For those of you who have read my work here, you know that I also struggle with writing poetry as well. This summer an acquaintance died by her own hand, and I wrote this poem to help me figure out my thoughts about it all.
As always,I welcome feedback. It is very much a work in progress. Unfortunately, I can find no way to keep the spacing and formatting, no matter how much I tweak it. But at least you can read the words.
____________________________________
The Inchworm and the Heron
On my son’s shoulder sat the inchworm,
Having hitched a ride into the sanctuary.
The eulogy progressed.
I gently coaxed it
Onto a Torah cover,
To bide its time
Until I could help it
Return to its world.
It measured the cover’s perimeter—
Up down, up down—
At the corner it stretched out
Sightlessly reaching
seeking
striving
A life carefully measured,
Centered on words of wisdom
Trying to find connection
purpose
community
When we went to leave
It had vanished, lost to view.
At the cemetery we mourners
unmoored
unconnected
unsure,
Struggled to strengthen our earthly ties,
Reaching out, looking helplessly,
For what had been lost
Over our heads a heron
Crossed the sky
Effortlessly floating
gliding
drifting
Might rootlessness be desirable?
Might the ceasing of striving be purposeful?
Above the confines of earth
the heron soared.
(c) Lydia A. Schultz 2009
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Legacies
I wrote this poem about my father's death, and its subsequent impact on me.
**************************************
Legacies
I
I drive like my father.
I never really noticed before
But during my long commute
On the open interstate
I can now see.
My left knee bent, 90 degrees,
Supports my left hand —
Back on the knee,
Fingers curled round the wheel —
My right hand occasionally lends support
But usually rests, gently,
On my right thigh.
The realization shocks me,
Driving into the sun
On the anniversary of his death.
Another brilliant October day.
His legacy revolves around cars.
When the phone call came,
I was painting the new garage.
That cool October day,
Leaves surrounded my feet.
My purple sweatshirt was streaked with
The signs of my marginal competence.
Inside the phone machine blinked,
And I heard my mother’s voice
Apologizing
For telling me of his death
By these mechanical means —
Of the unexpected stalling
Of a life I had never been without.
II
Autumn had always been my favorite.
New plaid skirts and knee socks,
Sharp pencils and smooth paper —
Did I become a teacher from that love?
He calmed my annual fears,
Assuring me that I would do just fine.
The glory of the trees would
Line our river valley
Masking the industrial ruin
In a riot of color.
We’d watch the World Series together,
Especially if the Pirates played.
Baseball linked us
Across our age and gender.
After that call I cried for my loss,
But also for my little boy’s.
He’d never know my gruff, burly dad.
He wouldn’t remember him at all.
So we watch the World Series together,
My son and I.
And every time I look at him,
I see my dad.
The cemetery is an isolated island
On a deer trail
In a sea of corn.
At his funeral,
Yellow leaves floated
In the breeze.
III
I came to dread October.
T.S. Eliot was wrong, I thought.
So many people died in October —
Autumn was cruel, indifferent,
Killing off parents
As if they were no more than the leaves
That could return in spring.
Yet my father’s memory and spirit
Return mysteriously.
The first time that I parked my car
In that coveted, close spot
At the crowded mall lot,
I thought it chance.
But then it happened again
And again. And again.
Everywhere I went.
Then I knew.
He’d given me his special gift —
His luck at finding
The perfect spot.
So when it happens —
Every time —
I whisper “Thanks, Dad.”
IV
Can the patterns arise?
Move and shift?
After my car pulls into the lot,
I emerge to hear the sound —
Familiar, yet barely —
At the edges of recognition.
The sensations wrap about me —
The chill dense breeze,
Trees dancing to music of their own making,
Brown leaves playing tag —
All part of the acrid tang
Of ripeness and decay.
My head tilts upward,
As if of its own accord.
The darkness of inverted Vs
Perforate the cool blue
Gradually, consistently, persistently
Moving, shifting,
To become the southbound giant.
The geese honk.
I accept the complexities of autumn.
************************************
**************************************
Legacies
I
I drive like my father.
I never really noticed before
But during my long commute
On the open interstate
I can now see.
My left knee bent, 90 degrees,
Supports my left hand —
Back on the knee,
Fingers curled round the wheel —
My right hand occasionally lends support
But usually rests, gently,
On my right thigh.
The realization shocks me,
Driving into the sun
On the anniversary of his death.
Another brilliant October day.
His legacy revolves around cars.
When the phone call came,
I was painting the new garage.
That cool October day,
Leaves surrounded my feet.
My purple sweatshirt was streaked with
The signs of my marginal competence.
Inside the phone machine blinked,
And I heard my mother’s voice
Apologizing
For telling me of his death
By these mechanical means —
Of the unexpected stalling
Of a life I had never been without.
II
Autumn had always been my favorite.
New plaid skirts and knee socks,
Sharp pencils and smooth paper —
Did I become a teacher from that love?
He calmed my annual fears,
Assuring me that I would do just fine.
The glory of the trees would
Line our river valley
Masking the industrial ruin
In a riot of color.
We’d watch the World Series together,
Especially if the Pirates played.
Baseball linked us
Across our age and gender.
After that call I cried for my loss,
But also for my little boy’s.
He’d never know my gruff, burly dad.
He wouldn’t remember him at all.
So we watch the World Series together,
My son and I.
And every time I look at him,
I see my dad.
The cemetery is an isolated island
On a deer trail
In a sea of corn.
At his funeral,
Yellow leaves floated
In the breeze.
III
I came to dread October.
T.S. Eliot was wrong, I thought.
So many people died in October —
Autumn was cruel, indifferent,
Killing off parents
As if they were no more than the leaves
That could return in spring.
Yet my father’s memory and spirit
Return mysteriously.
The first time that I parked my car
In that coveted, close spot
At the crowded mall lot,
I thought it chance.
But then it happened again
And again. And again.
Everywhere I went.
Then I knew.
He’d given me his special gift —
His luck at finding
The perfect spot.
So when it happens —
Every time —
I whisper “Thanks, Dad.”
IV
Can the patterns arise?
Move and shift?
After my car pulls into the lot,
I emerge to hear the sound —
Familiar, yet barely —
At the edges of recognition.
The sensations wrap about me —
The chill dense breeze,
Trees dancing to music of their own making,
Brown leaves playing tag —
All part of the acrid tang
Of ripeness and decay.
My head tilts upward,
As if of its own accord.
The darkness of inverted Vs
Perforate the cool blue
Gradually, consistently, persistently
Moving, shifting,
To become the southbound giant.
The geese honk.
I accept the complexities of autumn.
************************************
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