Coming soon, Red. That’s our theme for the month of February. We’ll have posts from two different poets here at Tweetspeak, and we’ll have a whole lot of Red poems at Every Day Poems.

In the meantime, here’s an interview at Redbud Writer’s Guild, all about writing. (What color is *your* writing? :) )

Photo by Kelly Sauer. Used with permission.

Where would we be without resolutions? Accomplishments would be only accidents, stories incidents just strung along, music mere unending notes, and poetry but a jumble of words. Resolution puts all the pieces together like a completed puzzle.

John Milton’s famous sonnet, “On his blindness,” begins in puzzlement. The speaker (the poem is autobiographical; perhaps we dare say the poet) is pondering the account he will give when he stands before his God for the use he has made of his time and talents. But how unjust! He has suffered the loss of his eyesight—before even half his life is over!—and this God who will hold him to account is the one who wrested away the very tool of his trade—his vision. Understandably, the poet’s mood quickly worsens in the first half of the poem from puzzlement to dismay, even anger…

On His Blindness

by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

The poem is a Petrarchan sonnet, a form consisting of an octave followed by a sestet; the octave presents the problem, and the sestet offers the resolution. The situation, as we’ve seen, is quite clear. What’s striking, though, is that the problem is presented in only seven (not eight) lines, not quite in accordance with the rules of the form. What happens in the last line of the octave?

The first half of line 8 declares that the poet asks his question “fondly.” In the seventeenth century, “fond” still retained its original meaning of “foolish.” Thus the poet acknowledges that his query is mere foolishness. Then, mid-line, a new sentence begins, offering the response to the poet’s imploration, given by “Patience,” personified. Patience’s answer, provided in the sestet, is essentially this: God doesn’t need your works. The entire world is under his authority, and countless others are accomplishing his business, but you, too, can serve “who only stand and wait.”

What a dramatic resolution! One of the greatest poets who ever lived worries that his poetry is not good enough to justify his life. Not only is he offered the reassurance that sometimes simply waiting—with Patience—is enough, but that reassurance comes “soon.”

If we recall rules of the form and go back to that break that is supposed to occur at the beginning of the sestet, in line 9, we find that the resolution starts, not there, but earlier in line 8. The resolution begins with Patience’s reply—or perhaps even with the speaker’s admission of his own foolishness. The expression of the problem is cut short according to the expectations of the sonnet form when the God of the poet breaks the rules in order to bring about resolution. With all the pieces of the puzzle in place, the picture is finally clear, and the poem resolves into a sense of peaceful assurance.

Post by Karen Swallow Prior.
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Further Resources, for Teachers or Writer’s Groups:

Buy a year of Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In January we’re exploring the theme Resolutions.

In Night of the Republic: Poems, poet Alan Shapiro loads his minds-eye camera with film (or, these days, a disk) and takes a series of detailed, rather stark photographs. His subjects are the common, everyday things we notice only when we need them but generally ignore: a car dealership, a gas station restroom, a park bench, a dry cleaner, a swimming pool, a museum, a doorbell, a funeral home.

Shapiro’s poetic photographs are sharp and clear; we’re not left guessing the subject. But they often lead in an unexpected direction, as common, everyday things can do. Consider “Barbershop,” which becomes a meditation on eternity:

Eternity is the spiral up the poles
spiraling to its endless end.
Time is the vitrine
of antiquated gels,
conditioners, restoratives,
stray sections from yesterday’s Today
all over the table
in the waiting area where
Eternity is waiting…

These are poems to be read two and three times, and then two or three times more, like photographs that need to be reexamined to see how new angles or shades or colors can change the created whole. In “Stone Church,” for example, the emphasis on the stone construction gives way to what happens inside:

…At night, high
over the tiny
galaxy of candles
guttering down
in dark chapels
all along the nave,
there’s greater
gravity inside
the grace that’s risen
highest into rib
vaults and flying
buttresses, where
each stone is another
stone’s resistance to
the heaven far
beneath it…

These photograph-like poems, or poetic photographs, are filled with quiet wonder. And like fine photographs, their meanings can keep changing. Night of the Republic is a stellar collection of poetry.

Shapiro, who has won several poetry awards, is a professor at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. He is also publishing his first novel, Broadway Baby, in January.

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Resolution. Determination to follow some sort of action. Firmness of purpose or intent. The act of resolving, of transforming by a process, of disintegrating, of progressing from dissonance to consonance. In other words, poetry.

Every semester, I meet aspiring teenage writers in my creative writing class. Young writers who have stories to tell, poems to write, lives to change. And then they turn in their first poem, like a child bringing his mother a bouquet of dandelions. We read it together, evaluating technique, style, and form. Many of these beginning writers have a hard time seeing that their poems aren’t very poetic. They think if it’s intended to be a poem, and it looks like a poem, then it must be a poem. So what’s the problem?

A poem must have resolve, be resolute. A poem must have what one poet-friend calls a through-line, an overarching purpose or direction that provides enough bread crumbs for the reader to work his way through. A poem must be intentional in style, technique, sound, and rhythm. It must be crafted (not blurted), readable (not scan-able). Most importantly, a poem should make both you and me care–about the poem, the situation, our mutability, our journeys intersecting in this moment of the poem. A poem must hold enough mystery to make me reread it, enough imagery to keep me afloat in its own poetic ocean.

After hearing this, my students react one of two ways. There are those who steadfastly write and revise, eventually producing a semblance of a meaningful poem. These students sigh about the challenge the poem presented, and they didn’t think they had it in them. Then there are the dandelion poets, whose eyes gloss over, mumbling through disheartened lips about how they never realized how hard it was to write a poem. They rewrite by changing punctuation and line endings. Sadly, the poem dries up and blows away in the wind.

Maybe it’s not just a poem that must have resolve, but the poet as well. Because the poet holds the power to illuminate and the power to suffocate. As a poem begins to take form, the poet walks a fine line of crafting and allowing the poem to craft itself. It takes determination not to force your way or your answer into a poem; it takes humility to let the poem breathe and bloom. It takes staying power to plant a poem, water it, weed it, mow it, and water it again. Especially in the throes of winter.

I remember applying to an MFA program many years ago, and I was confident that my portfolio would stand out from the crowd, that I would be lauded with accolades, scholarships, and recognition. The form rejection letter crushed me, the dandelion poet. I didn’t write for months, and avoided poetry (reading and writing) for a year. I was too fragile. But the frostbite eventually thawed. I committed to hone my craft, to be a young writer and a wise writer, to create art rather than ego, to learn the art of poetry, the art of life.

And the poems? They’re still resolving.

Post by Joel Jacobson, of A Poetic Matter.

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Buy a year of Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In January we’re exploring the theme Resolutions.

With apologies to Robert Browning, Marianne Moore,
Dylan Thomas, Elizabeth Bishop, Sylvia Plath, Mother
Goose, and my readers

I, too, dislike the villanelle,
redundant song that tasks one’s reason,
its circuit subtle as the Bronx El.

To write (or read) one hurts like hell.
It matters not which hour or season.
So I disdain the villanelle.

Though I’m not one to kiss and tell
I do confess my poet’s treason
(that 3rd line’s always your Bronx El).

So I cajole, try to compel
other readers: How it frees one!
Let’s just forget the villanelle!

I do concede it weaves a spell,
shows poet’s grief, the drugs she’s on.
(Stand back—here comes that damnéd El!)

But even so, it’s just as well
to let this snoring form sleep on.
I so despise the villanelle
relentless (listen!) as the Bronx El.

As this piece of homage (pottage? triage? collage?) would suggest, I have mixed feelings about the villanelle.

I admire a well-executed villanelle in the same way I admire a Baroque Tromp-l’oeil ceiling—the kind that conceals corners and suggests roundness where all is square, until you stare (and stare) long enough to see the trick. Unhappily, once the eye discovers this, it can’t be fooled any more. But what fun the before-hand fooling is!

