That Day
Knock your elbow against the edge of the door,
the funny bone sends a thrill of shock
right to your brain.
On this hot morning
our eyes knock.
In that instant
In the aftershock keep touching
that electric pain
lean against the doorframe
until our hearts can move again.
Summer Idyll
one note from a child’s flute
resting on the air
like a swallow on the porch rail
summer dusk glimmers
nightbird serenades the moon
your voice remembered
Night Work
In the night silence
the house hums darkly
wood creaks with memory of its tree life
refrigerator defrosts itself around ice cream
some small invisible creature scratches at the screen,
curls against the still warm wall
soft snores, shifting sheets
unseen stars
everyone sleeps in the dark
over the page
one bulb burns
word after word, one sheet after another.
Between us
Not one eighth of a millimeter
Not one eighth of an millimeter
Not a molecule struck by lightning
Only the length of that thread
Nothing between us
but this hour
At St Canice’s Cathedral, Kilkenny, Ireland
On the funerary cover, drapery
shining black and beautiful,
centuries of parishioners have yielded to its tactile seduction
and left a polished ghost of their passing caresses.
Flesh and bones consumed by decades ticking on,
century yielding to millennia,
and none of these lords and their few ladies
noticing at all.
My hand trails the looping folds of medieval Irish limestone,
polished deep perfect black,
a shade thinner, more black now than before I came.
And I, too, am a shade thinner,
a microscopic layer of fingertips left on this lady’s robe
clothing her eternity,
not mine yet.
Drizzled Dawn
a fret of rain rouses the drizzled day
mist shimmers, passes, wheels back
until for a quarter hour it lifts
to reveal the edges of clouds
On St. Mullins’ stone belfry walls above the river,
condominium-ed nests crowd higher,
in flapping air noisy thousands bank, curl,
shift to starboard, circle furiously
moot meeting of the parliament of crows
Locked Gate
On December 19, 1980
Alaíde Foppa went to buy flowers.
She disappeared.
Sixty-six years old.
In a cellar, in a bloody cell, in Guatemala,
by the hands of thugs.
Or worse.
I walk by Alaíde’s sweet house in Tepoztlán
refuge from city noise and endless sorrow
Alaída’s house is closed.
embroidered flowers near the sills.
Past the locked iron gate, leaves blow in corners
undisturbed.
Now and then, someone, thinking of Alaída, tosses
also undisturbed.
Thirty years ago I write a poem, lift it to the wind,
Dust now.
Alaíde loved the light of Italian art
Teacher, translator, scholar,
for almost half a century, she put words on paper
No body. No grave. Not a strand of hair.
Only paper reminds us
of her beauty, her courage
but a century after she was born, her words,
are read.
Remembered, like Joe Hill, she’s alive as you or me.
Forbearance
through this long showery day
clouds scud in the wind
chase isobars of cold air
across the roiling jet stream
spring arrives in freezing sunshine
stutters
backslides
bows in on the back of cold April bluster
snug nestlings keep in sheltering aeries
frost traces each greening leaf
peony buds close back on themselves
tomato blossoms explode in icy dismay
riven with desire
all wait for another day
Politics of the body
My heart, a little left of center,
contracts and pumps
five hundred times an hour
tucked in behind a thin cage
tough lungs push and retreat
a thousand times an hour
all to send a bottle’s worth of oxygen
around the network, pass by the brain,
brushing each molecule just enough
for love math art rage despair poems hope
just enough for one life for one hour—
better living through chemistry.
Locked Gate
On December 19, 1980
Alaíde Foppa went to buy flowers.
She disappeared.
Sixty-six years old.
In a cellar, in a bloody cell, in Guatemala,
by the hands of thugs.
Or worse.
I walk by Alaíde’s sweet house in Tepoztlán
refuge from city noise and endless sorrow
Alaída’s house is closed.
embroidered flowers near the sills.
Past the locked iron gate, leaves blow in corners
Now and then, someone, thinking of Alaída, tosses
Thirty years ago I write a poem, lift it to the wind,
Alaíde loved the light of Italian art
Teacher, translator, scholar,
No body. No grave. Not a strand of hair.
