Language, Memory & Poem





“What you end up remembering isn’t always the same as what you have witnessed,” says the narrator of Julian Barnes amazing novel, The Sense of a Beginning,” who says a lot of memorable things I will be writing down as soon as I finish the book so I don’t forget them. This week, I learned that what you end up remembering may lead you back to what you have witnessed.
I have to say that coming home after 40 years, I am remembering a lot I hadn’t forgotten but I had forgotten to recall, assisted now as I am by people who knew me 40, 50, and 60 years ago, many of them the octogenarians who are repeopling my life again. It comes to be Barnes’ point too, that often the witnesses return your memories to you, make them yours for you. My mom and dad’s childhood friend, Marilyn Sterzbach, did that for me this past Wednesday.

But before we get to her, a different example of this expanding memory thing. A friend since grade school days suddenly left high school our junior year. I didn't see her again until decades later at a class reunion, and now, more recently, we connected on Facebook. Last week, looking at her face there to the left above her “Go Florida Gators” post,  a 45-year-old memory returned to me of our discussing during Spanish class that her cousin, Bob the chiropractor, seemed to be my mom’s cousin Bob the chiropractor. At the time, I think I never asked if we could possibly be related, but now I wonder—are we? She looks a little like my Aunt Margaretta. My mom’s family is a bit of a mystery on one side since my maternal great-grandmother, who was from one county over, died when my grandmother was only five, and no one seems to have much information about her. So I emailed my friend and flat out asked her—could we be related? She hasn’t answered, perhaps horrified at the very idea.
However, what I have been thinking about lately is language, those early language memories. I have always cherished my earliest memory as being a language acquisition memory. I don’t know if I have always recalled it, or if a family photo of the moment triggered it decades later. (“Memory knows before knowing remembers,” as Faulkner’s Light in August puts it. I wrote that sentence down when I read it my junior year of college and have never never forgotten it.) And now that I go to retell this story, I find the picture missing from the “1950s” slot of my photo box. As I recall, it is a small glossy black and white of my maternal grandma, Gladys Young (nee Swaller), bending over in her middy-length housedress, butt-end up and toward the camera, and me, in my underpants, next to her in the same pose. On that occasion, Grandma had been weeding the flower bed by the back door, my 18-month-old sister Daun and I playing nearby, and my father behind us all, laughing at Grandma’s pose, for all the world like those cut-out wooden lawn ornaments of people posing, bent over, from the rear, that used to be popular in, and have not yet disappeared from, Midwestern yards. I imagine (and this is all my imagination) Grandma turning around with a big smile, shaking a handful of weeds at Dad, and bending over, going right back to weeding. But (and this is definitely not my imagination) I remember thinking, “Daddy thinks she is laughy. Laughy is good. Me too,” and I proceeded to stand next to my grandmother and bend over like her. My dad, ever ready with his camera in those summer days, caught the shot of the two of us butt-up gardeners.

I honestly believe that the adjective I thought was not the word, “funny,” that somehow I did not have that word in my vocabulary yet, but I did know “laugh,” I knew what a laugh was. Could I already have known that we make adjectives by adding a “y”? How could I? And yet, this is my memory of the thought: “Daddy thinks she is laughy. Laughy is good….” Laughy was good back then. We tended to laugh with  and not at, to chuckle and guffaw and not to jeer.

So I’ve been thinking that was my earliest memory, and one involving language,  too, till Marilyn, this past Wednesday when she and my dad were baking in her kitchen, reminded me of another early, maybe earlier, memory. That memory involves not only language but poetry, perhaps. It really is Marilyn’s memory, but one she and my mother told so often in my presence growing up that I own it, too, though I still do not recall being its witness.

