Beginning Again: Creative Responses to Poetry of Presence

BEGINNING AGAIN: CREATIVE RESPONSES TO POETRY OF PRESENCE. Copyright © 2018 by Back Porch Productions LLC.


The end of the poem is just the beginning.
PHYLLIS COLE-DAI & RUBY WILSON




To the Reader
“The end of the poem is just the beginning.” This is our belief as the editors of Poetry of Presence. Whenever we read a poem mindfully, receiving it with our full attention and an accepting spirit, at its conclusion we carry its wisdom forth into the adventure of our lives. This is especially true when we read a mindfulness poem. By its last line, its witness has become part of us. Though we may be unaware of its influence, it can subtly affect the world through us, hopefully for the better. In other words, it can become good medicine for ourselves and others, in ways we might never have imagined.
In April we invited our Poetry of Presence mailing list to celebrate National Poetry Month by responding creatively to one or more poems in our award-winning anthology of mindfulness poems. For one month, all our readers were welcome to send us an original submission, limited to around one single-spaced page, medium-size image or audio file.
We were amazed by the many gifts we received in reply. Dozens of mindful, generous-hearted readers (perhaps including you) penned poems and essays, wrote and performed music, took photographs, painted, and produced mixed-media works. And these submissions are indeed “works,” aren’t they? They have been labored over. First the soul meets itself or its surroundings in a new way, then the truth of that moment is captured and crafted, whether by the shutter, the pen, the brush, the piano keys.... Rarely is that process easy. Yet it can be such joy.
Thank you to everyone who shared their creativity with the Poetry of Presence community. It’s our pleasure to present your submissions in this compilation. We applied only a light editing touch (e.g., correcting the rare typo or tweaking the appearance of an epigraph to achieve a measure of consistency). Otherwise the works remain as submitted. After arranging the written selections more or less randomly, we distributed the visual art rather evenly among them. We also dispersed those selections sparked by the same poem instead of grouping them together. Beneath each entry, we listed the creator’s name, residence and website (if applicable), along with the poem(s) from Poetry of Presence that inspired it.
We have hyperlinked the document for your convenience. In other words, when reading the table of contents digitally, you may click on a work’s title to jump to the page instead of scrolling; in the same way, you may click on a page’s title to jump to the table of contents.
The creators retain all rights to these works. Please do not republish them in any manner without prior consent. If you wish to contact someone for permission, or even to offer feedback on his or her work, please email us and we will forward your message. Feel free to allow their creative efforts to stimulate your own.
If you aren’t yet a member of our email list, please subscribe here. When you do, we’ll send you a free mindfulness poem as a welcome gift. Thereafter we will occasionally provide you with special updates about Poetry of Presence, bonus materials and exclusive offers. You may unsubscribe at any time.
Now let’s begin again, shall we?
Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson Editors, Poetry of Presence Compilers, Beginning Again June, 2018




CONTENTS
When reading this table digitally, you may click on a title to jump to the page. Italicized titles are visual art. The Intimacy of Windows Phyllis Cole-Dai 1
BreathTaking Janice Falls
2
Jack Schwarz 4
Pieces Sally Stocker
No Time Unlike the Present
Fluid Helen M. Groft
Take Heart Bonnie Sparling
Of the Mind Maryann Russo
In the Woods in This Moment
Here and Now Abhirami Senthilkumaran 9
Avocados
Untitled
Sarah Putnam Ann Comeau
8
13
10
11
12
everyday miracle Kathleen Madigan
In Imitation of a Damselfly Mary Zoll
A Collection of Chants Deborah Shields
Deeper Well Lynda Lowe 23
Special Edition Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer Photo Above My Kitchen Sink Dorothy A. Joslyn
Dancers
Meditation on a Cup of Tea
Great Grey Owl Susan Scott
Cognitive Dissonance Daniel McKinley 15 To Love Life Jessica Kovan 16
Consider the Octopus Colette Volkema DeNooyer Meeting Myself at My Own Door Chip Webster
Dorothy Walters
Marjorie Saiser 14
3
5
6
Laura Dursley
Why I Head North
Reversal of Fortune
How to Read a Poet
Fall Verticals Cheryl Andrews
For Your Spirit, Traveling Home
The Wolf’s Prayer (as told to Jack Schwarz) Jack Schwarz 32 Lost, Aiming Towards Fluent Pamela Devereaux Wilson 33 Autobiography of a Leaf Ron Stone 34
The Glory of Change Annette Langlois Grunseth 35 This Very Night Elizabeth Bodien 36
Untitled Michelle Dugan 37
I Was With Everything .parker.. 38
The Beach Road Joanna Zakadas 39
Fogbow, Hidden Wholeness
Untitled Annie Pointer
Colour Nina Manston
Sieve Nan Kuhlman
Ordinary Miracles David Robert Clowers Going into the Dark Ruby R. Wilson The Generosity of Windows Karen Gold
40 45
46
47
Claudine Nash Linda Blachman
26 27
Carol Bessom
29 30
Lydia B. Goetze 41
43 44
7
Naila Francis
31
19 20
17 18
25
21
24