Most villanelles (let’s face it) are not well-executed. They are heavy-handed, mechanical pieces. Granted, the machinery may be tight, functioning properly, clicking right along. But the poem is just that—a machine (albeit an ingenious one)—and, therefore, dead on the page.

These are the kinds of villanelles I write—dead ones—and I don’t know how to stop. What do Dylan Thomas, Theodore Roethke, and Elizabeth Bishop possess that I don’t, I wonder—besides talent, a finely developed ear and eye, and impeccable technique?

Here, I fear, is the root of the problem. The villanelle, alas, is not for everyone. In fact, given the paucity of successful villanelles that exist in English—relative to successful sonnets, let’s say—it’s barely for anyone at all.

If poets were obstetricians, the villanelle would be their forceps—an instrument one carries in one’s bag of tricks but rarely, if ever, uses, as the results of employing it are nearly always disastrous and sometimes even fatal.

The villanelle should be used only under the most extreme circumstances. Notice how nearly all of the villanelles universally admired portray terrible loss and utter and intractable grief: “Do not go gentle into that good night,” Thomas begs; “I wake to sleep and take my waking slow,” Roethke recites, automaton-like in his benumbed, post-traumatic-stress-induced state; “The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” lies Bishop’s brave and brilliant poem, which proves not only that it is hard to master losing, it is impossible. These poets and their poems are alembics of agony. They fairly bleed.

If villanelles could be bought in a package, the warning on the side might read:

“Highly combustible! Do not use near open hea(r)t!”
or
“For professional use only. Do not try this at home.”
or
“In the case of accidental composing, review repeating lines 1 and 3. If they bore you, amputate immediately.”

So what is an average poet (i.e., a non-genius) like myself to do? If a serious, heart-rending, spectacularly-executed Villanelle For The Ages lies outside my range and repertoire, what of it? Sure, I can keep practicing at home, in private, in the dark, for the fun of it. (As with my singing, a corollary activity, that won’t harm anyone so long as it is done in the shower with the door of the bathroom firmly closed.)

Just as I don’t expect to write a great villanelle, I confess, I don’t expect to read many more of them in the course of my lifetime. But if and when I do meet one, as I have on a few very memorable occasions, I’ll be ready. As poet Robert Hass once wrote, when one encounters a huge and magnificent monster, there is only one proper response: “I think I’ll praise it.”

Post by Angela Alaimo O’Donnell, author of Saint Sinatra and Other Poems

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Buy a year of Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In December we’re exploring the theme The Villanelle.

If you are trying to be a better poet, you know that writing poetry is only half the work. Reading good poetry is the other half. It is what informs your sensibilities, introduces you to new techniques, makes you jealous (in a good way) so you work even harder to find just the right images, sounds, rhythms.

I read a lot of poetry, because it helps me become a better poet. It also makes me a better writer in general. I also read poetry just because. For me, it is a source of enchantment, a kind of hope, a place to dream.

There is so much to choose from in the world of poetry, but here are a few ideas for you or a friend, this holiday season…

1. The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms. This is an excellent resource book and includes a lot of great classic poems, grouped by form. It’s the book my daughter Sara once stole away; she later returned with poems of her own: sonnets, pantoums, villanelles, sestinas.

2. Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words is a fun little book that will get you playing with words in new ways.

3. The Butterfly’s Burden. This collection, by a Palestinian poet, never fails to make me swoon. Take this little untitled poem for instance: The fog is darkness, thick white darkness/peeled by an orange and a promising woman.

4. Of course we recommend any of our titles. Beauty, style, unique ways of seeing the world, real voices. That’s what you can expect from a T. S. title.

5. How to Read a Poem: And Fall in Love with Poetry. Hirsch says poetry is “a secret that can no longer be kept a secret.” If you’ve wondered why and how you should read poetry, this book will give you some unexpected and delightful answers, so that maybe you’ll find yourself saying, like he does, “It always carries me away.”

6. Nine Horses: Poems. One quiet Sunday, I read this entire book of poetry to my kids. They loved it. Collins is pure grown-up, but he’s accessible at many levels. One of our favorites was about the neurotic fear of a mouse who might burn the whole house down by accidentally striking a match in the walls.

7. The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems. Neruda will teach you the power of the image. Abstract language takes a back seat to poppies, a green knife, footsteps light as flour dust. I am particularly enamored with the love poetry. Here’s an excerpt from “Twenty Love Poems, 7″: Leaning into the evenings I toss my sad nets/to that sea which stirs your ocean eyes.

8. The Anthologist is one of the funniest books I’ve read. Part fictional memoir of character ‘Paul Chowder,’ part terrific insight into the inner workings of poetry. The running story of Sara Teasdale is both fun and poignant, as is the character’s own failed love-life with Roz.

9. The Art of Recklessness. Not an easy read, but somehow I can’t put it down. The force of Young’s voice, the liveliness and depth of his observations, and sometimes the surprisingly simple interjections (no one can ruin poetry by trying to write it!) make for a profound and sometimes winsome read.

10. Every Day Poems. One of the best things I ever did for my poetry writing was to start reading a poem a day. This daily poetry delivery (weekends excluded) makes it simple, and gives me joy in the morning.

Post by L.L. Barkat. Visit L.L. at Seedlings in Stone, for more on writing, poetry, art and life.

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Buy a year of Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In December we’re exploring the theme The Villanelle.

Like most poetry built on refrains, the villanelle steers away from narrative ideals, away from conversation and linear exchange. Instead, the villanelle circles, like carrion fowl. And like the buzzard, no one really likes the villanelle. (Go ahead, gasp.) They aren’t fun to write; they aren’t exactly lucid morsels to inhale, unless you’re reading Elizabeth Bishop, W.H. Auden, or some other dead poet.

There’s a reason only a handful of villanelles are actually famous, and even so, few of those keep to the strict form like Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night”: The villanelle is, perhaps universally, the most difficult form of poetry.

You write the first line, and you’re stuck with it until the end. You pick up momentum, but then that third line keeps popping up, too, like Presidential debates.

By the time you reach the second stanza, you might be wondering if the endeavor is worth continuing.

Something you’ll notice about Elizabeth Bishop, in “One Art,” and Dylan Thomas, in “Do not go gentle…,” is the imperative. Each poem reads as instructions, commands, with an understood you. When a line omits its subject, it becomes versatile, mutable, easier for the poet to work with.

Notice it most as Thomas develops a litany of wise men, good men, wild men, et al. who “rage against the dying of the light,” who “do not go gentle into that good night.” While the poem is presumably a plea to his father in the face of death—the understood you of the first stanza—the refrain lines act as predicates to simple, declarative sentences in subsequent stanzas, elaborating on the hall of fame with whom Thomas, the elder, might soon enter cahoots.

While Thomas and Bishop, along with Auden, Roethke, and others, take more somber tones to their villanelles (as have I in the past, with “Sunday Morning Bread” and “Prayers for Friends”) I’ve always thought the strict repetition of lines created something of a Gong Show within the poem. An idea is begun, only to have another supersede it. Just when we gain a new rhythm, the first returns to center-stage with the self-importance of a five-year-old. The second returns soon enough, like the first, and when there is an understood you, you cannot help but play along.

The two lines come and go, chasing one another (and you) through the poem until they’ve twined themselves into a couplet at the end. Given that premise, my recent viewings of Cabaret and The Muppets, and the irresistible fusion of the words in question, inspiration has driven composition of this—my VaudeVillanelle:

Kick and dance onto the stage—
as the piano man bangs a ditty—
rush behind the theater drapes

Do you enjoy the wild old cabaret?
Do you like how the young ladies
kick and dance onto the stage?

But don’t blush or try saving face
while you watch our brand of comedy
rush behind the theater drapes

because champing right at its tail
a new bit or gag, and something witty
kick and dance onto the stage.