The story has been that my parents were visiting her and her husband and we all went on a horse and carriage ride. Then, the details are a bit blurry. I think I did not want to get out, wanted to ride around in a carriage longer, probably forever, and they told me the horsy need to go home and go to sleep. Yes, all of us two years olds are onto that trick: who exactly needs to go home and go to sleep? And now, the story as retold over the years is that the whole ride home, exhausted and yet too excited to sleep, I had recited these words, “The horsy, and the water, and the horsy went to sleep.” Whenever Marilyn tells this story, as she has been telling it for, oh, 60 years now, she repeats the line over and over as, I gather, I must have repeated it the whole way home, the way children can repeat something to the point of adults’ distraction.  The horsy and the water and the horsy went to sleep. The horsy and the water and the horsy went to sleep. The horsy and the water and the horsy went to sleep. The horsy and the water and….

Suddenly, when Marilyn told this story on Wednesday, I realized that this may have been my first poem. Hmmm. What to make of it. Is it iambic heptameter, as its underlying rhythm suggests

The HOR-sy AND the WA-ter AND the HOR-sy WENT to SLEEP

But really to me, it’s always sounded more like

The HOR-sy and the WA-ter and the HOR-sy WENT to SLEEP,

Making it more like a basic iambic pentameter with lots of extra unaccented syllables in the first two feet.  I know this sounds like blahblahblah to my non-poet friends and terribly naïve, untutored analysis to my traditionalist poet friends, but I have always struggled with poetic scansion, not because I do not know (and teach) all the terms and examples, but because  the system seems not quite to fit for me, seems to have been dragged into English from other languages where the system fits better. When Marilyn recites it, she does not so much stress the two "and's" as stretch them out, like Ed McMahon on Johnny Carson, "aaaaaand," length and not stress being the operative sound. (Another way the language can be meted out.) I can force this line into heptameter—did I when I was two? Whether this is heptameter or a sort of sprung pentameter, it clearly ends in three clear iambs. Iambs to close it all out. We do tend to go back to them, don't we?.

So this is how I was going on inside my head as Marilyn was repeating the story for the 500th time in my life, to me and my father, who was there both in the car 60 years ago and in the kitchen this week, but Marily was also tellling the story to a new member in the audience of her kitchen, a visiting nurse. Marilyn turned to give her the backstory, “My husband and I were living in Niagara Falls when Diane's parents gave to visit with —“

Niagara Falls??? Niagara Falls? All my life I had rationalized that they must have told me the horsy needed to get a drink and supper and “go to sleep,” but now, I realize, this was the story of my day: the horsy and the water. “The water” was not “a drink,” it was “Niagara Falls.” ("Niagara Effing Falls," I repeat to myself in wonder.)  Oh my pentameter. You can read a poem for years, say it over and over, and then, suddenly see a new meaning, another way of reading. Such insights always excite me, create a little frisson in my brain, the way, I am told that metaphors do because to understand them, the brain has to use two separate places at once.  I used to hear this little poem on Marilyn’s lips and see a trough in the stables. From now on, layered on top of that image, I will see the cataract and the mist, the little girl, watching and getting it down into words, repeating them to hold onto it all until she can understand and remember.  












Stepping out of Sippo Woods on an Autumn Morning

The woods are vibrant, bright, and sweet
with weeks to go before the sleet;
today I've promises to keep,
so look once more and hit the street.

Moving back home, I have found myself wanting to reconnect with some people from my upbringing here. One person who has been at the edge of my consciousness but out of reach was Barb Evans Harvey, who was our teenage neighbor and first babysitter and later, my drum teacher.
My parents wanted their children to take music lessons, and drums seemed like a place to start because Barb was giving lessons and the only investment would be for a pad, a pair of stick, and a book. I think she charged 75 cents for a half hour. Even as she was a great babysitter (more on that in another blog), she was a great teacher, to whom drumming seemed to be not just a matter of rudiments and technique but a reaching out to each student to help him or her find what they needed both for life as well as percussion.

