Emily D's Lover

At Emily's In Amherst

by David Ray

On this day of our visit they are spraying the attic
for spiders, hoping to kill a black widow or two,
and I know she would not like that.

Outside, standing between cypresses, I imagine her
as a girl, playing in cool shadows, little Emily
struck through the heart with an icicle of loneliness.

Upstairs, her tiny bed, the white dress with pearl buttons,
and the bureau where she left the poems
folded, each with a stitch or two of blue thread.

I look across the field to where they carried her
on a door, as if to a bed with wrought iron railings.
There she lies silent while we fall to our knees, speak to her.

Sipping wine from the dandelions of her yard, I ask her
about the lover, if there was one. And I feel certain
I am that lover, all she could look forward to.

Yet I am not such a bad choice. I sit devoted for hours,
loving her well, sharing the wine, the growing darkness,
and I promise to come back, to think of her always.

Welcoming in National Poetry Month with Slick Willie

Why not start out with the bard?

Sonnet 116
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediment. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.
Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Loving & loved

Today I'm delighted to share this poem by my friend and writer of so many lovely words, Laura Whalen. Visit her blog Mayan Hands Adventure 2009 for a further sampling of her writing & some, well, adventure! But for now, enjoy how she summons Neruda in this marvelous poem.

ODE TO THE ORANGE

“…Give us

this day

orange daylight

and every day

may mankind’s heart,

And its cluster of fruit,

Be both bitter and sweet…”

-Pablo Neruda

trans. Ken Krabbenhoft

Making Juice

by Laura Whalen

Making juice before your birthday—

ruby grapefruit, Spanish clementines,

organic tangerines from California.

And me, armed with crystal pitcher and wooden reamer.

First, cutting the perfect globes until

they shine rays of pink, orange and gold

like little suns during this dark time of year.

Their bright fire blazing with citrus sweet.

Then, squeezing out the liquid from each half,

using the fine yet simple wooden tool,

better than any electrical gadget

to fill the glass container bit by bit

until there is a ruddy pitcher full.

Placing the rind in the compost bucket

Knowing I will brave the cold moments later

To empty it on the pile out back,

food for my flowers next spring.

May these round fruits refresh and feed you,

your South American sun-starved soul, with their

distilled love of light – their sweet-sourness

flooding the dark.

An elixir, a love potion, a cold winter cure—

simply a pitcher of fresh juice to greet you

tomorrow from the cold shelf of the fridge.

Their round fruit emptied of all flesh and blood.

They gave themselves for you entirely—

as I am only learning to do…

ODA A LA NARANGA

“Anaranjada sea

la luz

de cada

dia,

y el corazon del hombre

sus racimos,

acido y dulce sea…”

-Pablo Neruda

Spoken Word Open Mic on April 9th

If you're in the area, why not come on by & check out the Boght Arts Center? Starting at 6 pm is an opening reception for the newest exhibit, The Good Earth: Flora & Fauna, and at 8 pm hear poetry & prose by local writers Therese L. Broderick, Laura Whalen, & Heather Moore Niver, followed by an open mic for writers & musicians. The fair-trade coffee is always excellent, too. So some out & enjoy some poetry, prose & music, and join in if you feel inclined.

answer for the shuttered heart

The Poet's Obligation

by Pablo Neruda

(translated by Alistair Reed, in On The Blue Shore of Silence)

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell:
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying, "How can I reach the sea?"
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

poetry in black stones

Black Islands

by Martin Espada

for Darío

At Isla Negra,
between Neruda's tomb
and the anchor in the garden,
a man with stonecutter's hands
lifted up his boy of five
so the boy's eyes could search mine.
The boy's eyes were black olives.
Son, the father said, this is a poet,
like Pablo Neruda.
The boy's eyes were black glass.
My son is called Darío,
for the poet of Nicaragua,
the father said.
The boy's eyes were black stones.
The boy said nothing,
searching my face for poetry,
searching my eyes for his own eyes.
The boy's eyes were black islands.