After Being Asked Why I Write About Death and Poetry
There’s real fun in a funeral,
and in the pearly gates—the pages relate.
I fall prey to
poetry,
have hated
death.
You know, I’ve never understood reality,
then try
to relay it—tearily, irately—
and I’m
a liar yet.
But when I write about death and poetry,
it’s donated
therapy
where I converse with
Emily Dickinson, my inky misled icon.
And when my dream songs are demon’s rags,
I
dust my manuscript in a manic spurt
hoping the reader will reread
becauseI want the world
to pray for poets as we are only a story of paper.
(previously published in 32 Poems)
*
Emergency Contact Information
Nevertheless its steps can be heard. . .
Pablo Neruda, “Nothing But Death”
or so reads the back of
my Saint Christopher medallion.
And I want to engrave:
Or 911. Or an ambulance,
but not just the priest.
I know the priest would come,
offer everlasting life and pray
over my body, but I’m betting on the medic,
the EMT, the blonde girl who works weekends
at the fire station just to have enough money
to keep her daughter in private school.
I put my faith in the hands of these saviors
before I’ll kiss the white collar
of the man who loves God the same way I love life.
I’m not ready to go. Not now.
Maybe when my body begins to crumble,
and needs every speck of energy to leave
a chair or revise a poem, then I will say:
Just the priest please.
But for now, call anyone
you think could help, anyone
who could pull me from the land of afterlife
where “eternal bliss” sounds lovely,
roaming the clouds with dead relatives
or wandering a white fog
near the wings of a friend who died too young.
I imagine yards of cotton unrolling.
God is remodeling the space
for the eighty million new souls
who will visit this year, souls appearing
through the restored wrought-iron gate.
It will be interesting to encounter people
who have passed before me. I’ll make a point
to ask Neruda about death
dressed as a broom, as I keep believing I’ll be swept up.
(previously published in Prairie Schooner)
*
Kindergarten for Poets
And
it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me
~Pablo
Neruda
Ignore Billy who’s bothering Louise
with his sestina, repeating his six words
in her ear when he thinks the teacher
isn’t watching:
dog,
jazz,
ghost, mouse,
angels, hat.
You’re five and September is the month
of poetry subjects:
Before your parents leave,
Mr. Pound says what you will do today:
Orally combine words to make a complete thought
Practice proper writing posture
The ABCs of reading
For show and tell, you bring in a cliché
and everyone points it out.
You write your first haiku:
in kindergarten
I still dream about being
in kindergarten
After story time, you tell the librarian
you enjoyed Beowulf just so he’ll smile and nod.
Li-Young shares his peaches with you at lunch
and you want to touch his hand.
Back in class you realize you have a crush
on Anne who keeps pulling up her dress.
Wallace mumbles something in the center
of circletime. Few can understand him,
but everyone smiles in agreement.
Quiet Jane prefers to sit alone with a fresh daisy
on her desk. She stares out the window
and notices how dandelions form
into letters: O, Q, lowercase i.
You share a desk with Gwendolyn
and listen to her stories.
In the days to come you will learn
there is no way to stop Billy Logan
from kicking the back of your chair,
or reminding you
that you wore that shirt
yesterday, the same green shirt,
and you dot your i’s wrong. In fact
everything you do is wrong. Well, not wrong,
but not necessarily right.
Later, Franz beats him up after school
and things feel better for a while.
On Halloween, you dress up like a pantoum
and repeat yourself all day.
You are starting to believe
couplets are for babies.
For Valentine’s Day, you write,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond
on your cards, and the principal
calls you into her office
to ask you if you’re getting enough
to eat at snack time.
Sometimes you forget and run with sestinas.
Next year, you’ll begin first grade
and will be introduced to book contests,
submissions, rejections.
Now, your poems are returned
with smiley faces, stickers, and stars.
You’re happy in this iambic universe,
this phonic jungle where the alphabet
wraps around the room—
Jack-Jack Kerouac, ?, ?, ?.
You wear your sonnet like a cape
and revise the words that spill
from your backpack—
verbs hang from the monkey bars,
nouns lean against the bike rack,
a villanelle of mockingbirds echoes
as the bus comes into view.
(previously published in PoetLore)