I know she talked to one boy about his secret love. (Because it was me. She never told me but tried to get me interested in him. It was hopeless. I only loved drums.) She boosted the confidence of a girl who had a miserable family life, got her into a state drumming contest where she won a blue ribbon.
As for me, she taught me that it was okay to be a girl, to be different and to stand up for oneself, three things that didn’t come easily to many girls in the 1950s. When I was in seventh grade, the junior high band director decided to assign first chair by try-outs in front of outside panelists. In the ensuing try-outs, I earned the first chair drum position, ahead of eighth and ninth grade BOYS. I was pleased on the inside but publically, I was utterly embarrassed. Girls were not to be first chair drummers. They were majorettes who sat in the drum section during concert season so that they could twirl a baton during marching season. They played cymbals. They did not write cadences and carry the lead snare drum. Ninth grade boys were not thrilled with this decision, and the band director, looking at me, barely four foot tall then (in fact, I was three feet eleven inches), must have had misgivings but stuck to the decision. Barb was thrilled for me and convinced me that this was perfectly natural, that girls could be anything they want to be. I have to say that at the time, I sure didn’t see any lead snare girl drummers at any other schools. I have to say, I am thrilled today to see how many high school drummers are girls.

And since I was thinking of going to college, she thought I might be thinking of majoring in music. She said I really should pick up another instrument (piano, which I eventually did, and had no talent for whatsoever, though my piano teacher had such hopes for me) but that one could major in percussion. No one had ever told me about having majors in college. She was the first.
She taught us to be percussionists, not just drummers. Along with rudimentary solo drumming and learning all the patterns on a set for popular music (swishing on a top hat for dance band, clicking on the big symbol for the four beats of rock), she also taught marimba and tympani, glockenspiel and all the rhythm instruments of Latin America. This was before trash cans and steel drums came to the Midwest, or we would have learned those too.;

During those lessons, she taught me about so many things, both by example and by preaching. I learned about my parents’ 1940s music that I later turned my back on for a decade or two till I realized there is room in our lives for the Beatles and Big Band, for the Twist and the Foxtrot. I learned rock rhythm and the names of all the instrument makers (Gretsch, Slingerland, Zildjian). How to repair a cracked drumhead. (Popsicle sticks and tape) How to clean cymbals to make them gleam. I recall how she would show me or tell me something and then look very closely at my face, as though looking to see whether her words were sinking in and if so, how deeply  If they weren’t, she’d find a new way to explain. She was good at handing out advice that for years reverberated with meaning beyond percussion, as in  this poem that I wrote in the 1970s, published in the 1980s, and still find truth in today:
ON POETRY AND DRUMS                                                                     
When I hear "symbol," I slip back to eight years of drum lessons:   
the top hat's wide slash, the sizzlers' swish,
pushing bronze cleanser round my Zildjian ridges
for a gleam to match the crash.
Daun Kendig's box drum,
by Russ Kendig
And I can't talk about them.  My drum teacher, herself
the only woman drummer at any high school, told my sister
and me,  "Don't get stuck hold them.  It's limiting.
Hard on your ears.  They always want to give them
to the girls.  And you have to slam them to your armpits
to get them to stop."

By my junior year of high school, I had had it with band. All those straight lines and screaming band directors during marching season and standing, counting, and waiting for a few measures of playing during concert season. I had won a blue medal in drumming at state and found solo drumming to be much more exciting than standing around, counting, waiting to join the band. However, there wasn’t much call for solo drummers who could take down a long stroke roll. And my all-girl basement bands always fell apart within two practice sessions as my friends were flutists, bassoonists, all manner of brass players, not a guitar player among us, and since it was the ‘60s by then, we clearly weren’t making it.

