New Leaves

Funny how

Just last Monday, I felt as if

Everything was horrible, I hated myself, that life

Rested heavy on my shoulders

(For no actual reason—perhaps that made it worse)

And now that time feels so long ago

Like a distant memory, something experienced

By a person who is no longer me.

It’s Friday now.

I sit, staring out

One of the huge, sectioned windows of the library

Quietly marveling at the beauty

Of the tree outside, the

Intricate branches, the sprays of green leaves

Just fine enough

To see the sky through the gaps. A hawk

Slowly circles, disappearing from one window

To re-appear in the next.

I saw my old neighbor today, after years and years.

She didn’t even look like the same person.

(I think of the fortune cookie my brother opened last week—

“You will soon meet somebody from your past”

“But everyone we know is in our past,” we said,

“Anyone you aren’t looking at

Right now”)

We talked about school and colleges

And about how things have changed

And it’s funny how the people who share

Pieces of your childhood

Can leave and grow up without you

We carry the same memories, but we’re different people now

I knew her once, but now I don’t.

I turn over a quiet melancholy

And stare through the glass at the fluttering leaves

Until the windows themselves seem to become a poem, wordless,

Etched into my mind.

Only a few months ago

The branches of that tree were bare. Now each leaf

Is new, but the tree

Is still the same. I hated myself last Monday

And I know I’ll hate myself again

But I don’t hate myself today. The leaves shimmer,

And the sky is so bright

That when I close my eyes, I see colors, changed.

Teacher's Lunch (Love Among the Quahogs)

(Wrote this during a summer writing program using three very unrelated prompts. I meant to post some summery poems last month, but now, though it still technically is summer, since everyone is going back to school (I start college tomorrow! Just throwing that out there), I thought this would be more appropriate.)

The professor’s stomach

Twisted inside him

And not because of the shrimp.

She was sitting right across from him

Dark hair falling out of its bun

Her eyes crinkling up as she laughed—

Why was she so beautiful?

He hadn’t really planned on coming

To the teacher’s lunch;

He disliked crowds

And being ignored

And restaurants in general.

But then she had asked him at the end of the day

English books in her arms

Her glasses perched on top of her head

If he was coming that night;

Fumbling, he had no choice

But to say yes.

Now he tried to think of something to say

Cracking open a lumpy gray quahog

Feeling uncomfortable and boring

In his musty brown suit

While she talked to the biology teacher

About the book she was teaching

In her class, saying

“He may seem foolish, but, you know,

Dreams aren’t something you can control.”

The professor wanted to add something clever

Or witty

Or intelligent

Or thoughtful

But he hadn’t read the book

So he kept reaching for the quahogs

To keep his hands busy

Prying open the rocky shells

Imagining that within there would be

A luminous pearl, round and bright as the moon

He could polish with his handkerchief

And grandly give to her—

She would smile at him then.

He lost himself in this fantasy

Letting the conversations around him blur

Almost relaxing in the noisy, crowded room

Until he opened his last quahog

Slowly

And saw that there was nothing inside

But a slimy, grayish lump.

Of course that’s all there was.

Why did he think it would be any different?

He looked up

And there she was

Laughing at something the biology teacher had said

Her eyes crinkled up

Not at him.

The professor pushed away

His treasureless plate of quahogs,

Stomach squeezing again

With a different sort of ache.

Dreams aren’t something you can control.

God, he hated seafood.

By the Campfire

The pregnant girl sits by the campfire

Prodding at the

Logs with a loose branch

While she talks about her

Boyfriend in jail

In a conversational way.

The sky is dark.

I am young,

A quiet observer,

Watching the shadows

Flicker across

Her smiling, innocent face.

She says that she’s going to marry him

That she knows he’ll stay and take care of her

That there’s only a

Year or so

Left

Before they let him out.

Poking her stick into the flames,

She lifts it up,

A tiny blaze clinging to its tip—

She traces designs in the

Smoke-filled air

And dreamily says

That she loves playing with fire.

Still There

A tree keeps growing

Even when it seems still

A heart keeps loving

Even when you can’t tell

The stars keep shining

Even when they can’t be seen—

But I promise,

You will see them soon

Hope is still there

Even when it seems dead

Your spirit can be light

Even when your feet are lead

The right path will be waiting

Even if you lose your way—

If you try,

You can find it again

The music keeps playing

Even when your hearing fails

The colors will still be there

Even when your own hues pale

I will never leave you

I’m still here

I’m still here

I know you cannot see the stars

But they’re still up there

Shining

I promise,

I will show them to you

Soon

Outside poems: Chapter One, An Apology, Writing in the Dark

I'm sorry I didn't stick to poetry month the way I said I would. Things tend to slip away from me. As an apology, have some writing/book related poems, as well as one (very large) inside joke for anyone who's read "This Is Just To Say" and "The Red Wheelbarrow." I thought it was kind of hilarious.

I hope you enjoy. :3


Chapter One

I love how books begin; those passages
that lead us by the hand across
the luxurious lawns, that portage us
gently up the gravel drive,
toward the manor house.

The author is still a kind host here,
anxious that we mingle
with the other weekend guests, that we note
how even the banisters are polished for us,
that we feel free to walk out
with the lady of the house and smoke
a cigarette, down the grand alley of elms.

We’re not expected to have things down pat
yet, like the family tree, or the route to the old Abbey.
Nothing really happens now,
beyond the delivery of breakfast trays.
It’s not scheduled to rain
for two more chapters, and no one
who matters to us has died yet.

--Mark Aiello



An Apology

Forgive me
for backing over
and smashing
your red wheelbarrow.

It was raining
and the rear wiper
does not work on
my new plum-colored SUV.

I am also sorry
about the white
chickens.
--F. J. Bergmann



Writing in the Dark

It’s not difficult.
Anyway, it’s necessary.

Wait until morning, and you’ll forget.
And who knows if morning will come.

Fumble for the light,
and you’ll be
stark awake, but the vision
will be fading, slipping
out of reach.

You must have paper at hand,
a felt-tip pen, ballpoints don’t always flow,
pencil points tend to break. There’s nothing
shameful in that much prudence: those are our tools.

Never mind about crossing your t’s, dotting your i’s–
but take care not to cover
one word with the next. Practice will reveal
how one hand instinctively comes to the aid of the other
to keep each line
clear of the next.

Keep writing in the dark:
a record of the night, or
words that pulled you from the depths of unknowing,
words that flew through your mind, strange birds
crying their urgency with human voices,

or opened
as flowers of a tree that blooms
only once in a lifetime:

words that may have the power
to make the sun rise again.

--Denise Levertov