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Archive for April, 2015

for L

This morning, waking up, I’d forgotten
how yesterday we dug a ditch between us.
I was walking to your door, when I almost fell in it.
Already it’s become a canyon, deepened
by forces I don’t understand. There are rapids
swirling in the bottom, and I don’t know how
to make it across. Can you hear me on this side
calling your name? In the eroded cliff walls,
I read the record of all that’s been lost.
I wonder how much farther down
the canyon floor might go, wonder how
we’ll ever build a bridge. Or learn to fly.

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Caught by Surprise

you’d never know
the white scales of the tarpon
are delicately rimmed with silver
until the great fish
is dead

*

update from my mother!
the fish did not in fact die … it was catch and release, but it did leave a few scales in the boat! thanks, mom. That wrecks the poem, but it sure sounds better for the tarpon!

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Put a broom in my hands.
I, too, want to clear away
the burned out remains
of hate and disparity.
I want to sweep
with the others who sweep
until the straw is worn
to nothing,
then find another broom
and start the work
again until every street
in every town
shines.

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One Story

here, I’m thirsty
said my cheek
to your tear

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Instructions

Do this always,
touch me new.
Always do not

know exactly
what to do.
Meet me the way

the waves
meet the sand,
repeatedly

and unplanned.
Crash with me,
lap me, erode me,

reveal me,
rearrange me,
unmake me and make

me again.
Bring me treasures
you’ve kept hidden

wild in your depths.
Soften me. Smooth me.
Still me. Move me.

Take me where I’ve
never been. And take
me again, and then

take me again.
Leave, but return,
and whatever you do,

touch me new.

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Has Broken

Wing or anchor,
the morning does not know
if it would rather sink or fly.

What is really at stake in a morning?
Just one more drop in an infinite ocean of time.
What really could happen of consequence?

A bomb might fall. The earth
might quake, a child might run
to the edge of a shore and know herself as everything.

But that is only the morning,
and by afternoon
it is old news.

Wing or anchor, sink or fly,
the morning goes on like this forever.
It is always morning, morning never quite

making up its mind.

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What the Page Said

This pot I’ve been stirring,
I’ve been stirring so long
that my stirring stick
has begun to bloom—
or am I the one being stirred?

This skin I’ve been wearing,
I’ve been wearing so long
is the skin of my predator—
or am I the one being worn?

What is not in blossom?
Even this body, shackled
and gaunt, even the stick
cut from the tree.

We are all wands,
instruments of some
incomprehensible,
fertile magic

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One Unglimmering

before the dawn
the possibility of dawn—
all night holding that

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Tasting Them

just as I toss
these ashes of worry
to the breeze
the wind changes
direction

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For most life on the planet, being hidden is the default condition.
—Michael Dickinson, biologist

The little girl is not like the hermit crab,
though both live by hiding, finding small
spaces where they can retreat and occasionally
poke out a well-armored claw for transit
or feeding. It’s natural to all living things,
this impulse to survive through concealment,
only this girl, who has tucked herself under the bed,
her soft body curled into itself,
this girl, though she pinches
at anything that draws close,
she desperately, urgently
wants to be found.

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From the Pod

Did you know, she says,
that dolphins will help
an injured animal
reach the surface so it can breathe?
She is six, and she shares
this new knowledge with anyone
she meets—a teacher, a waitress,
a woman in the airport, a man
in line at the store.
Perhaps she is already
somehow aware
that every one of us
is in treacherous waters
in need of a little nudge
from beneath that guides us
to emerge.

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Sonnet

I’m tired of wishing longing’s hold would soften,
tired, I’m tired of wishing I could steer.
Though what’s the use in steering when so often
after steering wishward, I’m still here,
yes, here again, same face, same empty pocket,
same despair. But not hysterical—
too tired to rail. Exhaustion’s tourniquet
is good for that, at least. No oracle
worth reading here. They never forecast what
I wish to see. No shaman, no, no priest
worth heeding. They just tell me I should cut
my wishing, and that’s never helped the least.
Of course I wish to shelf these wishes, shelf
the shelf. But everywhere I turn, myself.

This sonnet was inspired by an exercise I did yesterday on the plane on the way home … I saw my good friend Karen Glenn had suggested in her weekly poem email that we might want to write a sonnet with 14 line end words that she gave us … so I did!

You might want to do the same thing … just take the last words off each line and write your way into them. She had a poem about aging vampires … and mine turned out in another voice, too … funny to see what happens when certain words are given to you …

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Remember your first kiss? It took me a while to remember mine, but when the memory came back, I was surprised how rich it was. Here’s the poem that came out of it, published today by Silver Birch Press as part of their Me, as a Child Poetry Series.

With Red Thread by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer (Me, as a Child Poetry Series)

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heart leaf in the virgin islands

astonished by waves
turquoise beyond turquoise—
even astonishment deepens

*

never reaching
the destination they say—
but perhaps this is closer

*

in the passion flower
an enormous dark bumble bee—
smelling lemon flowers instead

*

from how far away
is it swelling even now—
the next wave

*

carrying disappointment
down to the beach—
this, too, goes on the altar

*

amidst palm fronds,
exotic fruits, red hibiscus—
my shoes still size 9

*

with snorkel and mask
the same world seen richer—
so, too, with poems

*

coral reef—
all my ideas of what is possible
swim off

*

before I loved you
there was a world—
wasn’t there a world?

*

after the tsunami
didn’t happen
a rising interest in geology

*

the ship can always slip
into the unpredictable sea—
your hand in my hand

*

scent of plumeria—
how many other surprise sweetnesses
yet to discover

*

holding my breath
beneath the waves just to feel
the rising urge to live

*

watching the white heron
something in me
grows wings

*

not one to knock
the morning dove delivers song
through the open window

*

surrounded by coconuts
I dream of eating
a cherry

*

wish that pickpocket
had taken this, too—
sense that something’s missing

*

beside the new dress
the threadbare dress—
choosing it again

*

dinosaurs, too,
heard this at sunset—
wind in the palm leaves

*

many times a day
I smooth your hair already
perfectly in place

*

billions of white shells—
falling in love
with their differences

*

staring in the mirror
someone else’s face
laughing back

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But Which One?

vague call of the owl—
in me a longing to sing
only one note

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through empty branches
more than just a moon rises—
this full gratitude

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When you arrive at a home in Finland,
they will ask you to leave your shoes at the door.
They will usher you in where the table is set
with seven kinds of baked goods—berry pastries
and un-iced pound cake, four kinds of cookies,
and braided sweet bread with cardamom. They will ask you
to sit, and regardless what time of day it is,
they will pour you coffee, dark and rich.

With the first cup of coffee, you eat the sweet bread.
With the second cup, you eat cake.
With the third cup of coffee, you eat the pastry.
With the fourth, you try everything else.
It is polite to try everything. It is polite
to go back for more.
The ritual might take all day.

I should like to serve you poems this way,
with your feet bare and with nowhere else to go.
We could nibble the poems together,
feeding some deeper hunger that so seldom
is satisfied, the kind of hunger that cannot
be sated alone. Like the Finns, we would hold
lumps of sugar between our teeth when drinking in
what is dark and bitter. But drink it in we would,

cup after cup. There is so much to be read
between the lines, and we would let
all the unspokens join us at the table.
Not everything must be said. The midnight sun
would not set, and we would go
for a walk, perhaps pick gooseberries,
then rest a while, before
setting the table again.

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