Lacing dialog in the one-act play
the satire will get a mite snippy,
rush behind the theater drapes,

and tweak it up with shadow shapes.
Then comes the closing routine:
kick and dance onto the stage,
rush behind the theater drapes.

Post by David K. Wheeler, author of Contingency Plans: Poems.
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Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In December we’re exploring the theme The Villanelle

My original title for this post: “A.A.’s Birthday.” I was shooting for catchy and mysterious, but another A.A. has bested Anna in terms of instant recognition. Still, this day is to be remembered if only because Akhmatova herself should not be forgotten.

Born Anna Andreevna Gorenko in 1889 (she later took her grandmother’s name, Akhmatova), the poet survived some of the most brutal years of Russian history, but not without massive loss. Her first husband was shot for conspiring against the state. Another died in the Gulag on similar charges. Her son was repeatedly arrested, released, rearrested and ultimately freed due to Akhmatova’s perseverance (this period was the only time she wrote propagandist poetry for the state). The philosopher Isaiah Berlin wrote of Akhmatova:

“The widespread worship of her memory in Soviet Union today, both as an artist and as an unsurrendering human being, has, so far as I know, no parallel. The legend of her life and unyielding passive resistance to what she regarded as unworthy of her country and herself, transformed her into a figure [...] not merely in Russian literature, but in Russian history in [the Twentieth] century.”

Akhmatova’s work was revolutionary in its time, “composed of short fragments of simple speech that do not form a logical coherent pattern. Instead, they reflect the way we actually think, the links between the images are emotional, and simple everyday objects are charged with psychological associations. Like Alexander Pushkin, who was her model in many ways, Akhmatova was intent on conveying worlds of meaning through precise details” (Roberta Reeder).

The following poem was written in March of 1944 and is part of a larger sequence entitled “Death.” It exemplifies Akhmatova’s attention to detail and scene-setting, and like the best of literature, is universal, by nature of its specificity.

When the moon lies like a slice of Chardush melon
On the windowsill and it’s hard to breathe,
When the door is shut and the house bewitched
By an airy branch of blue wisteria,
And there is cool water in the clay cup,
And a snow-white towel, and the wax candle
Is burning, as in my childhood, attracting moths,
The silence roars, not hearing my words–
Then from corners black as Rembrandt’s
Something rears and hides itself again,
But I won’t rouse myself, won’t even take fright…
Here loneliness has caught me in its net.
The landlady’s black cat stares like the eye of centuries,
And the double in the mirror doesn’t want to help me.
I will sleep sweetly. Good night, night.

—translated by Judith Hemschemeyer

Post by Jennifer Jantz Estes. Reprinted with permission from Eighth Day Books.

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Buy a year of Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In December we’re exploring the theme The Villanelle

Four years ago, while I was on a writer’s retreat in the wilds of rural Minnesota, I set myself the daily task of writing a poem each morning to my body. “Go ahead—choose any part,” I urged my writerly self. But there was really no doubt what part I would address. And so began the poem that would become “Letters to My Heart.”

Why, of all the wonderful and praise-worthy parts of my body, the Heart? Walt Whitman could not decide among his own corporeal glories—and so celebrated them all in his “I Sing the Body Electric.” But not me. Unlike Whitman, I believe the small ‘contains multitudes’ as much as the large, and what holds more than the little fist of the Heart?

Dear Heart,
At last you are too full,
a belly at the wedding feast
whose hollowness is wholed
before the groaning table goes quiet.

What am I to do,
strict mistress, ready friend?
There is so much prayer pressing
these small walls,
urgent to get in and to get out.

The Heart’s capaciousness is one of her virtues—hence her role as the repository of memory. In the course of our lives, we learn “by heart” facts of great import (name, address, phone number, nothing less than who we are) bundled together, randomly, with chunks of language that have little or no significance at all:

Doublemint adds to your fun.
Double pleasure all in one.
So delicious! Great to chew!
Treat yourself, and your friends, too!

This advertising jingle I learned (quite involuntarily) from television when I was a child is inscribed on my heart, as indelibly as the Hail Mary, and there is nothing I can do about it. She is a wayward creature, this Heart, easily seduced, especially by language that sings.

When I was in the second grade, a series of events—both great and small—led to my taking the Heart seriously. First, my father died at the age of 42. He had been ill for months, but none of us—not my mother, nor any of us 5 children—expected him to die. Then, one day in science class, our teacher showed a filmstrip, in grainy black-and-white, whose central focus (it seems, in my imperfect memory) was the open chest of a human being and the repeated beating of a live heart. The image haunted my dreams, both then and for years afterwards. Somehow the raw vulnerability of that most necessary of organs became linked with the sudden cessation of my father’s heart, and harbinger of the eventual cessation of my own. I was terrified of mortality, though I had no such language to describe the dread I felt—the dread I feel, even now, as I recall that memory.

Science had taught me that the heart was meat and machine, that it could quit on me at any moment, that it was my enemy. And so began the life-long process of trying to make my enemy my friend.

Dear Heart,
Please be my memory
When my mind is shot.

Say “Yes”, Dear Heart,
My Liar. My Art.

If the Heart was going to be my memory, my diary, my treasury, my breviary, I knew I needed to begin to inscribe on its pages language that would serve as a repository against extremity. I began a course of memorization, which included the sublime—as in Poe’s obsessive octosyllabic tour-de-force, “The Raven”—and the ridiculous—including a little poem in my school reader beginning thus, “Dolly is an old horse / with a white star. / She’s a great deal nicer / than other horses are.” These poems equally delighted me, for reasons I did not know—particularly since I had never seen a horse in real life, nor, now that I think about it, had I seen a raven.

This early courtship of my Heart, in turn, led to my writing poetry. Internalizing all of this rhythmic language produced in me the desire to answer it with my own. I had not yet heard or read Sir Philip Sidney’s injunction, “’Fool,’ said my Muse, ‘look in thy heart and write,’” but I somehow intuited its wisdom and obeyed. And so I began to carry around a portfolio (a manila folder, really) and to fill it with sheets of notebook paper that I, in turn, would fill with words. Though those early poems (and I use that term loosely) are long lost, I know some of them by heart—nimble little rhymes that were, mostly, nonsense, but constituted my first steps towards joining the dance of language. One such rhyme went like this:

The bells are ringing,
the birds are singing,
the people are dancing around.

The grownups are laughing,
the children are crying,
O what a mystery town!

This I have by heart—right next to Thomas Hardy’s “The Darkling Thrush” and Tennyson’s “Break, Break, Break”—sandwiched between “Fly Me to the Moon” (Sinatra) and “Thunder Road” (Springsteen)—and in close proximity to The Apostle’s Creed and the Act of Contrition. The Heart is nothing if not catholic (and, in my case, Catholic, as well).

Despite the second grade film, despite my father’s early passing, despite the lessons in mortality I have learned, I have a theory that I live by: that my Heart is more reliable than my mind; that because of my attention to shaping her contents, she will serve me well as I approach the end of my life; that in the meantime, I have much to learn from her.

Dear Heart,
You are wise and winsome,
nimble as a bride.
You skip a beat
when my Beloved sleeps beside me,
his face my constant sun.

You race, a wild filly
stamping at the gate,
ever ready to run
at the crack of the start gun.

Thus, I choose to live By Heart. Yet I also know this glad version of her to be a fiction, a trope, a necessary distraction from a truth once taught me in grainy black-and-white. It seems inevitable that a poem lead me in the direction of that truth, also inscribed in black-and-white, imaged by words on a page.

Dear Heart,
You are an idiot—
You do not know your bounds.

Yet you say No, No, No,
with each declining beat.

This is the heart of the matter, the last of the “Letters” towards which all the others tend. I was surprised to discover, at the end of my writer’s retreat, that there is greater accord between my Heart and me than I had known, bound together as we are in our ignorance, in our insistence upon life in the face of death, and in our daily dance of irrational joy. Eased by the music of meter, my Heart assents, even as she seems to rebel, stays steady and true, keeping good time with the rhythm and the rhyme, singing the refrain she knows by heart.