So I quit high school band. I did not give up my drums yet, but they languished. I was not about to make the same mistake in college and join marching band or orchestra, and without those, there was no life for a musician.By the end of my first semester, I wanted to major in English, Spanish, and Theater. And then, my senior year, in a pinch for money since my college in its infinite wisdom, cut my aid by $200 just as my sister was beginning college, I sold my beautiful red sparkle Slingerland set to pay tuition.
Yet, I always considered myself a drummer and felt the early lessons in the underlife of the band, the rhythm of the soloist, the whole realm of percussion informed my life and even my poetry. I wrote about drums and one drumming. My husband, who spent his youth playing guitar and making fun of drummers, embraced this aspect of my history and bought me as gifts two beautiful drums, an Irish bodhrán that he managed to bring home in his suitcase from Dublin without my knowing, and a Native American drum from a master drum maker among the Navajos in New Mexico. When my sister died, I acquired two beautiful hand-made box drums my father made for her, who also took lessons from Barb. Visiting the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to see the exhibit of famous drummers’ sticks, I bought a pair of official Rock HOF sticks. And when we lived in Boston, I made it one summer to the all-afternoon outdoor  drumming session at Berklee College of Music.

Then I heard about Evelyn Glennie, the deaf percussionist from Scotland, who “has carved a new place for solo percussion,” as her website puts it, in part by commissioning drum compositions from composers all over the world and by introducing the world’s many percussion instruments into classical orchestra concerts, including her moving performance with the Toledo Orchestra many years ago, which I witnessed. When I saw an exercise to write a poem to a particular group of people, I wrote, “To the Percussionists,” which you can read at the end of this blog.
So drumming has been a minor key in my life, but a constant one and one significant for a poet, I think. Like Wordsworth, I would have my days bound each to each by a natural piety and by not giving up the good stuff, even if I am not good at it all. Yet in the past 40 decades, Barb had not been a part of my life. I always meant to visit, yet as those of us know who move away, there is seldom enough time to be with our parents, our siblings, our aunts and neighbors when we visit, and looking up and getting to an old friend’s house goes to the bottom of the agenda. My mom was in a crocheting group with Barb and reported on her, that she had raised four children, was independent as always, still fast-married to her first love, Ned Harvey, who had gone off to Vietnam and came back and married her while I was away at college.

But when I came home to live, she was one of the first people I looked up, and we have definitely reconnected though we have so many differences, we could be from two different countries. For one, she quit playing and teaching percussion decades ago and seemed to have no current interest in drums whatsoever when I asked. I suspect all along her interest was not the instrument but the act of teaching, which she clearly did as wisely and well the rest of her life with her four now-grown children and the many grandchildren who visit often and carry on deep and meaningful conversations with her and Ned about nouns and cookies and rockets, during my last visit.

Meanwhile, I contacted many of her former students--here's a shoutout to Barb Colvin Schade, Dewayne Fulton, and PHS's best head drummer and cadence-maker ever, Stan Anderson!-- wondering if they remembered her. Most, like me, had lost touch but had fond memories of lessons in her parents’ basement, lessons in music and rhythm, but in argumentation and thinking, giving and commanding respect. Many of us are women, who appreciate the model she provided to us of a girl who was confident and knowledgeable, totally able to stand on her own two feet and lead or to stand with others and march with them, staying in step. She was never a follower, never a sheep, and she taught me not to be. For that, I am grateful to her and for the many lessons I got from her growing up, all of which to me are sheer poetry, as we say.   

“On Drums and Poetry” was published in Teaching English in the Two Year College, 1986.
“For the Percussionists” was published in Motif: Writing by Ear, 2009.

For The Percussionists

     Especially Evelyn Glennie

Today's poem's for percussionists, and it's no joke,
though it's big enough to include some,   
a thrum for them despite all the drummer jokes,
like the classic, "What do you call someone who
hangs out with musicians? The drummer," 
or the one where God only thinks he is Buddy Rich,

for the ones who, by definition, "strike bodies
together." They don't blow or stroke, but strike,
as flint or a match or up a band.   So we're not essaying
just rockers propped up behind Slingerlands, nor only
the marchers who hold it together in eight measures
of flams and flamacues-- but all the percussionists,

who have taken on tympani, marimba, xylophone,
glockenspiel, claves, cowbells, and chimes,
the bongo, crotales, vibraphone, whole racks
of Almglocken and triangles, bass or tenor tom-toms,
on floors or straps, with mallets, sticks, brushes, or pedals,
and cymbals: finger, sizzler, the swish of the high hat.

