Watermark

The end of poem-a-day month . . . (Mother)

. . . might as well go out with a bang. 

 

Mother

  “I could have just put you

    in an orphanage.”

 

I should be grateful

you cut me only

with your tongue,

so many implements

available: sharpened

kitchen knives, razors,

scissors, all the tools

of your meticulous

grooming.

 

I should be grateful

you worked all week,

month after month,

to keep us housed

and fed, off to the bus

in your good suits,

matching bags & heels,

year after year,

training one young man

after another, to supervise

you.

 

I should be grateful

you taught us manners

necessary for advancement:

yes ma'am & no sir; which

fork to pick up when; he

walks the curbside, pulls

out her chair; she looks

pretty & poised, smiles,

keeps her knees

together.

 

I should be grateful

you left him even though

you say you didn’t know

about his visits to my room;

left him because of the bottle,

the women, the lies,

the demand that you, wife

& mother, get a job.

 

I should be grateful

for being expected to assist

at this annual family

meal; that I know how

to fold the linen napkins,

to lay the silver, its purpose

and its place; that I know

to offer only small rebellions

for your correction: slacks

at a formal dinner, hair

long and loose.

 

I should be grateful

that you allow us in

to your immaculate house;

that I can shield a grandchild

from your vigilant eye.

Grateful that we all sit

at this walnut table,

this smooth white cloth,

this gleaming gold-

rimmed china.

 

Grateful that we can insist

you sit with us, permit us

to carry the platters, pour

the sparkling cider, to serve you

this one time each long year.

 

--

sharon brogan

october 02015

 

 

A man asked me after a reading how long it had taken me to write this poem. I said, well, I'm 67, so – sixty years. 

 

#poem

Waiting

   

 

There is an audio of this poem (which I did not listen to) on Oratory.  

 

#poem

   

Secrets

    

Listen. I will tell you everything. The weather is turning. 
Soon it will be time to unroll the Persian rugs and lay them
on the polished floors. 

I will hold nothing back. I am brittle, like glass; like leaves
of a tree too long without water; a cocoon, untenanted,
exposed to the sun. 

This morning I wore a jacket to walk the river path. Two crows,
in their black robes, pecked at the body of a thick green snake. 
My mother was a northerner.

She carried me across thin ice. Many times I slipped beneath
the frozen water. I never knew my father. Tomatoes are laid
on the kitchen counter,

red bulbs on the maple wood. I prepare the knife:  steel blade,
sharpening stone. I want to slice to the seedy centers without
bruising the skin. 

I loved my father. He had perfect, beautiful hands. He kept
them manicured and clean. There are reasons you must not
touch me. My grandmother

lived with God in her garden. She fed me carrots and peas,
she put white lilies by my bed. I am telling you everything. 
It is cold here. 

Birch trees bend in their white sleeves, leaves hissing in the wind. 
A blade of sun slants down, casting serrated shadows on the hard
ground. Are you listening? 

Do you understand? The dog waits, and waits, at the door. 
Yesterday, I dropped the Murano vase. It cannot be repaired. 
I cut myself on sharp, thin air.

    

 #poem

a traveling poem

Another forgotten poem, for NaPoWriMo 2012. Maybe worth working on?

    

    

 

We know this path well, both of us.
We meet, and begin to walk together,
stepping around potholes, exclaiming
at this wildflower, that view of blue
mountains. One trips on a rock,
the other offers a hand-up. The path
narrows, we are touching shoulders
now. Our hands brush. We help
each other through treacherous

passages. The sun is straight over-
head. We pass the canteen back
and forth, tie our shirts around
our waists. At the spring, we dash
icy water on our faces, our bare arms,
on one another. Now we are laughing.
Soon we will turn back. Soon, the sun
will fall down the sky. Until then,
there is no place to hide.

 

 

#poem #digitalart #artjournal #collage #digitalartjournaling #digitalcollage #artjournalcaravan

April, Almost May

    

After you left, days of summer came
too early, forcing blooms that will shrivel
in the next, inevitable, frost. I sleep and sleep
through the long heat. Afternoon shadows
slant across the grass. Women pass by in pale
dresses, bare skin. I close the shutters

against the sun. Later, rain. Snow
high and spare in the mountains. Aspens
greening by the river. Wild geese fly low,
dark wings skimming the water. I always
know what time it is where you are. Flowerbeds
fill with tulips, red and yellow, and blue,

blue iris. The river rises, dark and loud.
My flannel sheets are damp in the morning;
I fold them away, bring out the cotton.
A pair of mallards sit together on a floating
log on the muddy water. I watch patterns
of light on the ceiling, white plum blossoms.

