Posts Tagged ‘name’

Walking to the Grave

Now, when I walk
through the cemetery,
I say aloud the names
of the dead as I pass.
Elma. Clara. Brooke. Millie.
Now I know the gift
of saying the name,
how the syllables invite
an honoring of the life.
Rose. Charles. Harry.
There is one gray stone
that simply says brother.
Brother, I say as I pass.
By the time I reach
the marker for my son,
the air is alive with names.
Finn, I say, as I kneel
in the dirt. Finn.
Sometimes, when I pray,
it’s the only word
I know how to say.

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how completely the love of others
has made me who I am. How the work
of their hands is more me
than the swirls of my own fingerprints.
I am the project of love,
the product of compassion,
the sum total of kindness
and sympathy. Of course,
the cruelty, too. Of course,
the ugliness, the shame.
But it is love that rises in me,
like yeast in the living bread.
It is love I’ve received
that stands when I stand,
love that responds
when you say my name.


Friends, I have to tell you I went to the most powerful poetry reading today. Organized by a local high school girl, there were high school girls, teachers and community members who read in support of Shatter the Silence. Poems by Joy Harjo, Maya Angelou, Audrey Lorde, Ani deFranco, Marge Piercy and more … and it was so deeply moving to see the courage, the engagement, the support for each other. Conversations are happening now I never dreamt could happen–about empowerment, deep listening, meeting what is painful and celebrating what is good. There is support in the school from teachers and administration to have these conversations. It was absolutely heart-opening and soul nourishing and I am so amazed by this generation of young women. Change is happening, real, beautiful, just, fierce, loving change. 

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So I light a candle
and though I am hundreds
of miles from you,
I say your name
into the flame—
your name
and the name
of your beloved
who is gone—
these the only
syllables worth saying.
Then I hold silence for you
the way the earth
holds the ocean,
the way a canyon
holds wind,
the way a broken heart
holds another
broken heart.

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for MS

She taught me it is enough to sit
with someone who is grieving—
to sit and listen with your whole body
as if eyes could hear as well as ears,
as if a person’s silence is as essential as her words.

She taught me it is a gift to say
the name of the one who is gone—
such powerful balm, that briefest
of songs, the name.

She taught me to light a candle
and to promise to not blow it out,
not even after the conversation is done.

She taught me the solace
of offering no wisdom, asking no questions.

She gave me the gift of myself. And met me there.  

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Now, when I am alone
I am never alone. I walk
outside or get in my car
and reflexively say hello
to my beloveds no longer here,
calling them by name.
I love to say their names—
like singing a favorite song.
I love to tell them about
the bald eagles this morning
carving the sky above the river,
about the carrot soup
I will make for dinner,
about how my ears, my mind
and my arms miss their voices,
their opinions, their touch.
During the day, they are
my shadows, always
attached, but silent.
During the night, when
I am part shadow,
they welcome me
deeper into the night.

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What’s in a Name

after “Wunderlich” by Mark Wunderlich

It’s not the aromatic herb that means remembrance.
It’s spelled R-O-S-E-M-E-R-R-Y, which means
it is almost always misspelled by others,
even though I spell it out. Even though I say,
Merry, as in merry go round—
as in Merry Christmas. I give up often
on the spelling because I have learned
I’m happier that way.
It means granddaughter of Rose, who
was one of sixteen children in Illinois,
who cared for all her siblings and so never
finished school herself. Rose who cleaned
homes and vacationed in Vegas,
who waltzed and wore red nail polish
and made fancy Slovenian nut bread
she slathered with soft butter.
It means granddaughter of Merry
who planted vast gardens and drank
Bloody Marys and arranged the flowers
for the church altar on Sundays. Merry
who had a gift for painting and sang
soprano in the choir. It means “too sincere.”
It means “cries when she says I love you.”
It means “can’t understand sarcasm without help.”
It means “unable to wink with the left eye”
and “afraid of driving Red Mountain Pass.”
The name was once listed on the gym wall
in Pewaukee Elementary School
as the reigning toe touching champion,
because Rosemerry also means short legs,
overly flexible hamstrings, and long arms.
In the mid-’90s, McDonald’s chose the name
for a Happy Meal Toy—a pink-haired sky dancer
with long green legs. Now, the name is found
on recipe cards around the world
for ginger cookies, zucchini pie and dark rye bread.
It’s carved in an aspen tree on Lookout Mountain
and is not tattooed on anyone’s arm.
There are no Greek myths about Rosemerry—
no stories in which she is chased
by a god and then turned into a bird or a tree,
though sometimes I hear Rosemerry stories
that sound like myths to me.
The name means “unable to wear clothes with patterns.”
It means “quitter of ballet.”
It means “always two hours shy of an extra five minutes.”
Recently, a friend pointed out it’s nearly homophonous
with “rows merrily” as in “down the stream,”
but unfortunately it’s also synonymous with seasickness,
carsickness, airsickness and now a near constant
feeling of being rocked, even on dry land.
And though it does not mean “easy going,”
it does mean “loyal, devoted.”
It means “stubborn.”
It means “willing to try again.”
It means a girl who wanted to grow into her name.
It means a woman who carries her grandmothers with her,
remembers them everywhere she goes.

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One Journey

this crumb trail of syllables

worthy of decade-long explorations—

your name

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To say a person’s name is to keep them alive.
–Ancient Egyptian belief

It is odd how much I want to see the mummy,
though I have seen it before. It is the same
as it was then, dark and stiff and behind glass.
The woman is short, she was rich, they know
because of the care taken in how her entrails
were removed, wrapped in linens, returned
to her body before the whole corpse
was salted and dried for forty days.
Only then did they wrap her for good,
this time with scarabs inside the linens.
Of course the dung beetle would symbolize
rebirth. It epitomizes relentless biology.
I love staring at the shape of her face,
the way her toes point up. I love reading
about how they found her in the wrong coffin—
a coffin made for a common man—they could
tell by the hieroglyphics. Part of me
longs to believe that what is dead is dead.
And part of me wishes I knew her name
so I could say it again and again.

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a poem for Leanne Canty’s amazing Alphabet Menagerie

Between the letters A and Z,
there’s so much to explore—
an alphabetic wonderland
of names that open doors!

And then there are the places where
the world slips through the letters,
where anything is possible,
let’s dance there, friend, together.

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Moment of Grace

Sometimes a person’s name
becomes so heavy around her neck
that the gravity of it pulls her down,
down into the snow drift, so far down,
syllables wrapped around buried stones,
that she cleaves it from her, expecting
blood, but there is only a sweet
emptiness where the name once was.
Such levity, she nearly floats above
the white bank. But you know what
happens to an empty space. Don’t
tell her. She is talking with the birds now,
and the sky. And the space
behind the sky.

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