The Old Red Barn Carol Cole 48
Then We Moved to a Farm Silence Rabbi Mark Novak predawn Phyllis Beckman
At the Edge Carol Beth Icard Traveling Light Rosemary Wright Presence Susan Taylor 54
Louis Castelli 49 50
51 52
53
doors Davine Del Valle
Bird or Stone Linda Gelbrich
Unlock Obstacles Geri Ortega
Oh She Is Not So Different From Us
Waiting for the Time Edith “Edi Lenore” Powers 60
Awesome Just As Is Ann M. Penton 61
More Beautiful Than New Patricia Smith Ranzoni 63
Untitled Pat Noll 65
Release Catherine Senne Wallace 66
A sunset, lightly held Lucy Griffith 67
Rage’s Rainbow Shawn Enterline 68
I Wasn’t a Poet Carol Hechtenthal 70
Can She Still Hear? Adam Fisher 72
Skeptic’s Reincarnation Roy Woolfstead 73
After Reading “What’s in the Temple” by Tom Barrett, I Consider His Question
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer 74 Maternal Watch William (Mel) Taylor 76 From the Editors 78
55
57 58
Jeanie Bernard 59


BEGINNING AGAIN




The Intimacy of Windows
(Photograph)
Phyllis Cole-Dai
Brookings, South Dakota, U.S.A.
Inspired by “The Patience of Ordinary Things” by Pat Schneider (33).
Photographer’s note: I took this in the home of the poet Pat Schneider. It shows the haunting reflection of a hallway window in the protective glass of an art print hanging on the wall. The print, entitled “Sunday Morning—Dorset,” was sent to Pat by the artist Fanny Rush. She had found her inspiration for the painting in Pat’s line, “And what is more generous than a window?”
1


BreathTaking
The sacred language of the breath has no words:
a speechless entry
into the body, a tidal connection with all that is,
the language we were born into, the last silent word at our death.
It is the poetry of call and response: inhaling news of the world, exhaling delight and despair, inhaling stories of life and death, exhaling our own narratives
in sound no more than a whisper.
With each breath we take life is poured into every cell, announcing our presence without ever saying a word.
Janice Falls
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Inspired by “Ancient Language” by Hannah Stephenson (29).
2


Pieces
I am a pile of pieces on the ground Gingerly, you walk around me Carefully, you circle me
A foot
An eye
A lock of hair
Can you see me from my pieces? Am I worthy of you this way?
If you put me together
Will I be me?
Or will I be your interpretation of me?
Will you wait for me to put myself together? I will be slower
But I will be truer.
Will we walk the paths together, my love? You—who knows me best
You—who loves me most
I find my heart, the truest part of me
I almost give it to you
Will you hold it safely as I sort through my pieces? I am a pile of pieces on the ground
Please, hold my heart
Hold my heart and wait for me
I am on my way
Sally Stocker
Millville, Utah, U.S.A.
todayandtomorrowandyesterday.com
Inspired by “Entrance” by Rainer Maria Rilke, as translated by Dana Gioia (162).
3


4
No Time Unlike the Present
Sit. Feast on your life. —Derek Walcott
from “Love After Love”)
Don’t tense me in.
—Jack Schwarz
Elephant. Soupspoon. Loose leaves of tea.
For then; and for now; and for Time yet to see.
Deep roots, and ripe fruits, and evergreen tree: Remember, and savor, and grow gracefully.
Remain strong ... Soar skyward ... Taste sweetness ... Stay free. Always honor
what’s gone where you are what will be.
Jack Schwarz
Columbus, Ohio, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Love After Love” by Derek Walcott (55).


