A Glimpse of My Youth
Tangles of Virginia creeper drape over
the pool, a shimmering gasoline puddle
of Japanese beetles.
I am sodden in my second skin bathing suit
sprawled on the ground murmuring secrets
to cicadas,
watching my father wash lettuce
from the garden.
When I Go Into the Woods
When I go to the woods
I bring no books along
preferring instead to read
the primary sources:
the opinion columns of pines
persuasive essays by incense cedars
an array of novels from oak trees.
Quaking aspens are poetry of light
and movement.
There is philosophy in fallen logs.
I study the hieroglyphs of former
wildfires to glean memories
of the Before time.
Even dead trees have purpose
as nurseries for animals and plants;
the rhymes arising from them
are kissed by the wind,
then float away.-Kathryn Harper
Surreal
At the turn of the century
it is a long way down
to the mind's I. A treehouse
chronicles my journey to this
lost continent, which requires
the amber spyglass to navigate.
When I arrive I am barely a
shadow of a man. There is
snow falling on cedars; through
the woods I hear the single hound
wailing for her hometown. After
twenty years at Hull House, she
mourns for that bastard out of
Carolina who left her tender
at the bone. I wander through
trees toward her cries and find
her. My journey ends across the
river, past the canal town. Before
crossing over, I ask her for
directions. "I don't know," she
replies. "I'm a stranger here myself."-Kathryn Harper
Another Cento poem. The titles:
There’s Always Looking After
A tree is a guardian angel.
Trees talk to us, they
whisper stories and secrets,
slip us clues to universal mysteries.
Do you see the forest, or the trees?
Sap murmurs up the trunk in spring. Listen.
The apple falls (not far from the tree), its
crisp honey tang for the taking. Notice
how the air changes when you approach
a woods; the fresh, spicy scent of leaves
and needles performing their gift of tonglen.
Handle limbs gently. Despite their
coarseness, trees are benign as babies.
Autumn. My favorite elegy. Red orange yellow
each color a note, a symphony of glorious
death. Gaia’s last hurrah before hibernation.
Glorious death. The nativity of Jesus in
Bethlehem was honored by his parents, wise
shepherds, angels — even animals. But not
one tree except for the remnant serving
as his crib. Look what happened to him.
Whereas Buddha, under a Bodhi tree,
received the gift of enlightenment.
Beware. Trees are destroyers. When touched
by lightning (not an angel), in a rhumba
with the wind, trees release limbs as
geckos lose their tails. They surrender
responsibility, abandon stability,
crush what lies beneath. A shard
of wood thrown by a tornado can kill you.
How many angels are there? They number
more than all the leaves on all the trees
since Big Time began. Earth — head
of a pin on which all trees dance.
Those trees, they krunk in a hot minute.
We just don’t see them. They move so fast.A baby is born. A sapling takes root.
As roots grow, her neurons multiply.
They amputated the tree in our yard
the other day. Am I going to die now?
A tree is a livin’ thin’, wif it’s own
varmintality, expressed by it’s shape,
texture, locashun, seasonal variashuns,
shade/sun alterashun, th’ emoshuns it
invokes in th’ obsarver, th’ memo’ies
it stimulates in th’ obsarver. A tree
lives as long as a hoomin, o’ longer,
an’ faces th’ elements day-in an’
day-out. To sacrifice a tree is a kind
of euthanasia. A tree thet yo’ plant
today will outlive yo’, an’ affeck other
hoomins in th’ future junerashuns… but
will only be thar IF yo’ an’ yer projuny
own th’ lan’ on which th’ tree thrives.
Own SOME lan’, somewhar, an’ put trees
on it, an’ viset an’ watch them grow.
The ancient forests of knowledge
hidden in dusky, musty library stacks
have become my land. My mind, my tree
of knowledge, thrives. It is all I have.
On this moonless night everything
telescopes, clarifies. Brightness erupts
from inky black. The dark night of the soul
is really a form of enlightenment.
I fall on my knees, praying to No God.
The god of no. I sway in the wind, yearning
to be struck, to plummet, to become the abyss
that annihilates, that looks into me. Oh,
the ecstasy of descent! I cry for it.
Mindful One, she thinks too much. She dwells
inside her head, sips the ink of books too
often. For all her lofty talk about meaning
and nature, she lives indoors, estranged.
Reconciliation is possible. The priest
intones, you are dust and to dust you shall
return. So it shall be. A reunion.
Yes! A gorgeous reunion. A gorgeous death.
It shall be as it is, unless it is as it shall
be. Remember, nascentes morimur. The voice is
relentless, paralyzing. Death, inevitable from
the beginning of my existence. My destiny, our
destiny, is to become nothing.
Not so, whisper the trees. Willow weeps over my
rigid despair. A pine tree caresses my hair.
You do not become nothing. You become everything.
The body becomes a corpse. The corpse rots, feeds
maggots and beetles, enriches the soil. A squirrel
foraging embeds a nut, forgets it. The nut germinates.
A sapling grows, slowly. Outside of time. Watching over.
Witnessing the Mystery. There’s always looking after.-Kathryn Harper
I wrote this poem 20 years ago, following this exercise from The Practice of Poetry:
This exercise comes from page 119 of The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises From Poets Who Teach, edited by Robin Behn and Chase Twichell. The goal of the exercise is to write a poem that includes these twenty suggesetions:
Full Circle
You held your infant daughter
in your arms
agonizing, cajoling,
willing your love to her.
