—Poetry by Nancy Haskett, Modesto, CA
—Public Domain Photos
IF I HAVE TO WRITE A POEM ABOUT THE MOON
Recently, I heard someone say
that every poet needs a poem about the moon,
and if that’s true,
surely there can’t be many new thoughts to add
to the thousands of words already written,
to the clichés about cheese, werewolves, lunatics, lovers,
tides, gravity, a Cheshire cat’s smile,
but since my poetic legitimacy is apparently at stake,
I guess I could write about the time
I hiked to Half Dome one October,
sunset coming early, around 6:30,
catching us still above Nevada Falls,
our flashlights feeble in the absolute darkness
until the full moon rose over granite walls
like some kind of spiritual presence,
cast silver light on the trail as we slowly made our way
down to Happy Isles,
grateful for this celestial luminescence;
or I could divulge a secret about
the small window we added
to our second-story bathroom shower,
my favorite place to stand in darkness
unseen by neighbors,
as cool water splashes on tile,
I watch the moon as it glows
and rises over this Central Valley,
waxes and wanes,
sometimes disappearing completely,
other times full and round
like tonight
in almost-summer.
Recently, I heard someone say
that every poet needs a poem about the moon,
and if that’s true,
surely there can’t be many new thoughts to add
to the thousands of words already written,
to the clichés about cheese, werewolves, lunatics, lovers,
tides, gravity, a Cheshire cat’s smile,
but since my poetic legitimacy is apparently at stake,
I guess I could write about the time
I hiked to Half Dome one October,
sunset coming early, around 6:30,
catching us still above Nevada Falls,
our flashlights feeble in the absolute darkness
until the full moon rose over granite walls
like some kind of spiritual presence,
cast silver light on the trail as we slowly made our way
down to Happy Isles,
grateful for this celestial luminescence;
or I could divulge a secret about
the small window we added
to our second-story bathroom shower,
my favorite place to stand in darkness
unseen by neighbors,
as cool water splashes on tile,
I watch the moon as it glows
and rises over this Central Valley,
waxes and wanes,
sometimes disappearing completely,
other times full and round
like tonight
in almost-summer.
(prev. pub. in two anthologies: Poems of the Super Moon (NLAPW)
and The Moon (Outrider Press), plus Song of the San Joaquin)
My son knows death
knows its power,
its duplicity,
how it can be both desired
and feared,
both merciful and cruel,
how it can move slowly
or strike without warning.
During this time of plague,
his office sits directly across
a corridor of closed doors,
each room an isolated cell
for a victim of the virus;
IV pumps and monitors
outside the doors,
extra long tubing snakes inside,
keeps personal contact to a minimum.
No touching.
No family.
No visitors
except Death
who is always there,
silent, unseen,
the most powerful presence
in that hallway.
knows its power,
its duplicity,
how it can be both desired
and feared,
both merciful and cruel,
how it can move slowly
or strike without warning.
During this time of plague,
his office sits directly across
a corridor of closed doors,
each room an isolated cell
for a victim of the virus;
IV pumps and monitors
outside the doors,
extra long tubing snakes inside,
keeps personal contact to a minimum.
No touching.
No family.
No visitors
except Death
who is always there,
silent, unseen,
the most powerful presence
in that hallway.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2020)
NOTRE DAME
I.
Our Dear Lady,
since April of 2019,
it seems that all of France,
and perhaps much of the world,
has wept over your latest tragedy.
At the risk of stating the obvious,
I would like to remind you
that an existence of 850+ years
is likely to be filled with its share
of ups and downs.
Of course, the temptation is always
to focus on the positive memories—
the coronations, Requiem Masses,
the delightful tight rope walk between the bell towers,
not to mention the alleged relics from the crucifixion—
so let’s not pretend this fire
is the worst thing that has happened.
Let’s also remember the funerals,
the suicides at the altar,
the revolution which beheaded your statues,
converted you to a mundane warehouse
for the storage of food.
Don’t forget that it was the fictitious story
of a deformed hunchback
that brought attention to your woeful plight,
saved you from destruction,
supported you in a time of great need
(even more than your flying buttresses),
and even in the midst of liberation
from your German foes,
stray bullets broke glass from the Middle Ages.
So, it’s somewhat difficult
to summon much sympathy for you.
After all,
at significant expense,
you have had an ongoing makeover,
centuries of facelifts and joint replacements;
you have been cleaned, refreshed, updated,
pampered and revered.
No doubt
you will once again
rise above us all.
II.
After some consideration,
I fear I may have maligned you
unfairly.
Compared to the multiple misfortunes and afflictions
you have experienced over the centuries,
this devastating fire seemed, at first,
to be simply one more challenge
you would undoubtedly overcome—
that you would recover completely
and be back to your old self in no time.
The latest prognosis,
I am forced to admit,
looks far less hopeful,
and I can only imagine your distress
at being told there is a mere 50-50
chance of your survival.
Since you are a cathedral,
I would urge you to look toward the Heavens
for some kind of divine intervention,
and please take some comfort,
as we Americans so often do,
in our sincere thoughts and prayers.
(prev. pub. in Penumbra, 2020)
I.
Our Dear Lady,
since April of 2019,
it seems that all of France,
and perhaps much of the world,
has wept over your latest tragedy.
At the risk of stating the obvious,
I would like to remind you
that an existence of 850+ years
is likely to be filled with its share
of ups and downs.