For their patience in the pit, nodding, counting for pages,
their sticks on their thighs, practicing paradiddles
or clicking them out on their teeth, molar-grinding
a roll, syncopating the left and right side of their jaw.
Then they're on: a few bars of rumble, natter, ca-ching,
perfect snatch of underlife in the crescendo and they're off again.

Music schools told me percussion wasn't enough
and though I loved melody, it wasn't my bailiwick,
not in my pad, not what we were deaf to in 1962.
So this is for the ones who stuck with striking
and knew that losing one stick never made them maestro,
who make me want to shout, your solos are life

without all the boring parts, the quotidian,
syncopated and amplified.  Your hands,
are our hearts, battered from three extra beats,
a skipped one, a fillip, a thrill before
the snares are flipped off to rattle
in the hush of a French horn's long and sad calling.
I love how Glennie went out beyond Sousa
and Elgar, traveled to the percussionists
of Singapore, Korea, and Indonesia,
the gamelan orchestra of Jakarta,
the indefatigable Lakota paw wow players.
I don't mean appropriation but potlatch.

We have to gather the tribes so each can listen
for its arrhythmia and reset our hearts
while we read the lips of the people
around us, our conductor and colleagues
who give us the cues, then bring home the lubdub
that will lift us and move us along.

Senior Living and Truth in Advertising

This week, a postcard advertisement came from “A Continuing Care Community,” where my father lives. The heading reads, “Do you know what is included at the Caring Community?” followed by the answer, “These are your costs at the Caring Community” and then the following list:

Property taxes                     $.0.00
Gas or Propane                   $.0.00
Electric                                $.0.00
Homeowners Insurance       $.0.00
Maintenance & Repairs        $.0.00
Sewer & Water                     $.0.00
Basic Cable                         $.0.00
Medical app'sTransport        $.0.00
Three Meals Daily                $.0.00
Movies/Entertainment          $.0.00
Housekeeping Service         $.0.00
Linen and Towel Service      $.0.00
Snow Removal                     $.0.00
Winter Valet Parking            $.0.00
Trips & Activities                  $.0.00
Lawn Care                           $.0.00
*Vehicle insurance               $.0.00
(*if you do not bring a vehicle)

Many of these are indeed included at the institution. But what, if not these, does your $4000 (give or take a few hundred, depending on level of care and other factors) pay for?

So, while one doesn’t get an individual bill for property taxes, gas, electric, insurance, maintenance, sewer, water, and cable, surely the corporation which owns the place gets a bill for these things and passes that on in your $4000. How can they possibly say that these cost you $0.00?

And then, there are a few missing caveats here. For just one example, that medical transportation to appointments? Those are made one day a week only, Mondays say. So if your doctor isn’t in that day, or if for any other reason you need to go on another day, they  will arrange for a private service for that, at about $50 an hour.

Then, too, notice, that you don’t pay vehicle insurance if you don’t have a vehicle, which duh, is true everywhere. And the “Winter Valet Parking” is a mystery to me because I have never seen valet parking there in my two years visiting the place. Perhaps that is also what you do not have to pay if you do not have a car. It is also an expense which virtually no one in Canton, Ohio ever paid before coming there, I would wager.

The “Movies and Entertainment” gets a mixed report on my Truth-O-Meter. Two terrific activities directors do a good job with a small budget. There are concerts, a series of Friday woodworking, morning chat sessions over the morning paper—anything the directors can do themselves or get for free. I will say that similar activities can be found in town for free—at the county parks and libraries—and I can’t imagine seniors would be shelling out much if any money for these things if they weren’t in the Caring Community, but I will grant that the activities directors do the place proud.

