could I
avoid a poem with that title?)
“Sex”
On my hands are the odors
of the knockout ether
either of above the sky
where the bluebird get blued
on their upper surfaces
or down under the earth
where the immaculate nightcrawler
take in tubes of red earth
and polish their insides
I particularly like the words ether and either
used together How’d he think of that?
And from Deborah Keenan, the poem,
“What My Daughter Asked About the Angel in
the Tree.”
“What My Daughter Asked About The Angel In
The Tree”
There’s mountain ash on fire outside the only
window
that counts, and the children grow restless
seeing
autumn as the end of things.
Why don’t we let the angel of the tree inside?
We’ve got no money to leave home with,
and the architecture of our rooms spares us
beauty
and little else.
Oh, let that angel in. This is no annunciation;
his wings are on fire, his sorrow is audible,
and we are cold enough to be useful.
lonely enough to be warmed.
Here is something worth reading a few times,
Mr. Kooser’s poem, “A Happy Birthday”
“A Happy Birthday”
This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.
I must include a poem by Jim Moore, “My
Fame.” I don’t know why, I just must.
My Fame
Don’t think I didn’t want it.
But moonlight distracted me. Even dust
in sunlight in summer distracted. Both were my
friends, knew me
for who I was,
forgave me everything.
Here is a poem by William Stafford, “Time for
Serenity, Anyone?”
Time for Serenity, Anyone?
I like to live in the sound of water,
in the feel of mountain air. A sharp
reminder it is me: this world still is alive;
it stretches out there shivering toward its own
creation and I’m part of it. Even my breathing
enters into the
elaborate give-and-take
this bowing to sun and moon, day or night,
winter, summer storm, still - this tranquil
chaos that seems to be going somewhere.
This wilderness with a great peacefulness in it.
This motionless turmoil, this everything dance.
Sounds like Asheville to me. I wonder if he’s
been here when the French Broad River flooded.
Now, that wasn’t calm.
It is true, this world still is alive - for now.
Let’s be the change we wish for this world of
ours. Let’s change.
I’m off to Minnesota! At least it’s not winter!
Carol Bjorlie
24 |RAPIDRIVERMAGAZINE.COM | RAPID RIVER’S ARTS & CULTURE | VOL. 22, NO. 09 — MAY 2019