Only paper reminds us
but a century after she was born, her words,
Remembered, like Joe Hill, she’s alive as you or me.
Between us
Not one eighth of a millimeter
Not one eighth of an millimeter
Not a molecule struck by lightning
Only the length of that thread
Nothing between us
but this hour
Breath of Mercy
Hard edged cold slides in
ribs rigid, pleural sacs hold iced shards of air
lungs freeze from inside out
white fingernails roll over
round reddened fingers
on fire with cold
burning cold runs through each phalanx of fingers and toes
lodges in stiff knuckles immovable
in frozen jackets of useless ligaments
rime of sleep wraps tight
eyelids droop
sparkles of crimson, cobalt, citrine
warm the last slivers of fading, euphoric mind
That Day
Knock your elbow against the edge of the door,the funny bone sends a thrill of shock
right to your brain.
On this hot morning
our eyes knock.
In that instant
In the aftershock keep touching
that electric pain
lean against the doorframe
until our hearts can move again.
At St Canice’s Cathedral, Kilkenny, Ireland
On the funerary cover, drapery
shining black and beautiful,
centuries of parishioners have yielded to its tactile seduction
and left a polished ghost of their passing caresses.
Flesh and bones consumed by decades ticking on,
century yielding to millennia,
and none of these lords and their few ladies
noticing at all.
My hand trails the looping folds of medieval Irish limestone,
polished deep perfect black,
a shade thinner, more black now than before I came.
And I, too, am a shade thinner,
a microscopic layer of fingertips left on this lady’s robe
clothing her eternity,
not mine yet.
At St Mullins
high above the river, the stone walls, the belfry,
condominium-ed nests crowd higher in flapping air
noisy thousands bank, wheel, shift to port then starboard, circle furiously
dusk meeting of the parliament of crows
Ghost Along the Tracks
Rough-cut stones ragged in roofless granite walls,
heaped on what was once the floor
Where windows were,
perfect rectangles of the mason’s craft look in
The room once low-roofed, dark, enclosed,
now illuminated by refractive rolling mist,
every standing stone silvered in waves
Trees, rosy blooming rowan-ash, reclaim their place
amidst the grasses, lupines, wild barley, verbena
nourished by grounded clouds
Red Twig
Morning fog lifted its wet weightAnd left the red twig
Shining in remembrance.
The clouds, in a prism of urgency,
Oblivious
Rush to the sea.
An insect passes almost silently
Lost in the litter of last summer.
Nebraska Sunrise
On the verge of a pond, grass glimmers with rime.Thin ice cracks in tatters as the temperature rises a few degrees.
Early cold sunlight seeps across the eastern plain
And lends its energy to the half-frozen water.
New mists vaporize in a minute
Like crushed diamonds
Rising on the still silent air
Awakening the loons.
For Love of Red
Red silk wet on pine needles.Maple and sumac glimmer red against the road
neither red as the red wool blanket
in my blue room.
Night Work
In the night silence
the house hums darkly
wood creaks with memory of its tree life
refrigerator defrosts itself around ice cream
some small invisible creature scratches at the screen,
curls against the still warm wall
soft snores, shifting sheets
unseen stars
everyone sleeps in the dark
over the page
one bulb burns
word after word, one sheet after another.
At Santa Maria Del Mar, Barcelona
Body of lightBrittany Spring
Up past the atmosphereSteaming breath and steaming coast
Meet the streaming foggy sky.
Rough edged clouds
Remember the cold sea
Where they were born.
The sky is suddenly blue
Above the pitching,
stretching ocean of cloud,
Glowing clean in the high afternoon light,
So brilliant
That you have to squint
Or turn away for just a moment.
Ahead, banks, piles,
mountains of air
Holding all the ocean’s blue
And the tangerine-gold edges of evening.
Maybe it will rain again tomorrow.
Green Bamboo
Imperceptible windmoves long green bamboo leaves
across old black bark
an inky brush in the Spanish air.
This almost tropical grass
bending to the ground
is cousin to upright bright Korean stalks.
Susan Gardner
sugardner@gmail.com
© 2019 Susan Gardner All content and images.