As do the cooks, and clearly “Three Meals Daily” is the draw here. The food is good and balanced. It is served individually to each of the 3-4 people at each table, with nice table and linens. Visitors tend to be impressed by the quality and presentation of the food. The desserts are homemade and the party food, on top of the regular meals, tends to be exceptional. The Christmas party, to which family are invited, features huge bowls of shrimp, generous slices of Beef bourguignon, homemade cookies, wine. AND, in addition to the three meals a day, there is a coffee hour with snacks very morning, snacks delivered to the room one to two times a day, cocktail parties and other holiday parties, and every bingo game or spelling bee gives away packages of candy and cookies and chips. All of this is terrific for seniors who are wasting away in their homes. Others, who led active lives and maintained their weight previously can have significant weight gain and resulting diabetes. Exercise is hard to come by.

However, I get tired of hearing people say, “I wish I could eat there every day with tablecloths and cloth napkins.” How about with difficult table mates? One man was so mean thathe made every meal an attack on his tablemates and the staff. When he snapped at the staff, they would laugh it off, as though he were joking, “Oh John, you are such a kidder!” When I ate at his table once, the man told me he did not like my looks, and he said this to one other table mate. Then there was the man who had a card at his place that said, “I will not grab people’s bodies in inappropriate ways. I will not say inappropriate things to the women.” He never said anything inappropriate to me, but he was gone in a month. Which is not to say he was dead, rather disappeared. In that sense, the dining room reminds me of Argentina in the 1970s.

Because tablemates and hallmates disappear frequently. For privacy reasons, the institutions cannot tell the residents what has happened to residents who disappear, and to anyone who is sentient, it is the least comfortable part of the dining experience, having tablemates or hallmates suddenly gone without knowing what has happened.
It is true that I take a dim view of senior institutions. I’ve never been comfortable living in institutionalized settings. The college dormitories nearly drove me to distraction, especially in the late 1960s when they were as controlling as the senior institutions are today. For sure, having to sign in and out every time I left the campus, even if only to walk to the drugstore four blocks away made me crazy at Otterbein U, so I would find it very aggravating after a lifetime of not signing out.

I understand that some people thrive in senior institutions, and this particular Caring Community is one of the best in town. The people who work there, cleaning, cooking, and providing activities are nearly all kind, caring, and cheerful. I know many people here who look forward to the day when they can move to this institution and not pay for these items which the Caring Community is giving away so generously.

I an just suggesting that before they move in, they spend some time there with the residents and not as a visitor to the lavish luncheons. Make sure they visit Skilled and Assisted as well as Independent because there is a big probability they will end up in all these situations, if their money holds out that is. (The Caring Community does not accept Medicare.) Consider whatever other options there may be, if there are any. Most of all, do not be snowed by ads like this list of what you don’t pay for. Figure out what your own costs are. Then if you like it, as many people do, well you go.

But as for me, as my mother used to say, “Just shoot me first.”
This is the story of my lapse from poems for National Poetry Writing Month. One morning before even getting out of bed, I composed one or two poems (say, a poem with two parts). But when I went to post it later that day, I couldn't find it. Couldn't find it the next either, though I turned the house inside out. I despaired and gave up. Then this morning, my husband found the poem, which had slipped down behind the bedstand. I see it's not great, maybe should have stayed put under the bed, but it's got me back on the NaPoWrMo wagon. I figure this is like a diet. You can't just give up because you fell off the wagon. So here I go. This one is the kind of poem we were told once never to write, an ars poetica. A poem about writing poems. Sort of.

Ars Poetica after Adrienne Rich 

And this, beloved poets
is where our hearts, livers, and lights still
dwell unbeknownst and vital

Some ponder colors for a new wall
and the lemon oil gleam of their pecan table.
For us, it’s enough most mornings to have walls
of whatever color was left and if no table,
the counter or that cheap desktop she wrote of.

Our brother paints his walls
Mission White. He has always
been on a mission to cover up.
Our sister’s mission is distance.
Ours, to praise and bitch.

There’s, of course, poetry:
awful bridge rising over naked air

Or worse, over water, like the interminable bridge
of  the New York Throughway I will myself
to get on, get along, get over,
no drugs like an aunt takes to manage
the short span in New Hampshire. 