Of course, the temptation is always
to focus on the positive memories—
the coronations, Requiem Masses,
the delightful tight rope walk between the bell towers,
not to mention the alleged relics from the crucifixion—
so let’s not pretend this fire
is the worst thing that has happened.
Let’s also remember the funerals,
the suicides at the altar,
the revolution which beheaded your statues,
converted you to a mundane warehouse
for the storage of food.
Don’t forget that it was the fictitious story
of a deformed hunchback
that brought attention to your woeful plight,
saved you from destruction,
supported you in a time of great need
(even more than your flying buttresses),
and even in the midst of liberation
from your German foes,
stray bullets broke glass from the Middle Ages.
So, it’s somewhat difficult
to summon much sympathy for you.
After all,
at significant expense,
you have had an ongoing makeover,
centuries of facelifts and joint replacements;
you have been cleaned, refreshed, updated,
pampered and revered.
No doubt
you will once again
rise above us all.
II.
After some consideration,
I fear I may have maligned you
unfairly.
Compared to the multiple misfortunes and afflictions
you have experienced over the centuries,
this devastating fire seemed, at first,
to be simply one more challenge
you would undoubtedly overcome—
that you would recover completely
and be back to your old self in no time.
The latest prognosis,
I am forced to admit,
looks far less hopeful,
and I can only imagine your distress
at being told there is a mere 50-50
chance of your survival.
Since you are a cathedral,
I would urge you to look toward the Heavens
for some kind of divine intervention,
and please take some comfort,
as we Americans so often do,
in our sincere thoughts and prayers.
(prev. pub. in Penumbra, 2020)
MARIPOSA REENACTMENT
I.
I wake sometimes before Reveille,
canvas tent walls cold and damp,
my breath in clouds,
the clang of cast iron pots as fires are started,
quiet voices of breakfast preparation.
I untie and open the flap,
step outside into a dark blue world,
streaks of light on the eastern horizon,
soldiers sitting together on logs
as I walk toward the warmth,
use a towel to lift the enamelware pot,
pour boiling water into my mug,
sip tea as wild turkeys call to one another,
horses neigh,
dawn breaks.
II.
At night,
we walk up the hill to look at the stars,
gaze down on the camps,
triangles of white tents,
lanterns and fires,
a return to a simpler time
without televisions and cell phones,
like being in a time machine
transported back into history.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2021)
I.
I wake sometimes before Reveille,
canvas tent walls cold and damp,
my breath in clouds,
the clang of cast iron pots as fires are started,
quiet voices of breakfast preparation.
I untie and open the flap,
step outside into a dark blue world,
streaks of light on the eastern horizon,
soldiers sitting together on logs
as I walk toward the warmth,
use a towel to lift the enamelware pot,
pour boiling water into my mug,
sip tea as wild turkeys call to one another,
horses neigh,
dawn breaks.
II.
At night,
we walk up the hill to look at the stars,
gaze down on the camps,
triangles of white tents,
lanterns and fires,
a return to a simpler time
without televisions and cell phones,
like being in a time machine
transported back into history.
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2021)
TRIBUTE TO NEVA
I.
The tulips from your memorial service are open now,
the vase sits on the window sill,
yellow, orange, purple, dark red petals, translucent like bone china,
lean on long-leafed stems, a gentle bend from the vase.
Outside in the back yard,
the mourning doves are nesting in our Boston fern,
bright goldfinches eat from the feeder along with white-crowned sparrows,
like your collection of ceramic figurines—
the Lenox china blue bird, robins, dove,
golden crowned kinglet,
displayed on shelves in your apartment,
carefully positioned in the china cabinet,
and I picture the way you fed the birds in Sunriver,
mashed peanut butter into cream of wheat,
spread it on the feeders, stood in the yard,
arms outstretched,
the chickadees landing on your hands,
your palms held upward,
the way you lived your life.
II.
Twice widowed,
you asked that your cremains be placed in the earth next to both husbands,
in a cemetery miles away, rarely visited.
So we saved some ashes before the burial,
mixed them with a few of my father’s,
scattered them in Oregon—
at the base of trees and plants near your two homes,
under the large cross at the community church,
around a bench placed in memory of your closest friends,
into currents of the Deschutes River.
This is how we will remember you—
not in the ground on a Palos Verdes hill,
but under pine trees and bitter brush,
among tiny purple blossoms in the groundcover
that blankets the berm—
a part of Sunriver,
perhaps to be touched by birds, deer, or the squirrels you loved,
at rest under clear blue skies
and at night,
a million stars.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
10 STEPS TO BECOMING A BETTER WRITER
—Brian Clark
Write.
Write more.
Write even more.
Write even more than that.
Write when you don’t want to.
Write when you do.
Write when you have something to say.
Write when you don’t.
Write every day.
Keep writing.
_________________
Tonight from 6-7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center continues to present the weekly MarieWriters writing workshop, online, with guest facilitators. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/671443996
Also tonight, 6-7:30pm, Cal. Lawyers for the Arts presents Impactful Grant Writing for Artists and Small Arts Organizations, a Webinar available via Zoom. Speakers: Kim Tucker and Dr. Dene Starks. Info & reg. at www.calawyersforthearts.org/event-4251891/. Sliding scale and complete fee waiver available.
For info about the restoration of France’s Notre Dame Cathedral, see www.afar.com/magazine/what-will-it-take-to-rebuild-notre-dame-cathedral/.
__________________
—Medusa, thanking Nancy Haskett for dropping into the Kitchen this morning with more of her fine poetry, and my apologies for spelling her name wrong and saying she lived in Fresno (not Modesto) on her April 17 post!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