Post by Angela Alaimo O’Donnell, author of Saint Sinatra and Other Poems

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Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

“Alice! Do hurry or we’ll be late!”

She called up the stairs, trying not to be annoyed. She glanced in the foyer mirror, eying her hair critically between the reflection of bits of the flower arrangement on the hall table.

“Alice! Oh!”

She glided down the steps; face lit up with that dimpled smile that always melted Amy’s heart. Alice just turned fifteen last week and Amy swallowed hard at how grown up she looked in taffeta and pearls.

“Oh, honey. You are so beautiful.”

Alice curtsied at the bottom of the stairs and spun around slowly so Amy could appreciate the effect of the softly billowing skirt.

“And you are going to knock dad’s socks off!”

Amy had chosen a more sedate outfit—a long straight silk in a peachy color. She did feel pretty–despite her nervousness–and she couldn’t help smiling at Alice’s enthusiasm. They didn’t get to dress up like this often.

“Are you ready? We’d better get going. Don’t want to keep the governor waiting.”

She winked at Alice.

“Do you have your book?”

Alice nodded, lifting her bag in response as they hurried out the door.

Five years. That’s how long it had taken. The cancer center had been operating now for almost a year, but tonight marked the official completion of phase one of the project. Justine’s project.

Amy and Oliver had both been surprised by the thought and detail the old woman had put into the planning. Her will was very meticulous, but much of her plan was already well underway when she passed. The land had already been purchased, the architect consulted, and preliminary discussions initiated with St. Joe’s. It had taken some doing, but when Oliver had secured the partnership with the medical school, it was just a matter of building the thing. And Justine had even arranged that—contracting her husband’s former company to handle everything.

Tonight, they would celebrate. She felt her pulse quicken a bit as she pulled up to the breezeway. Before the valet could open the door she glanced over at her stepdaughter.

“Are you ready for this?”

Alice dimpled again.

“Sure I am. It’s all for Gram. It’ll be grand.”

And it was grand. The concourse of the center had been turned into a ballroom for the evening. The floors gleamed and the chandelier partialed out twinkling light. Circular tables were peppered here and there for the esteemed guests who would arrive later. Amy’s heels clicked sharply on the brightly waxed floor as she approached the small group of figures gathered near the podium. Oliver broke from the group as she drew near and extended his hand to take hers.

She felt herself relax as he gently folded her in his arms.

“You look stunning.”

He whispered in her ear and his breath sent shivers down her neck. How did he always do that? She smiled up at him and he reached his other arm out to gather Alice to him.

“Ladies and Gentleman, we may begin the ceremony. The driving forces behind the George and Justine Taylor Cancer Center have arrived.”

There were so many names that Amy lost track. The governor said “a few words” behind the podium and the senator from the fourth district was not to be left out. Her face felt like it would break from the smiling. But soon, she and Alice cut the ribbon—posing numerous times for the newspaper photographers—and she was free to sit. She glanced at her watch. The dinner would begin in half an hour. She sidled up to Oliver, who was hobnobbing with some suits, and leaned close to his ear.

“Can you hold down the fort for a wee bit?”

He glanced at the book she held in her hands knowingly.

“If I must…”

It was all she needed to hear. She found Alice and they slipped down the back corridor, up the elevator and clicked heels down the shiny second floor hallway. Amy smiled as they passed the colorful murals. When they reached the nurses’ station, the white-clad figures smiled and nodded, but continued their work without interruption. Alice hurried to the common room but Amy lingered in the large arch of the doorway.

“Alice!”

She watched as the children gathered around her girl, grinning from ear to ear. These little ones had been here so long they had gotten to know Alice quite well. How they loved her. Such a mix of joy and sad–their shiny round heads bowed into Alice’s. The tiniest ones clamored for a turn on her lap as their parents smiled them on nearby.

“You look like a princess,” one of them offered in awe-filled tones.

Alice laughed and pulled out her book.

“Who’s ready for some poetry?”

A collective cheer rose and soon the room was hushed of all but Alice’s rhythmic tones.

It never ceased to amaze Amy how even the youngest was spellbound at the reading. She thought of Justine’s last days, felt a tiny twist in her heart.

I miss you, my friend.

She fingered the two volumes in her hands and turned her back on the sweet scene of poetry. There was someone she needed to see.

The south wing was quiet this evening and Amy was conscious of the approaching dark. She nodded to the nurses at the desk and slipped into room 204.

“Emory?”

She knocked lightly on the door as she entered.

There was no response, but as she drew near his bedside, he stirred.

“Who is it?”

She put her warm hand over his fingers.

“Amy?”

His vision had left him long ago but his other senses were as sharp as the north star on a clear night.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“I was wondering what was taking you so long tonight.”

“Tonight is the dinner, remember? That ceremony I told you about? I’m sorry I’m a bit later than usual.”

“Did you bring it? The book?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Will you read me the one? My favorite? I feel the need.”

She made no reply, just opened the book to the familiar words.

“No Easy Solace.

crocheted
as from a spider’s womb.”

After the reading, she wiped the tears from his eyes as she always did and he sighed and they were quiet. He was in a mood tonight and she couldn’t wait for him this time.

“Emory?”

He sighed at the breaking of the hush—though he knew her nature by now and fully expected it.

“Yes?”

“I have a surprise for you. It’s a new book. We’ve read through Neruda’s Memoirs so many times now…I thought you might enjoy something new. It’s called Delicate Machinery Suspended. It’s by a poet who is new to me—Anne Overstreet. I think you’ll like it…she’s very…well, she notices things.”

He was quiet. Amy sat in stilled silence, afraid to breathe.

When he finally spoke it was with a gruff vulnerability.

“You’re not to leave Neruda’s Memoirs behind when you come, you hear?”

“No, of course not, I know it’s your favorite. I just thought…”

“Well, then. Read, girl. Read. Let’s see what this Anne Overstreet has to offer.”

Amy smiled in the dim light. She was going to be late for the dinner. And she didn’t care one bit.

The End :)

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

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___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

Oliver called hospice the next day. The nurses came and went like ghosts—helping Justine with pain management and soothing the rest of them with knowing words. Amy was shocked at the sudden deterioration in her friend. She brought a bag of clothes and moved them in to a spare bedroom. Just for now, she told Oliver, who simply hugged her. He moved a cot into the living room for her after finding her on the couch nearest Justine that first morning.

Moments of lucidity were scarce and Amy grieved quietly the loss. Most often, Justine mistook Amy for her daughter, which Amy found unsettling.

“I love you, Marylynne,” she said one day. She gripped Amy’s hand with untold strength and stared fiercely into her eyes. “Don’t you ever forget that, Ok?”

Amy stared into those milky eyes and felt her insides melt like sugar in water.

“I love you too, mama,” she said.

She knew it was right by the peace that settled over Justine’s face. She lifted her hand and smoothed the old woman’s hair back from her brow.

“I love you so much.”

She continued to read the poems to Justine’s limp figure. And though it seemed a pointless task, Amy noticed that during the reading, her friend slept less restlessly. Amy whispered the words deep into the night, grateful for the way they calmed her too.

Alice was another story. The girl had taken on insomnia, and often Amy would wake up in the wee hours to find her standing over her grandmother, still and watching. She said nothing to her at first, knowing the way fear can gnaw away at the insides. Alice’s world was about to change.

Amy awoke one night to the sound of muffled sobs. She found Alice on the couch, a crumpled ball of a girl.

“Alice?”

The sniffing slowed to a drip.

“Alice, honey?”

The girl padded over to Amy’s cot. Amy said nothing, just lifted the blanket and let her climb on in. She wrapped herself around that bundle of sad, willing her arms to be strength enough for them both. She slept better than she had for days and she thought Alice did too. In the morning, she was aware of a shadow standing over them. She opened her eyes to Oliver’s. His were soft from looking at his daughter in sleep but she saw something else there too. Was it…fear? Grief? Maybe both she decided.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

“Call me if you need me, ok?”

