It's been nearly a year since I attended my River Poets Group in Lambertville, NJ. I'm gonna present two poems today - In Memorium Bob Stuller and Requiem for a Lost Son. As I said to Gianna this morning on Facebook, when I'm overwhelmed with emotions, I write a poem.
Unlike the novel I'm working on, I need immediate feedback for my poetry, so I go down my list calling people to read it to. Of course I want them to like it, but more importantly, I want them to understand it at some gutteral level.
Thanks esp. to fellow poet Carolyn who is my most faithful reader. She heard the poem in its three stages of creation. The third time she was in the kitchen with her year-old grandson who is visiting from Oregon. Little Joseph wanted his parents to buy him a play kitchen set. They declined. So Carolyn borrowed one from a friend.
Did you watch poet Nikki Giovanni last nite on Bill Moyers? She's a charming woman, 65, and a dynamic poet who was instrumental in the I'm Black & I'm Proud Movement in the 60s, which I basically slept through.
The reading assignments for my novel-writing class are incredibly time-consuming PLUS you've gotta remember all the characters from the different chapters people post online. I just got a great idea. I'll critique the chapters while I'm on doing the ultra-boring exercise bike in my family room.
I always bring healthy snacks to our poetry group so I won't be tempted to eat Milano cookies and Mallomars. Today I'm bringing red grapes from Chile. Even tho I was the sixth grade spelling champ from Mercer Elementary School in Shaker Heights, Ohio, I used to misspell these words this way: the country Chili - stationery bike. What words dyou frequently, misspell, Dear Reader. On my word documents I have the spellchek turned off. The wiggly lines drive me crazy.
REQUIEM FOR A LOST SON
here in this once warm bed
you lay
child of our unlikely marriage
blond like she was
when first we met
every day was the
happiest day of your life.
when I lulled,
you said, chin up Dad
and ran to your bedroom to play
or brought me white roses
from the backyard fence
more than most
you knew your way
threaded your tan muscled limbs
through our barbequed suburban life
-save me the rare one, Dad
we thought:
this boy
like a young
sparrow grows
at nineteen you sprouted
manliness as gracefully
as your mother’s kiss
still held her hand sometimes
-for Mom’s sake, not yours
you were, after all,
nineteen
now that you’re gone and
your bed is cold
a ghost - not exactly you - roams the house,
scurries wind-like
on the yellow grass of the February yard,
he sits in your chair
eats your food
lies in your bed
and dreams your victory dreams.
with pleasure
we let him in.
have you gone to the angels, Blake?
where else could a tender blossom find a home?
I see you sometimes
when I stand by the window
flashing on bird’s wings
soaring
beyond the pines
beyond the cold gray
February skies
still leaving home.