Fluid
Susquehanna. Mackinaw. Mississippi.
Names of rivers flow from primordial time over tongues,
and rhymes with
our deepest knowing.
Colorado. Conowingo. Monongahela.
Early peoples sang
on these shores,
sounds of water giving rise and flow to language we now hear.
Juniata. Genesee. Willamette.
Ancient wisdom beyond understanding
flow to those who wait on shores, their lives unfolding.
Tell me what I must know.
Oneida. Ocracoke. Shenandoah.
Helen M. Groft
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Fluent” by John O’Donohue (82).
5


6
Take Heart
(Original painting)
Bonnie Sparling
Decatur, Georgia, U.S.A.
Inspired by “When I Walk Among the Trees” by Mary Oliver (44) and “Take Love for Granted” by Jack Ridl (53).


Of the Mind
the scatter clatter
plans on a platter what does it matter
the flurry scurry
doses of worry
the longed for repose
out of time
full of rhyme
the mind is
not the master
wants an unwind
if only it could bow
Maryann Russo
Palos Verdes Estates, California, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Thinking” by Danusha Laméris (47).
7


In the Woods in This Moment
Firmly shuttered now,
Old stones and cracked mortar
Leaking stories and love from days long ago.
Remembering warmth and lives entwined, Watched over by fluffy chickadees
And quick jays darting.
Blue on blue ...
Glistening snow blanketing Brave trees steadfast in Cold, rain, sun, frost
Sentinels under brilliant sunshine And clear spacious skies
Now, past, future Connections, solitude, Breathing, moving, alive
Rich with endless possibility Empty of expectations
No attachment to the rising joy The heart full just now
Shush shushing of snowshoes Bounding dog
Wide smiles
Appreciation of this moment—now.
Resting in the present as we catch our breath.
Laura Dursley
Bracebridge, Ontario, Canada
Inspired by “When I Am Among the Trees” by Mary Oliver (44) and “The Quiet Listeners”
by Laura Foley (48).
8


Here and Now
Life is lived in the uncertain moments between plans and decisions—
not when the whole reel is run,
and all has been said and done.
Where are You—
in the rosy spaces
between checking off a to-do list and making a new one?
in the thorny pauses
between bursts of conversation with a loved one?
Where are You—
in the oracular interval
between the first sunbeam on your face and getting up to live another day?
in the brief instant
between hearing the milk simmer
and watching it boil over?
Where are You—
in the short waits at traffic lights and the long lines at tourist sights? in the opportune gaps
between one destination
and another aspiration?
Are you restless for resolution
or embracing the unpredictable?
Are you seeking security
or accepting the impermanent?
Are you choosing certainty in Death, or the possibility of Living?
Abhirami Senthilkumaran
California, U.S.A.
Inspired by “You Are There” by Erica Jong (123).
9


Avocados
Pale amber warm comfort A pencil-wide stream
from my green tea pot my green-tea pot
(my little joke). The one you bought me
for my birthday
the one I looked for for years.
Leaves unfurl in the dark heat
opening their vegetable-love taste, a hint of bitterness
at the end.
It has a nutty-buttery taste,
I said, ignore the texture. We had just met.
Who is this man who never has eaten an avocado?
It became our answer for everything (our little joke).
What does it taste like? Always, a nutty-buttery taste.
Our grandchildren
eat them by the half-dozen
with a spoon. Alligator egg on the half-shell,
pebbly dark leather skin packed with a spring-splendor
of greens,
the texture of thick cream, around a seed swollen
with hope.
Sarah Putnam
Clemmons, North Carolina, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver (120).
10


Untitled
Ann Comeau
Sarasota, Florida, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Longing” by Julie Cadwallader Staub (63) and “a song with no end” by Charles Bukowski (62).
11


Dancers
All around we are seeing
a world in ruins.
I do not need to tell you all the things going wrong. Yet there is another world rising and unfolding within and without.
The frequencies are changing. People are feeling it everywhere and becoming
that which is more than
they have been.
I know.
I have met them again and again and
they are beautiful. They are dancing amidst the rubble, night and day,
they are ascending, they are making love with the unseen.
Dorothy Walters
Boulder, Colorado, U.S.A.
kundalinisplendor.blogspot.com
Inspired by “A Community of the Spirit” by Rumi (27) and “The Way It Is” by Lynn Ungar (31).
12