She nodded again. He turned to leave but stopped. Slowly he turned back around, kneeled beside the cot and kissed Alice’s forehead. Then he searched out Amy’s hand under the covers and lifted it to his lips too. His eyes were glistening and he spoke without looking at her.

“These are your best parts, Amy. These pieces of you…you were right, that first time we met. Can’t put this on a resume. For what you give…I am so grateful.”

The last was said in a whisper. And then he was gone. Amy lifted her hand to her nose. It smelled of him. She slowly inhaled and fell back to sleep with his daughter breathing soft beside her.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
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___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

“Do you want to move in with us?”

“Excuse me?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and flashed her a crooked smile.

“It was Justine’s idea. She thought it might be a way we could help each other out. Right now, she is unable to do so much for Alice. Alice is alone so much these days. She adores you, Amy. We just thought…until you get back on your feet…and since you aren’t working right now…”

“That I would have nothing better to do?”

The watchers started laughing in her head and she put her fingers to her temples. The anger was their trademark and she fought hard to control her emotions. Oliver looked stunned.

“No, Amy. That’s not what I meant. Justine mentioned you are having some financial concerns. She said she thought you needed some healing time before going back to work full time. She only wants to help. And it would be invaluable help to us. Of course, we would pay you very well, I know we’re asking you to give up a lot…”

Amy stood up and grabbed the book off the table.

“I have to go.”

Oliver stood up beside her.

“Amy, please…”

She moved toward the door. He followed.

“At least let me walk you home, I feel so horrible. This didn’t go the way I planned…”

“I’m fine. I know my way home.”

He put his hand on her arm and she shrugged it off, whirling around to face him.

“Look, Oliver, I’m not for sale. Nor am I some kind of social project to entertain your family. I am a woman who is trying to put her life back together. This may be hard for you to believe, but at one time, I was quite successful. I’m very good at what I do. I just haven’t found the right opportunity, I just…”

She was shaking. He put his hand back on her arm.

“I know all this, Amy. Did you forget I’ve seen your vitae? I had never been more impressed by a candidate before you came into my office. Justine just thought you need some time…”

“I’m fine! Would you please tell Justine to mind her own business? I need a real job to pick up the pieces of my life, not some glorified babysitting position.”

She saw the words hit him and he flinched. Even as she said them, she knew she didn’t mean them. She had grown to love Justine and Alice. The hurtful words came from the watchers.

They stared at each other, her icy blue locked with his steel gray. Finally, he looked down.

“I guess there’s nothing more to say then.”

She cried on the short walk home, berating the voices in her head, berating herself.

“Why? Why did I say those things?”

She stumbled into her apartment and dropped onto the couch. She stared at the ceiling, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes leaving wet tracks down her cheeks.

“Why do I always ruin everything?”

She must have fallen asleep because the pounding came at 3 am to wake her.

“What?” she mumbled in her half sleep. She could hear someone pounding on the door. Really? Was someone pounding on her door at 3 am? She sat bolt upright. Fear seized her and she crept through the hallway to the front of the small living quarters. She peeked through the sidelight.

It was Oliver.

She flung the door open.

“Oliver, what in the world?”

“I’m sorry to come at this hour. I wouldn’t, you know I wouldn’t. It’s Justine. She’s had a seizure. She’s in terrible pain. She won’t let me take her to the hospital, Amy. She’s asking for you. And that damn book. I don’t know what to do. She’s in terrible pain…”

The panic and helplessness in his voice shed any remnant of sleep left in her body. She ran into the living room and grabbed Neruda’s Memoirs off the couch and flew back to him and out the door.

“Come on.”

She could hear her loud moans as soon as they walked through the door. She ran to her, clutching Neruda’s Memoirs tightly to her breast. Alice was at her grandmother’s side, face streaked and pinched.

“Alice, what are you doing out of bed?”

Oliver’s voice was filled with agony.

“Daddy? Daddy, please help her! I can’t help her, Daddy. I’ve tried everything.”

He went to her and wrapped his arms around her. Alice sobbed into his chest.

Amy cautiously approached the bedside. Justine’s body arched in pain and she cried out. Her whole body shook with sobs.

“Oh, God, make it stop! Oh, God, oh, God, oh God…”

Amy recognized a prayer in Justine’s pleas. She said nothing by way of greeting; just fell right into the words.

“Trial Season

shedding its sheath for winter with the pace
of an old man making do with a gimp left leg…”

Justine turned empty eyes on Amy. She squinted in concentration, vacancy flickered.

“Amy?”

Amy leaned over the bed and grasped Justine’s hand.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here, Justine. I’m here.”

A pain gripped the old woman and her back arched again in response to the violent conversation taking place in her body. She screamed.

“Oh, God. “

She searched Amy’s face, struggling to maintain recognition.

“Help me.”

Amy reached up and smoothed her friend’s brow. Over and over she caressed her face and hair.

“Shhhh. It’s ok. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

“The words…”

Amy scrambled to open the book again.

“Things happen.

braced for the challenge,
armed with emerald swords…”

She read on. She was vaguely conscious of Oliver and Alice shifting noiselessly on the settee. She paid no mind. Only read the words until Justine’s body was still and quiet. Finally giving in to the magic of poetry.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3
Read Part 4
Read Part 5
Read Part 6
Read Part 7
Read Part 8
Read Part 9
Read Part 11
Read Part 12
___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

The moon was slowly rising over the poster board horizon—its waxing gibbous a face turned away from their party. Amy wiggled her toes in the cool sand. Justine leaned in close.

“This has all been so…re-enchanting.”

She dimpled and Amy realized just how strongly Alice resembled her grandmother. She returned Justine’s smile. She knew the poem her friend referred to. It was Maureen Doallas’s To Be Re-enchanted is Uneasy. She gave her the favorite verse.

“I would as soon die as miss
morning coming up, the swelling round
of cloud before lightbursts, the press
of stars to complete a night’s worth of sky
for clearing dreams…”

Justine leaned back in her chair and looked up at the midnight blue.

“The press of stars to complete a night’s worth of sky…Oh, that’s nice.”

She sighed deep.

“Oh but I fear I will have to miss morning coming up. I will settle for these stars pressing in and ready for the dreamland. Oliver, will you help me to bed? This has been such a wonderful evening. I don’t want to spoil it by staying up too late. I am tired. Such a good tired, though.”

They had pulled the chairs up to the firepit and Oliver and Alice were cuddled in the glider–Oliver’s arms making a warm nest for his girl. Though spring had announced her arrival by way of bloom on nearby hills, the evenings were still cool and the clear sky lent a nip to the air. Amy was thankful for her sweater and drew a bit closer to the fire as the others began to stir.

“Alice, you should be getting ready for bed too, sweetheart.”

Oliver disentangled himself from the gangly arms of a ten year old.

“But, dad! I’m not tired! Let me stay up a little bit longer, please?”

Oliver looked at a loss, so Amy attempted a rescue.

“I should be going too. Alice, it is getting late. Maybe you should listen to your dad.”

Alice’s lip curled.

“May I stay up just long enough for you to get Gram settled, Dad? Amy can keep me company, can’t you?”

She turned those blue eyes on Amy and resistance was futile.

“Sure, I can. But as soon as your dad gets back…I have to go, ok?”

“Oh, all right.”

Amy bent to give Justine a goodnight hug. She was surprised to have a papery kiss planted on her cheek.

“Thank you, Amelia.” There were tears in the old woman’s eyes. “I couldn’t have asked for a nicer evening.”

As Oliver wheeled her away, Amy nestled into the glider beside Alice. The girl leaned into Amy and she wrapped arms around the skinny frame. They rocked back and forth, quiet—watching the fire die down and listening to its soft burn. Amy could feel Alice giving in to sleep, felt the small body relax in her arms. She buried her face in the girl’s hair and felt her heart leap. Alice smelled like sunscreen and grape popsicle and the scent of her was causing Amy’s heart to break.