This baby expected
perfection--
that you read her mind
and provide
every need, every want.
Sometimes that infant
arises now,
and your daughter rails
against you
for not possessing omniscience.
You jiggled your toddler daughter
on your lap
as she laughed,
singing to her,
calling her your "little Punkin."
This half-pint drank
your love
as a thirsty babe
guzzles the milk of life into every cell.
Sometimes that toddler
gazes now
with adoration for her infinite
mother
content and whole in her trust.
You watched your teenage daughter
from afar
as she brooded,
wishing her victory
over that devil called depression.
This young woman envied
your detachment
and accused you
of confusing her
and burdening her beyond control.
Sometimes that girl-woman
rages now
crying, wondering where
you hid
your secret fountain of peace.
You love your grown daughter
with all your life
as she strives,
reaching to her
with the gift of friendship.
This woman recognizes
your humanity
and gently removes you
from the pedestal
to a place in her heart.
Sometimes this woman
perceives now
that though we are family
we can meet
somewhere in the middle.-Kathryn Harper
No Place Too Small
It is easy to know how to meld with so much grief.
With joy there is blindness, rose-colored ignorance,
No body to tend, to anchor one to the earth.
When the world remains intact, you move nimbly,
Caressing the surface of things, noticing little.
But grief burrows in.
It needs only the exposed, wounded soul
To dig in as a tick under skin.
Grief bangs around the cellar, shrieking,
behaves unpredictably, hijacking your eyes
When the store clerk asks how you are. Clutching your
throat when you call the dentist’s office for a cleaning.
You walk now among oblivious humans,
an emotional leper
With lesions rotting your heart.
All of existence has its own death,
It too could slip into a tumor-ridden coma
Adorned with catheter tubes,
And gasp last breaths to the sterile beat
Of a monitor, attended by loved ones.
Since there is no place too small
For grief to infiltrate,
You lie down, surrender, pull it
to every cell of your being.
You take orders, as a dog obeys commands
From an owner; you honor and bear it,
And in this way, endure.
–Kathryn Harper
This poem was another exercise in scaffolding. I worked with Naomi Shihab Ney's Kindness.
One Afternoon
Bellied up to the kitchen counter
I bite into a pear and chew,
watching the empty hammock shimmy
in the yard. The wind sweeps gray
cotton balls overhead, rushing
them to some destination eastward.
Rubies and topaz fall from tree
branches. I stare, mesmerized,
as juice drips from my chin.-Kathryn Harper
“The Perfect Pear” by David Gallagher, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0
I'll begin this post with the standard disclaimer that I do not support or encourage anyone breaking the law and putting graffiti up in public places. I'll say, as well, that I have seen visually gorgeous and compelling graffiti on occasion, especially that of Banksy. But don't do it, 'kay?
And yet, someone in my neighborhood recently went around spraying "FUCK TRUMP" in vivid red on utility boxes, walls, and other places -- one of them being the stop sign limit line at an intersection two blocks from me. Another place I saw it was on a construction fence near me, where a massive Kaiser addition is being built. I waited a day to grab a photo and it had been painted over, but I took a photo and can still see the underlying message.
I admit to feeling a zing of satisfaction and solidarity that someone has decided their activism involves painting the world with a repudiation of this man, what he represents, and all the harm he has committed. Thank you, mystery neighborhood activist! Well done.
.jpg)
Impermanence
A dead man’s photo peers over my bed
The silent witness who lives in my blood.
Absence is the soul’s starvation diet.
I have been hungry since before I was born.
Plan for madness to heal you.
Plan for sadness to fly.
Plan for hope estranging your happiness.
It surely will.
The finite hours and days,
The years,
Dissolve with relentless measure
And apathy.
This will grieve your heart but release it.
You must not pull back: too late too late to stop.
You carelessly left your spirit alone,
Now seconds plunder its secrets
And take all.
Life perpetuates a feeble trick
on the frail mind:
A creation of memes
Moved by predestination
To obscurity.
The clock lightly ticks and then cocks its gun.
Aims between your eyes.
Are you ready?
-Kathryn Harper
I used James Galvin's Post-Modernism as the scaffold. I attempted to emulate the pace, syllables, and sentence structure. It was a tough exercise and I enjoyed it.
Crucifixion
She wills him to leave.
He shred her with words and now
she is every slut who ever lived,
the Levite’s worthless concubine from Bethlehem
as she stands scrubbing under
stinging, steaming needles of water,
as she cooks him out from under
her flesh, now banana tender,
welting purple at the wrists, breasts, thighs.
He permeates her head, the
musky mushroom scent stubbornly
remains regardless how much
she retches and spits;
she bites the bar of soap as though
taking communion, seeking its promise
to trade cleanliness for evil.
She stands, trembling and heaving
from gut to fingertips
shaking bone deep cold,
and the blood,
the blood won’t stop,
evidence of a sacrifice
that was not his
to make.-Kathryn Harper
The Power of Poetrywith things falling apart
and anarchy let loose,
it was only poetry, he found,
which had any use,
so he reached for his copy
of The Complete Works of Yeats
and bludgeoned the President
of the United States
-Brian Bilston
Photo: “Poetry” by Beppie, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0