Poet’s Corner

Casals’ Cello

Closing the door on the cabin’s warmth,
and the photos with their expectant eyes,
the horizon recedes to expose the day
taking me farther—following that single crow
inking across the morning sky.
I’m drawn up the path in anticipation
of finding something new in myself.

My tongue tastes snow flakes,
pine scent, frigid stillness.
I want so much from this place—this woman
who plays a flute in her dreams, sitting with Puck,
arpeggios of icy water running delicately down the shale
dropping into the pool like staccato cees.

My fingers flex to capture words
to anchor them onto my waiting page,
bubbling and overflowing my pen
like years past
when memory didn’t stick.

I’ve found stones for song
and a handful of green needles for fragrance.
Walking back, I hum a Bach concerto
resonant with memory of Casals’ cello.

The door sticks, and I push against its weathered wood
walk into the light pour coffee turn on the music
to finish my thoughts. Pencil and paper wait next to the photos: 
the small child standing close to her father,
the young me as mother then mature woman.

I ask that child to give me voice—to be more than the caught breath
between the intent of the bow and song of a single string.

(Winner Jade Ring Contest, Wisconsin Regional Writers Association 1999)

Tai Chi In 4 Movements

I.  The Beginning

The teacher wears black and white,
light in opposition to dark–the symbol
for yin and yang.  Unknowingly
over half the group does, too,

I don’t feel as fat as I dreaded.
The warm-up is just camouflaged exercise,
but the sparkling day bribes me to enjoy it.

My hibernated muscles stretch stubbornly
I’m awkward–an elephant trying to be a jaguar.

II. The Form

My body tries to forget itself
return to the rhythm of nature.
I walk heavy, like a bear,
filled with bear power.

My chest is a box, my spine a string of pearls
connected to the universe.  I shift my weight
to the left foot, my right arm lifts on the kiss
of a breeze–weight an anachronism of no weight.

Practice anything, she says in today’s farewell–
even if it’s wrong.  Next time you’ll have something
to correct.

She didn’t check my form, touch my leg.
Am I already perfect?
Or has she deferred to the old bear instead–
left it to its lost causes.

III.  The Practice

I am in the barefoot dark–I step out cautiously
turning my right foot, stepping strongly on my left heel
settling into my balance.

I loosen my belly’s tension, turn my head,
pulling it past stiff neck muscles
rigid prisoners of my clenched jaw.

Just when foot is firm and body balanced–
the lean in to the wind thrilling as an untried lover–
a new direction is demanded.

Practice.  I don’t know where my balance
will meet my movement. Practice.
Start again in the familiar footfall,

turning,
           leaning out,
                    feeling the sweet soul-kiss of new space made mine.

IV.  Animal Frolics

Resting deer, walking deer
press 
        fall back
                   turn
                           swing arm–not able to think like a deer

because I’m watching the teacher.

I close my eyes and become the deer,
drift through dark
rest
     pull back
listen for danger
     press forward.

The pond wears its cool scent–
I walk on small boned hooves toward marsh grass,
ears up, tongue on the roof of my mouth,
jaw relaxed.

Each cool Tai Chi morning
of these storm-surrounded days remains perfect.
My garlic and brewers yeast discourage lazy mosquitoes.

Perhaps another night I’ll become a mosquito,
bite the deer, take her heart into my own,
and fly through the woods bending and pawing the earth.

(Wisconsin Academy of Science, Industry and Letters, best poem for 1999)

Current  Work will follow next time.