“This has been the best night,” Alice murmured.

“Yes,” Amy said, staring into the fire. “It has.”

“Like having a real family.”

Amy hugged her tighter—felt the pain of those few words and they rocked steady. They were one and she knew the precise moment that sleep came because Alice’s breathing slowed and the girl’s body rested heavy against her own.

“Is she asleep?”

Oliver sat in the lawn chair beside the glider and held his hands to the fire.

“I think so. Only just.”

“Maybe you should sit a little bit. Just to make sure she is in a good deep sleep before I carry her up.”

Something about his smile made Amy blush. She was thankful for the settling dark.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight. It was…really nice.”

“I couldn’t not invite you. It was your idea, after all.”

“This?” She gestured around the garden. “This wasn’t my idea! How in the world did you do it all?”

He grinned wider, poked the fire with one of the sticks they had used to roast the marshmallows earlier.

“Justine still has a lot of friends in the construction business, you know. That was what George did. Owned a huge construction company. The guys who bought it from her after he died were with him forever. They are crazy about Justine. Would do anything for her. So, I just…made a few phone calls.”

“Well, it’s amazing. I’m re-enchanted too.”

“I’m glad.”

He looked away.

“Thank you for everything you do, Amy. Alice is just crazy about you and Justine…I’ve seen new hope in her these past weeks.”

“All I do is give her poetry.”

“And that means everything. All the poetry has been gone from her life for a long time.”

He looked up and into Amy’s eyes.

“And from mine too.”

Something inside of her felt like it would break if he kept looking at her like that and fear came calling. The Watchers can never resist the call of fear.

But Oliver’s next words put the stopper on the voices of her old enemies and sent Amy’s heart spinning.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3
Read Part 4
Read Part 5
Read Part 6
Read Part 7
Read Part 8
Read Part 10
Read Part 11
Read Part 12
___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

When poet Marie Ponsot suffered a stroke last summer at the age of 89, she lost all of her language. This voracious reader and exquisite writer—this multilingual poet’s poet for whom the play of language was as easy and familiar as claiming the syllables of her own name—found herself bereft of the one dependable friend we hope to have until life’s end.

But not for long.

As she lay, physically inert, in her hospital bed, she made multiple mental trips to the attic of her intellect and rummaged for words. At first none would come. Ponsot described herself trying to recover “the earliest thing I ever knew by heart” (New York Times, June 25, 2010). And so she attempted to recite, not a poem, but the Lord’s Prayer, the foundation of her spiritual and, as it turns out, her linguistic formation.

But the words refused to rise to her lips. Having failed to open that box of English language memory, she dusted off another, labeled “French,” and tried it. Previously married to a Frenchman and having lived in France for years, Ponsot had been comfortable in that tongue, had taken it on like a second skin. She began well—Notre Pere qui—but then French, too, failed her.

Near panic, half convinced that she would lie wordless for the remainder of her days, Ponsot did something extraordinary—leaving the attic of mind, she descended into the depths of her heart. It was then she discovered what was written there. She envisioned a page from the Roman Missal she had owned as a young child, and suddenly the words inscribed on the page arrived: the Pater Noster, the Latin version of the prayer she had once learned by heart. Miraculously, her tongue remembered every syllable of the prayer—and not only in Latin, but in English, too.

Language, once again, belonged to her.

In the days, weeks, and months that followed, Marie Ponsot recovered her powers of speech, as well as her ability to write poetry, so this terrifying tale takes the happiest of turns. Here I must confess (for I, like Ponsot, am a cradle Catholic)—my retelling of the story contains fancy, as well as fact—the images of the fusty attic and musty boxes, of the basement of the heart, mine own.

To know something by heart is to know it reliably, unfailingly—to know it more deeply and intimately than what we know by brain. It is inscribed there, literally written—and in indelible ink—by our memory and our mind.

The heart is our notebook, our diary, our treasury, our breviary—an iron-clad safe full of wisdom and play. It is our repository against our extremity. Be careful to put something here—the heart might say—for you will need it some day.

Post by Angela Alaimo O’Donnell, author of Saint Sinatra and Other Poems

___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

“Absolutely not.”

He was the brick wall behind his desk and she wrestled with frustration. Didn’t he see that Justine needs this?

“Amy, I appreciate what you want to do, but it’s just not possible. We are two hours from the ocean. That may not sound long to you, but for a woman who can break a bone by simply taking a step, for a woman whose skin could be sorely compromised by sitting in a car that long, for a woman who needs nursing care every few hours…It’s just too risky.”

She felt heat rising to her cheeks and pursed her lips. He must think her a fool.

“Oliver, I know it’s risky, but the benefits would far outweigh the danger. My ex-husband is a physician. I’ve already talked to him about borrowing one of the transport vans his practice uses for his surgery patients. The vans have special beds for skin management, there’s even potential for an oxygen tank if necessary. I worked at his practice for ten years. I know about these things.”

His eyes bored into her.

“And do you know about managing her bladder? Have you ever done a catheterization? Are you prepared to change her Depends? She lost bowel and bladder function several months ago. How do you think that will affect Justine’s dignity? It’s one reason she schedules you in between the nurses’ visits—so you won’t have to deal with that. If you traveled with Justine you would not only have to deal with it, but it may take away those few strands of pride she has left.”

Amy sat still in her chair. Of course she hadn’t considered these things. What was she thinking? She wanted to run from his office the way she had all those weeks ago. She felt like a little girl being chastised by a parent.

Suddenly, Oliver sprung up from his chair and turned his back to her. His wrinkled shirt flashed white in the corner of her eye. He wrapped his arms around himself—seemingly trying to calm down. She stood slowly, preparing to leave when she noticed his large frame shaking.

“Oliver?”

She took a step toward him.

He bowed his head and lifted a hand to cover his eyes. Oliver was crying. Amy remembered his hand over hers that first day they met—his awkward attempt at compassion—and a wave of tenderness crashed through her composure.

She edged around the desk and tentatively placed a cool hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was asking. I only wanted to do this for Justine.”

He lifted his hand to hers and for the second time in their acquaintance covered her small fingers with his large ones.

“I’m the one who is sorry.”

He turned to face her, still clutching her hand.

“Justine has been…like a mother to me. She has been the only mother Alice has known. I haven’t really considered what losing her will mean—what it has meant to watch her slowly go down hill over these past months. What I wouldn’t give to take her to the seashore—to see her eyes light up again. I would love to say yes, Amy. But I cannot compromise Justine’s health. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Amy nodded, slid her hand out of his.

“I understand. I won’t mention it again. I better get going or I’ll be late for our reading.”

She gave him a weak smile before heading out the door.

* * *

She had just put the top on her peanut butter and jelly sandwich when there came a light knock at the door. She glanced at the clock. Who would come calling at dinner time? She briefly entertained the thought of ignoring it, but the tapping came again—more insistent this time. She reluctantly set the sandwich down and moved to the door.

She opened it just a crack, only to have it pushed in from the outside at the slight give.

“Alice!”

“Dad said to come get you, Amy. You’re invited to dinner.”

Amy didn’t know what to say. Alice was smiling like she had a secret.

“Well…I just made a sandwich…”

“You have to come! Gram will be so disappointed if you don’t.”

Feeling slightly coerced, Amy grabbed a sweater and Alice’s hand and they walked down the street to the gated house together.

“What is this all about?” She glanced over at the girl.

“You’ll see…”

That ornery smile again.

When they entered the house, it was eerily quiet. Alice led her down the hall, through the Great Room, through the sun room, and out the garden doors.

Amy drew breath sharply at what she saw.

The entire garden courtyard had been turned into a beach. The grass and stone were covered with sand. There was a large mural of an ocean scene somehow hung along the south wall. A tiki bar with coconuts hanging from a grass umbrella sat in the corner. Island music drifted from speakers.