Meditation on a Cup of Tea
“a pause a little emptiness”
—Craig Arnold
To get the heat going under the kettle early while it’s still dark,
to take a clean white cup and a tea bag, to wait, standing as my father stood,
alone in the kitchen before the work begins. This is my work, this is my life,
to tip the kettle and pour
and then to see an ant, floating in the cup,
one of the little ones who have sometimes lately come running out from a stack of papers
on the counter, suspended now, a small dot hanging
in the ocean of my tea. There’s morning light in the generous window; there’s
birdsong starting up.
I’m listening: now, now, now.
Marjorie Saiser
Lincoln, Nebraska, U.S.A.
poetmarge.com
Inspired by “Meditation on a Grapefruit” by Craig Arnold (39).
13


Great Grey Owl
Stealthy sailor!
Sweeping out of fog-banked woods 'Cross highway’s empty channel,
Dusky sheets all trimmed and spread, Your pools of eyes aflame.
Holy ambush of my constricted sight That dilates in an instant,
Takes in full your feathered majesty. Only windshield ‘twixt my I, your Thou. Through tinted glass, now darkly,
But then, great owl,
Then face to face.
Susan Scott
Avondale, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
Inspired by “The Owl Cries at Night” by Freya Manfred (81).
14


Cognitive Dissonance
Leveling the area where
the cherry tree stood, with screened topsoil,
I try to persuade myself we did the right thing: the flowering cherry graft never took; the limbs neverwept;
filagree
the cherries were no more than pits sheathed in thin green skin that littered the ground; leaves eaten by Japanese beetles,
brown skeletons,
fell to the ground
starting in July.
The roots
broke the surface preventing grass from growing as did the shade. It was an odd-looking tree, asymmetrical, its one fork leaning north, uncomely in winter like the arm of the letter K.
Why did we wait twenty-five years?
Daniel McKinley
Palmyra, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. Inspired by “Trees” by Howard Nemerov (174).
15


16
To Love Life
(Mixed media on canvas, 24”x24”)
Jessica Kovan
Okemos, Michigan, U.S.A.
Inspired by “The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass (154).


Consider the Octopus
You assumed it was her head atop
the way our heads are. Assumed too because you’ve heard an octopus can solve
puzzles, do more tricks than even dogs can do,
that there was a great brain swelling that bulbous shape. But no, the expert tells you. The octopus begins
with body, in which she harbors her three hearts among other vital organs. The head, in fact,
is found farther down, a brain wrapped
around her throat and two oversized eyes
that protrude to either side above eight flailing arms. And then it’s nothing but arms and suction cups
that touch and feel but also taste preferred prey
before drawing them into a mouth hidden in, well,
her armpit. Which is to say, you had it all wrong. Again.
So smug, so sure, you could tell by the way they looked— or could tell, say, by the sound of their voice—
whether to smile or turn away. Leading again
with the head instead of the body, thinking, thinking your way toward the other,
instead of opening a door in the only
heart you have, and reaching
with even one arm, one open hand to touch—and taste.
Colette Volkema DeNooyer
Holland, Michigan, U.S.A.
forwritersandreaders.com
Inspired by “Camas Lilies” by Lynn Ungar (95) and “The Mosquito Among the Raindrops”
by Teddy Macker (92).
17


Meeting Myself at My Own Door
If I run fast enough from myself If I ignore all my thoughts
I can avoid confronting myself
Dealing with the unfinished business of life
Admitting failures Mourning loss Saying I’m sorry
Just keep moving Watching movies Buying stuff Going to games
Then the day comes A knock on the door A divorce
A heart attack
The death of a child I didn’t say “I love you” to
I look at the image in the mirror I’m not 18
I’m 72
I’m tired of running
Stuffing hollow things into the holes of my life
I have a choice
Keep running
Or reflect and savor all of life’s ups and downs
Discover my true essence
The one that has been with me all along
The true essence Of me
Chip Webster
St. Petersburg, Florida, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Love After Love” by Derek Walcott (55).
18


everyday miracle
today I read that a mosquito hitches a ride on a raindrop
that is falling
in order to live
what can I say to this
I am speechless
millions trillions billions
of creatures living and
dying on this planet in the most incredible ways
what if my life was as insignificant as any mosquito taking a ride
on a raindrop
unknown unseen
but nevertheless
a miracle
Kathleen Madigan
Fortrose, Highlands, Scotland
Inspired by “The Mosquito Among the Raindrops” by Teddy Macker (92) and “Miracle Fair”
by Wislawa Szymborska (98).
19


In Imitation of a Damselfly
Space surrounds the drifting earth, holds all of everything that is,
gives gravity a fabric to work with.
The cause of space, its size, boundaries are unknown, perhaps unknowable, as is its fate: cataclysmic collapse to a dense singularity or the reverse—
dissolution to an infinitely thin expanse.
My sense is that whatever eventually happens won’t happen this particular morning,
so I commune with the breeze again,
the white pines, and practice the skill of being.
Mary Zoll
Carlisle, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Consider The Space Between Stars” by Linda Pastan (156).
20


