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.
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
Ghost Along the Tracks
Rough-cut stones ragged in roofless granite walls,
piled up, 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
amidst the grasses, lupines, wild barley, verbena
rosy blooming rowan-ash reclaims its place
nourished by grounded clouds
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
New York Public Library
A book connects us to one another through time and space. We hold the author’s ideas in our hand unmediated by anything except our own curiosity.
I
The children’s room
five steps above the main floor
open shelves for young patrons
librarian’s desk near the door
Read pictures, read poems
hushed rustle of pages
dust motes in the window’s shifting light
bindings skate across silk-smooth golden maple
quiet clicks stamp dates on paper slips
Borrow armfuls of books
Five steps down, secreted from infant eyes,
forbidden treasure
Necessary whispers only
perfect
II
Marble beasts before limestone columns
allow passage
across hundreds of steps
mimes mug for nickels
anxious lovers suspended in anticipation of one face
arms overflow with books unaligned
readers ascend to their shared home
scholars climb the white flights
earnest heads bow with weight of words
III
Double-storied coffered domes over stacks
asylum for earth’s every thought
city’s every scholar,
idler, pencil-pusher,
venerable, solitary,
prized, repudiated
aged and child
have a place at this table
sounds brush through silent space,
talk soft at the desk
pencils scribble
shoes cross marble floors
index fingers slide under corners
impatient to turn pages
everything we touch is paper
thoughts from yesterday and millennia before
seined in paged nets
on heads bent over books
brass lamps shine gold
consolation for the lonely
comfort for the cold
solace for the bereft
stay until the midnight closing hour
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.
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.
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.
Partita
I Coffee break
they lean into the space between them
faces illuminated with interest
or pheromones
they leave their coffee to grow cold
he explains
the phenomenological world
materialist dialectics
kama sutra
blind to the world
they take one breath,
exhale,
then one more
deaf to all but one voice,
bellies, breasts, crotch, hair,
focused,
limerance absolute
immeasurable, preposterous, unquenchable appetite
ravenous for bone and skin
avid for muscle, fat, blood
finger pads on webbing of toes
hair against breast, tongue edging earlobe
voice in the valley
notched between the ends of clavicles
the roar of alive
II Lust
He just wants
everything
proud possessor of toes and taste buds
deaf director of board and bed
anxious owner of stuff no one wants
She holds hurt in her bones,
in mind
in dreams
at the edge
of fingernails
scraping the soul
two, cancered with regret
shrunk into a teaspoon of sown salt.
III Weight
hard tumor of hurt
no need for absolution
unrequited
untouched
no amends
left with fingers
bent backward off open palms,
calloused with unanswered forgiveness
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.
Red Twig
Morning fog lifted its wet weight
and 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.
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
At Santa Maria Del Mar, Barcelona
Body of light
climbs the arch of heaven
Brittany Spring
Up past the atmosphere
steaming 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 wind
moves 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,
now in October
ready to give up their green life
for the leafless windy winter.
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.