Poetry

The whole weasel question

Feb 01, 2013 by Brian Doyle

Consider the case of a mathematician, in this case
My oldest brother, who is (a) halved by an illness,
(b) stilled completely by it, and (c) reduced to ash.
Trust me, he would be the first to note that finally
He finished his travels at 0.00416666667 of what
He weighed for a long time. I bet then he’d spend
Weeks poking into what else weighed exactly that.
I’d get a terse note with a list in his meticulous ink:
The cardinal on average weighs 0.992 of a pound,
And the long-tailed weasel weighs exactly a pound.
A letter like that is exactly like a zen koan, I think.
It’s as much a door as a statement. Let us consider
That we have all just now received this terse letter.
It sits there grinning on the table next to the coffee.
I don’t know about you, but I am going to dive into
The whole weasel question. We have so little time,
And there’s so much to be discovered. I want to be
Able to be conversant about this the next time I see
My brother. He’ll want to know. He’ll have missed
A lot of time that could have been devoted to these
Things, and someone has to carry the ball, whether
It’s weasels or cardinals or cancer. How mortifying
It will be if he asks me about something, and I have
To say I didn’t pay attention, man, and he will stare
At me with that laser stare and not even have to say,
And what was it you did instead of paying attention?

St. James the Less

for Marlys

Jan 25, 2013 by Jane Zwart

It may or may not be a sin, but I cannot hear your name, St. James
the Less, without crocheting apocrypha for you, without drafting
sentences, all of which start Nonetheless, St. James the Less
and then lapse, describing a world whose vividness—the molting sycamores
and lepers, an urn lurching on the potter’s wheel, the fishermen darning
their nets—always trumped your quiet rectitude.

Nonetheless, St. James the Less—after the Greater James, his fervor
all joy and rage, and not unlike simple imprudence, anointed the contrite
and doused those who had it coming—it must have been you (was it not?)
blotting kerosene from all the penitents’ habits.

What the blind man saw

“ I can see people, but they look like trees walking.”
—Gospel of Mark

Jan 18, 2013 by Jean Janzen

Trees with one leg, walking,
spit of Jesus on his eyes,

arms pointing up to a high dazzle
as all around him a crowd

of sound is becoming visible.
What once was a small rumble

on the tips of his fingers, now
pours into him like a river,

a drenching of light and shadow.
He trembles on this new threshold.

Is he man or tree? And did the Healer
also touch the crown of leaves

which now looks back at him
with a thousand eyes?

Poem for my brother to read silently in his bedroom window before the gregarious hospice nurse arrives

Jan 17, 2013 by Brian Doyle

The good sweet Lord knows I have nothing wise to say about anything
Whatsoever; certainly that has been proven over the last fifty-five years
That we have known each other. And while spiritual verve is inarguable,
Religious pronouncements at a time like this can sound awfully shallow.
So all I want to do this morning is find some word that can approximate
The love I feel. Affection and respect are ingredients, sure, and certainly
Laughter and stories, especially those that start out remember that time?,
Because stories are a terrific way to say things that you can’t find words
For. I keep wanting to push deeper, but I can’t get deeper than the story
Of the time we broke your finger—all us kid brothers attacking the king
At once, ostensibly in the flow of a football game, but really we wanted
To take you down, to miraculously drop the taoiseach, because we loved
You, because your were our hero, because you were the tallest and oldest,
Because you laughed, even with your finger bent in the wrong direction,
Knowing that we were so furious because a bruising tackle is a language
Also. You can say a lot about love by hammering your brother in a game,
It turns out. You knew what we were saying. I remember you taped your
Finger back together and didn’t bother to tell Mom. We admired that too.

Praise la jambe

Jan 16, 2013 by Jeanne Murray Walker

On the gallery wall in Paris you see a
splendid life-size thigh, how it’s tapering
to a calf and pointed toe.   It’s a Degas
ballerina who pulls light on like a stocking.

The ornate gold frame says, Look at this.
You’re here alone, so why not stay, go down
to the very root of light, practice patience?
Sinking in, you linger all afternoon.

On the subway home, you see and praise
legs.   Bare.   In jeans.   Thin or superbly plump.
Recall your lion-footed table.   Praise
this leg of your trip, learning to see.   Joy trumps
itself: Allegro, legume.   The wonder: your own
tibia! The miracle: your own leg to stand on!