I practice the no pink elephants trick,
in this case, the no Oakland Bay Bridge
collapse of tangled trusses, no massive
crunches of cars. I replace them
with all those driving lyrics of the sixties

and seventies when I worked in a record store
and did not drive: move on down, move on down,
and even the Beatles version of “Roll Over Beethoven.”
Poetry like that. Gliding over the Hudson, splashing
down to tread frigid water

in a lifejacket of lines,
alone or with passengers,
one warbling, “Nearer My God To Thee,”
five Deadheads doing, “Day Tripper.”


All my poet friends and I are looking for pizazZ
By working out at the pome machine each daY
Counting, listing, and composing, mumbling, “Lummox,
Dunderhead, my pome machine is so broke, woW!
Every idea I ever had seems, LuV,
Fled from my brain, off in the bayoU, in a mumU
Getting on the bus without me, abrupT,
Hightailing away, the sonnets, haikus and glosaS.
I need though, thirty days of this, altogether,
Jump-starting my way from the ghazals of IraQ,
Keeping at it through haiku, free verse, wishing for an apP
Like those that exist for other tasks, arriving at last tO


Walking in my old neighborhood,
just beyond my distance vision,
I sort of see a school bus stop,
two children clamber down,
probably grip that silver hand rail
to take the last
high step, as I had to
to make it down and off
at this age, about seven. 

They separate,
and now I see one is a boy,
and one is a girl.
The boy runs to the mother
who walks out from behind
the brick garage. 

Two doors down, a smaller girl
opens the screen door and calls
to her sister, a bulging backpack
across her shoulders,
a handful of papers in her right hand,
in her left, a plate
with a cupcake she balances
as she trudges up the hill,
smiling—trudging and smiling,
smiling and trudging
as the younger stands at the top
calling for her, smiling, waiting. 

Surprised by joy—
my own and theirs and ours—
but then, not ours,
my eyes blurred as I turned home
where you do not wait,
nor as far as I can see,
any where.

6 A.M. APRIL 6th

Paul calls me to the
dark west sky where the moon, streaked
with darker branches

shines on Sippo Lake.
reflects life now and here, not
moony, nor eclipsed.


Not that I hate you overmuch.
It’s less of hate than love defied.
Howe’er our hands will no more touch.
We’ll go our ways, the world is wide.
                                    --Paul Laurence Dunbar, “After the Quarrel”

You sent a final answer from hospice.
We thought the wording strange, not quite your own:
the you who knew us, knew us. (Did I miss
your point again: kiss off?) That long lodestone,
your absence, tugged. We’ve lugged it thirty years.
Your confusion stunned us, not your tone.
We blamed your brain tumor—it’s just a hunch.
So philosophic, calm, you claimed no fear,
remarked aside how you were out of touch.
Not that I hate you overmuch.

She had met me in March cold, New York,
snapped some pics, felt gorgeous in the light,
and thought to send them, joked of growing old.
Our fourth was off in California, never
with us, busy with her work as ever,
though not forgetting, either, not denied
that bond from five long months, together
by accident and yet, how strong the hold.
My feelings for you best might be described
As less of hate than love defied.

We have been pondering on those days for months,
asked others what it meant, that tale we spread
like icing, our sweet tale of four, our stunts
through Spain—grifos, Goya, burros you fed
pizza, our eight hands on new guitars.
There were Three Musketeers. But four? Nonesuch.
So weird. We wonder even now what led
 us to be friends. Our disavowal of cars?
Our love of language, food, songs, going Dutch?
Howe’er our hands will no more touch.

We found your death online as one now does,            
recalled you left us once before for good:
bid her farewell and my last letter was
unread I heard, and yet I understood,
not why but what the silence meant, and knew 
we’d go our ways. The world is wide.
“I don’t feel sad but feel a void I should
by rights not feel,” my friend sums up.  Me too.
We went our ways, and now besides,
we’ll go our ways, the world is wide.

I have struggled for a few years now to write a glosa, a Spanish form, in its most formal it uses another poet's four lines(at the head), each one becoming the final line of the four 10-line stanzas that follow.