Yesterday, I went to the nursery, brought home
pansies, petunias, sweet william. The river
runs faster, birch trees stand in the water
at its edge. Under the dark surface, something
rises, sinks, tumbles in the current. This is how
it feels to love someone else's darling.

Light moves through the rooms, darkening
with clouds. I sit alone in my beautiful
house. I do not dream. I remember
your hands in my hair. I think about
the translucent sky; the fast river; the rocks
along the bank, wet and mossy; how old

women have carried firestones for years,
from camp to camp, nestled against their
bellies. My bones are dry kindling, my flesh
sweet oil. Blue flames flicker along my arms,
across my flowered sheets. Shadows move
on the bedroom walls.

 

 

#poem

The Next Day

    

    

 

The Next Day

I wake in pale light. Swallows
carving the sky, and in the distance
the raucous voice of the crow. This
long day opens out before me.

Dreams flee. I have forgotten
how to hold them. A little sugar,
a little salt. Wine in an etched glass.
Green grapes and a pear's soft curve.

In the garden, I eat an apple
and cheese. The apple gone soft,
too long in the bowl. I feed
the brownish half to squirrels.

The cheese is hard, speckled
with mold. I cut away its crumbly
skin and pick at the rest. I wanted
crisp sweetness, cheddar's sharp bite.

I eat these. They are what I have.

   

 

#poem 

This is a New Game

 

This is a new game.
The rules have changed.
You choose, in general outline,
your character. Perhaps
last time you were the king
with the magic sword
and the unfaithful wife,
a hard and powerful life.

The time before, a dragon,
with a mouth full of fire.
This is a new game. You
will be a well-fed, insignificant
woman. The rules have changed.
When you enter the game, you
forget who you are. You forget
all that came before. You enter

the white light of this game
from amnesia's darkness. This
is a new game. This game
has gone on without you.
Everything has changed. One
day, while washing a plate,
you may notice the thick blue
veins in your hands. You will

wonder, did I choose this? This
game with its incomprehensible
rules? Soap bubbles will pop
on the skin of your hands. You
will raise your head and look
out beyond the curtained
window, to the falcon in the tall
spruce. You will think, Yes.

    

    #poem

MEASURES

 

 

 

Measures

The weight of a man on a woman
is like falling into the river without drowning.
"Two" by Linda Hogan


There are things that can’t be measured or weighed.

The length of a liar’s tongue.

The number of nudges required to push
a specific person off a particular ledge.

The weight of a man on a woman who loves him
compared the weight of the same man
on a woman who does not.

The number of stones a single heart can hold
without drowning. Stars in the universe, feral
cats in the woods, fallen sparrows.

The speed and trajectory of a kind or hurtful word.

The number of molecules in the scent of lust.

The location and direction of a particle
at once. How many moments it takes
to make a life.

How many wounds to take one.

 

 

 

#poem #digitalart #artjournal #collage #digitalartjournaling #digitalcollage

love, i ask you

   

if I go out mining
carry my pick and my hoe
if I go out in the dark
morning to dig you up

to dig you out of my-
self the pick to cut away
stone and the hoe to turn my
heavy dirt will I find

you hard and silent just
another sharp stone in the
seedy soil of me or should
I go out in the night

with a flashlight a torch
to pull your night-crawling self
up out of the dark of my
thick loamy skin will you

rise to the bait of the
light? if you do and I pull
you up thinking to pierce you
on some sharp hook and feed

you to another poor
fish will you break in two and
half of you slip back through my
crumbly crevices will

you still be turning there
in the deep dark loosening
dry soil with the slippery
sheen of your body?

 

 

#poem

if I go out mining
carry my pick and my hoe
if I go out in the dark
morning to dig you up

to dig you out of my-
self the pick to cut away
stone and the hoe to turn my
heavy dirt will I find

you hard and silent just
another sharp stone in the
seedy soil of me or should
I go out in the night

with a flashlight a torch
to pull your night-crawling self
up out of the dark of my
thick loamy skin will you

rise to the bait of the
light? if you do and I pull
you up thinking to pierce you
on some sharp hook and feed

you to another poor
fish will you break in two and
half of you slip back through my
crumbly crevices will

you still be turning there
in the deep dark loosening
dry soil with the slippery
sheen of your body?

The Day of the Dead

    

 

The Day of the Dead

1 November 02005

 

This morning I woke to the smell of winter,

thinking of you searching for hope. Where

are you looking? In the bodies of women

who are strangers to you. In rice fields

and temples; in classrooms and markets;

in the dangerous sea. Though this valley

is bare, the mountains hide in a thin veil

of snow. If I set a place at my table for all

my dead, will they come? I am waiting

for hope. I know you are there, but you

are well out of sight.

 

#poem #digitalart #artjournal #collage #digitalartjournaling #digitalcollage