And there was Justine, in the middle of it all, sitting in a wheelchair. Grinning from ear to ear.

“Welcome to the beach,” she said, as Amy looked around in wonder. Oliver appeared from somewhere and put a lei around her neck. He smiled down at her.

“What do you think?”

She was speechless.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

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Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

“Read it again.”

Justine dipped her head and puckered her lips to the corner of the carry-out cup. The whipped cream made a mustache on her upper lip and Amy laughed. White Mocha Latte. The old woman had sighed over one just yesterday and Amy couldn’t wait to surprise her with it this morning.

Justine rolled her eyes into the back of her head as she sipped.

“Oh, dear. Thank you so much for this little treat this morning, Amelia. I’ve always said that a good coffee makes poetry sweeter. Mmmmm.”

They sipped quietly—Justine her sweet concoction and Amy her Café au Lait.

“Go ahead,” Justine repeated. “Read it again.”

“You always want that one.”

“You know I love it. But, I have a story to go with it today. I remembered it last night.”

This had become their habit. Amy had been reading to Justine for four weeks now, five days a week. On the days when Justine felt well, after each poem, she would share a memory with Amy. Amy listened, sometimes asked questions, but she knew the stories were more for Justine than for her. So she let her talk as much as she wanted.

“All right then, here goes:

What I really like

to reach home.”

Amy waited. Justine took a shaky breath and set down her latte.

“I was a new bride when I first saw the sea. George’s construction business was growing, but we still hadn’t much money for a holiday. He rented us a small cottage on the shore and we spent a week learning the rhythm of married life from the steady beat of the Atlantic. The beaches were different then—not so busy, much quieter. We were married in March, so the tourist season had not quite started yet. My George was an athlete and every morning he would get up before the sun and swim in that cold ocean. I could barely stand to wade in the stuff, but I would wander myself awake in the surf as he swam…picking up little bits of the ocean as I waited for my new husband to finish his morning constitutional.

One morning, I sat on the cool sand waiting. The sun was beginning to show the top curve of her head—all brilliant red and orangy glow. He emerged from the water just as she started her ascension. It looked like he carried the sun on his head as he splashed toward me. And in typical George fashion, he had to get his wet all over me, reducing me to a fit of giggles right there before God and everyone.”

She was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory.

“That morning I said something to George that would stick for the rest of our marriage. George Taylor, I said, did you know the sun rises and sets on you? And we sat together and watched her slow climb.”

Justine set her coffee down on the breakfast tray at the bedside and lay back against her pillows.

“What I wouldn’t give to see the ocean one more time before I die.”

She studied her hands, avoiding Amy’s eyes. The old woman had never shared a story about her husband before and Amy was unsure what to say.

“You must have loved him very much.”

When Justine looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Yes, yes I do.”

She smiled weakly and put her hand over Amy’s where it rested on Neruda’s Memoirs.

“Thank you for listening to an old woman’s ramblings. You are so easy to talk to, Amelia. I never used to talk so much. But then…George has been gone for twenty-seven years now. The Lord took him far too soon. Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought of him. But I am thinking of him more and more these days. I am ready to see my husband again.”

She looked up with shining eyes. At the thought of losing Justine, Amy felt panic. She had only just found her. Even though it was short, their time together had filled a lacuna inside of her that she didn’t know was there. She was grateful for the old woman’s friendship.

Amy hesitated.

“Justine…is it certain? I mean, isn’t there something the doctors can do? You don’t seem so bad off to me, I mean…”

Justine patted Amy’s hand.

“Oh, sweetheart, yes it is certain. I have outlived all of their predictions. I have been battling this cancer for ten years now. I’ve had chemo and radiation and in the beginning I wanted to fight. But it kept coming back. I’m eighty-two years old, Amelia. I’m tired. This bed is my life now. I am too weak to be moved. My bones are too fragile. I am ready for this to end.”

Amy was surprised to feel tears on her cheeks. Justine lifted a gnarled finger and smoothed the wet away. Her skin was surprisingly soft on Amy’s face and she cupped the younger woman’s chin in her hand. Her milky eyes searched intently.

“Don’t you worry about me. You need to worry about you. You have given me so much joy, Amelia. But you have much better things to do than read poetry to an old woman. You still have a whole lot of living to do.”

Amy shrugged Justine’s hand away and wiped her eyes.

“Do you want to hear that poem again?”

“Sure, why not? It gets better each time you read it.”

So Amy read the poem again. And as she imagined the young sun ascending into the sky, aging in the slow journey across the arc of the earth, arriving at dusk with all its purples and blues—arriving home…

She knew what she had to do.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3
Read Part 4
Read Part 5
Read Part 6
Read Part 8
Read Part 9
Read Part 10
Read Part 11
Read Part 12
___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

She hadn’t meant to stay so long.

Every day this week it was the same: two poems a day and Justine asleep in half an hour. Amy obediently sat beside the sleeping woman for two and a half more hours…just in case. Alice was “in the library” having her lessons. Amy never saw the girl—until today.

Justine had only wanted one poem today. Amy read A Mother-To-Be in Waiting.

In the space between
the waiting
and the coming

soon seek
to give light
to give life
to give love

After the reading both women were affected. Amy was left wondering if this is what it is like to hold a child of one’s own—is it holding moonlight in your arms? The ache in her womb and her empty arms throbbed. Justine turned her face away and grew silent.

“Justine?”

The old woman turned doleful eyes back to Amy.

“I’m sorry, Amelia. Those last lines…to give light/to give life/to give love…they make me miss my daughter.”

“You have a daughter? “

“Yes, dear. Alice’s mother is my daughter.”

She sighed.

“I have not seen Marylynne for eight years.”

“Eight years is a long time. That must be…just terrible. I’m sorry.”

“Yes. It is. It’s not knowing where she is…is she still alive even? I’ve tried to find her—hired detectives. She does not want to be found. Or she is dead. This would not surprise me, given her lifestyle. Either way, she’s been dead to me for eight years now.”

Amy didn’t know what to say. The two women looked at each other in silence. Justine seemed so small. Amy could see the sorrow in the corners of the old woman’s eyes—threatening to spill over. Without thinking she reached out and covered a withered hand with her own. Justine squeezed her fingers and the tears did spill then.

“You give me such a gift, Amelia. Thank you.”

Just then, Alice peeked through one of the doorways hugging the circular room.

“Guess what?”

She skipped into the room.

Two sets of eyes followed her.

“What?”

They asked it simultaneously.

“Mrs. Lemasters has an appointment. So my studies have been cut short today. She’s already given me my assignments! That means I can join the two of you for lunch!”

Oh, this child was beautiful and Amy was bewitched by those dimples.

“Lunch!”

Justine looked horrified.

“I forgot that I promised you lunch, Amelia. The poetry has given me such sweet sleep…it slipped my mind completely.”

“Please don’t worry about it. I usually don’t eat lunch anyway.”

Justine eyed her critically.

“No wonder you are so thin. Alice, your father made some of his creamy tomato soup a couple days ago. There are some cold cuts in the fridge. Will you be a dear and put us together a tray?”

The girl was thrilled. She disappeared into the galley. Amy watched the door swing behind her.

“Just…let me help.”

She followed Alice into the kitchen. She found her carefully ladling soup from a tureen into three bowls. She dimpled again at Amy’s presence.

“Dad won’t let me use the stove when he’s not home, but I’m a pro with the microwave!”

Amy opened the refrigerator door, found some ham and turkey in the bottom drawer and placed them on the tray sitting on the counter.

“The bread is over there.”

Together, they created a lovely little lunch, complete with iced tea topped with mint. Amy was impressed with Alice’s skill in the kitchen. Certainly not hazardous duty, she smiled at the thought. Maureen Doallas’s poetry made for a good aperitif.

When the two returned to Justine, however, they found her sleeping.

“Let’s eat in the garden, then. Shall we?”

Amy followed Alice’s bobbing form through yet another door, into a solarium of sorts. There was lush greenery in the center—miniature palms and Elephant’s Ear, and tropical-looking plants that lent a feel of holiday to the room. She followed Alice through sliding glass doors and into beauty.

It was a mild day for early March—the blustery wind and snow flurries of the previous week blown on to far places. The sun lit the cloudless sky like stained glass and the promise of spring was in the air. The garden was rather bare, only the crocuses brave enough to show themselves this early in the season. But Amy was taken with the hedging—the neat rows of boxwood framed them competently, lending a feel of order that Amy sorely lacked these days.

“Alice, this is beautiful!”

The girl grinned.

“Dad is teaching me about gardening. My mother used to take care of the flowers. And then Gram. But now, she’s too sick, so it’s up to me. I’m in charge this year.”

Amy searched the child’s face for any sadness at the mention of her mother. But Alice seemed quite content. She sat the tray down on a table that was strategically positioned in the shade of a small tree. The perfect hostess, she set the plates out with silverware and gestured for Amy to sit.

“Would you like to say the blessing?”

Blessing?

“Why don’t you, Alice? You are the host, after all.”

“Okay.”

The child folder her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

“Thank you for this food, Lord. And thank you for sending Amy. Amen.”

Alice attacked her plate with gusto. Amy was surprised at how eager she was for a bite too—something in the crisp air piqued her hunger. The soup was delicious—the perfect blend of cream, tomato, and basil. And she wondered about this Oliver—this gourmet/gardener/banker/single father who cared for the mother of his disappeared wife. She surveyed Alice under her lashes.

“How old are you, Alice?”

“I will be eleven in four months time.”

Ten years old. Alice was only two when her mother left her. Amy studied the little girl in front of her.

“Daddy says he has a big surprise for me for my birthday. I was hoping he would get me a new bike. But he won’t tell. Usually, he gives it away before hand. Dad is terrible about keeping secrets! I think he almost likes to give it away…”

Amy let Alice prattle, enjoying the easy sound of her talk. They split the extra bowl of soup—the one warmed for Justine. Afterwards, Justine was still sleeping so they cleaned up together.

All the way home, Amy smiled. As she checked her mailbox before heading back inside, a realization popped.

She hadn’t heard a thing from the Watchers all week.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3
Read Part 4
Read Part 5
Read Part 7
Read Part 8
Read Part 9
Read Part 10
Read Part 11
Read Part 12
___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

Says Laura Boggess:

I started this little story as I waited for Maureen Doallas’s Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. I had been so looking forward to the release of the book, had ordered it the second I heard it was available–and then was frustrated by what seemed like a terribly long delivery (it was only a few days, but felt much longer). It was very windy that week–I watched religiously for the mailman each day amidst flying little bits of this world–leaves, papers, my neighbor’s flag. As I waited, I entertained myself with the story of Amy Pinkleberry–a young divorcee who struggles with depression. Amy’s depression is characterized by auditory hallucinations–destructive voices that prevent her from finding the happiness she so longs for. Only one thing stops the voices and that is…well, you’ll just have to read on to find out…

Waiting on Neruda’s Memoirs

Amy sank her teeth into the airy white bread and the tangy sweetness of grape jelly melted into her tongue. She swung her legs back and forth under the table. The old lady was talking and she was trying to listen but that purple goodness was gooping out the sides of its spongy confines, forcing her to tilt head and drink its drippings.

She had cried a lot at first—so much she hadn’t wanted to eat. The missing of her momma was more than she could stand. And her daddy too. And when her grandma came to stay with her, she thought it only temporary. That they would be coming home soon. She thought that all the way through the funerals and up until the grandmother told her that her mommy and daddy were in heaven now.

What was she saying now?

The silver head was bending close. Those slender fingers with the bunchy skin were wrapping around hers. Milk-blue eyes sought her own.

“You’re going to be okay, Amelia. We’re going to take care of each other. It’s just you and me now.”

Just you and me now.

Steven had once told her that too.

They always go away.

The Watchers hissed in her ear.

Amy awoke with a start. She slapped the alarm into submission and stared at the ceiling. She resisted the urge to turn to the empty side of the bed. She must face these things alone now.

But her Gran’s face seemed so real. And for a minute she was four years old again…waiting for momma and daddy. She closed her eyes and tried to remember their faces. All she could conjure was the snapshot taken on their wedding day that she had tucked away in the safe in the closet in the second bedroom.

But Gran’s face? That was another story. She closed her eyes and brought the dream to mind—she knew every curve of that woman’s mouth…every wrinkle on her brow. And her eyes–how they could speak the mischief of her mind.

The sobs that wracked her small frame took her by surprise. Blindly, she fumbled for it on the table. Drew it like air to parched lungs. It fell open to page ninety-five.

Pain isn’t a wound
we can stitch
to a close…

She let her eyes linger over the rest of the poem until her heart slowed and her breathing smoothed. This one said so much. Heartfelt, it was called.

It was.

Amy had read it over and over last night before giving in to sleep. Somehow, Maureen Doallas’s words had become her lullaby.

She looked at the clock. Only an hour before time to read to Justine. As she put feet to floor, she carried the last lines of the poem with her.

Measure pain slowly,
wait for it to dull,
offer it time and memory.

To be continued…

Story by Laura Boggess. Reprinted with permission.

Read Part 1
Read Part 2
Read Part 3
Read Part 4
Read Part 5
Read Part 6
Read Part 7
Read Part 8
Read Part 9
Read Part 10
Read Part 11
Read Part 12
___________

Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.

In the fifteen years I have taught poetry-writing for a living, the only thing I’ve always done in every class is make students memorize poems. From Introduction to Poetry Writing to the graduate workshop, it’s a non-negotiable requirement. I warn them on the first day.

The poem must be at least 14 lines long, previously published, no song lyrics. They must judge it a great poem worthy of the effort. “Find one you love so much you want it to be part of your bodies,” I tell them. “A piece of art you want to own.”

I tell them that people used to say “commit,” as if memorization were a physical act, like a crime, or a leap of faith. “In high school, I once committed The Raven.”

Long before that, Plato and St. Paul used a phrase that gets translated “written on the heart” to refer to memorization.

I tell them they must get the poem down cold, so they will be able to stand up in a crowded bus or bar and recite it with confidence if necessary. I tell them memorization is the best way to get to know a poem: to internalize its rhythms, grasp its diction and syntax, and understand its structure and movement from beginning to end. I tell them committing a poem is a form of self love, like buying yourself a gift, only better. And no one can take it away from you.

When recitation days arrive, they silently write their poems out by hand, word for word, and then one by one, stand and deliver, with a neighbor holding the handwritten script. Usually there is Frost, Bukowski, and Plath. Once a shy kid in a ball cap who had barely ever talked presented the entire “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” to our stunned silence. Another time a goth girl in lace-up boots said all of Robert Service’s “The Highwayman.” Often a sassy chick will boast Mia Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman” or Lucille Cliffton’s “Hips.” Usually someone drags out a Shel Silverstein favorite from childhood. Last semester, a student from Indonesia recited a classic pantoum in Malay, then in translation.

We were enchanted that morning, as always, when students take the assignment seriously and present their poems well. We were in the presence of embodied poetry—Robert Pinsky’s message when he was poet laureate: the human voice is the proper instrument for the poem. But it’s more than that. It is a gesture of intimacy and vulnerability to share with others what you truly love.

In a world where students sit beside one another in classrooms and text message remote acquaintances, these students must risk enough to stand and physically present something they prize to their peers. The class listens very hard, willing the next line to come smoothly, eager to see and praise the treasure this person loved enough to commit.

Post by Julia Spicher Kasdorf, author of Poetry in America

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Subscribe to Every Day Poems— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In November we’re exploring the theme By Heart, on memorizing or becoming one with poetry.