A Collection of Chants
Editors’ note: We’re happy to present this collection from Deborah Shields of Middletown, New Jersey, U.S.A. May 31, 2018, was the first anniversary of a traumatic car accident that has presented her with “many new normals.” In observance, she jumpstarted her chanting practice. Inspiration for five new chants came while reading Poetry of Presence. Though the submission deadline had passed when she shared them with us, we asked to include them in this compilation.
“Breathing”
Lyrics: Breathing free of clutch and fear (2x) Living free of clutch and fear
Breathing free of clutch and fear.
Click here to listen. Inspired by “One’s Ship Comes In” by Joe Paddock (129). “Broken Things”
Lyrics: I will keep this broken thing, this broken thing. To be broken finds the perfection
Even in the smashed and broken things (2x)
I will keep this broken pilgrim
I will keep myself, this broken one!
Click here to listen. Inspired by “I will Keep Broken Things” by Alice Walker (146) and “The Way It Is” by Rosemary Wahtola Trommer (149).
“Really It Is Quite Simple”
Lyrics: Really it is quite simple: Receive only to give away
Let go and surrender
Be made whole while breaking open!
Click here to listen. Inspired by “Plate” by Al Zolynas (145). “The Self You Leave Behind”
Lyrics:
The self you leave behind (2x)
It’s just a skin you have outgrown (2x) Don’t grieve for it, don’t grieve for it! Look instead, look instead
At the raw, unfinished self
The one you are becoming!
Click here to listen. Inspired by “Instructions for the Journey” by Pat Schneider (144).
21


“Wave”
Lyrics: Accepting the invitation
To rest in the valley of the wave Knowing and trusting
The wave will lift us up again! (2x)
Click here to listen. Inspired by “Trough” by Judy Sorum Brown (128).
22


Deeper Well
(Watercolor, wax and oil paint, 36”x45”)
Lynda Lowe
lyndalowe.com
Gig Harbor, Washington, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Sweet Darkness” by David Whyte (152).
23


Special Edition
in response to “The Good News” by Thich Nhat Hanh
Good news. The ant on your toe does not want to bite you.
He is a traveler on the country of your foot, and he is teaching you
about the borders you have drawn around your kingdom.
Yes, the young sapling beside you has died, but there,
beside it, a new sapling is carrying on what it means to be tree.
The good news is that the daffodils, planted by some unknown hand, have returned, and they bob their yellow fringe in the wind,
their cups filled with unspillable light.
The goldfinches find food beneath the old spruce.
And the meadowlark has turned the fencepost
into a concert hall.
And more good news. You noticed that there was a line drawn
between us and them, and you, with your ardent mind,
you picked up that line and refashioned it into a spiral.
And in this moment, the good news is that the sun is warm
on your shoulders and your eyes feel like closing and you
let them close.
The good news is that despite the passing hours, the passing years,
there is no end to good news waiting to be found
and you are just beginning to understand how infinite this special edition.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Placerville, Colorado, U.S.A.
wordwoman.com
ahundredfallingveils.com
Inspired by “The Good News” by Thich Nhat Hanh (151).
24


Photo Above My Kitchen Sink
As I wash the dishes,
I look up into your eyes, see your smile, remember your life.
It doesn’t go away, the grief,
it just softens
and nudges my heart
when I think of you, which isn’t every day
as it was before.
It is a part of my life now,
your leaving, your dying.
The emptiness has been filled with life as it is now,
but I haven’t forgotten.
A small hole remains, but I’m used to it now, and I breathe into it when the pain returns.
You were born from my body, but once you cried your first cry, you took it as your own,
and it could never be mine again.
I have to let you go
because you chose to leave,
and though I’ve accepted the loss, my life has shifted slightly off center.
Dorothy A. Joslyn
Springfield, Missouri, U.S.A.
Inspired by “The Cure” by Albert Huffstickler (155).
25


Why I Head North
Once I had an enormous thought crammed into all three hundred corners
of my head.
I breathed in the wind
that
moves between these mountains. Now I forget
what I
had meant to say.
Claudine Nash
New Rochelle, New York, U.S.A.
claudinenashpoetry.com
Inspired by “Zazen on Ching-t'ing Mountain” by Li Po (122).
26


Reversal of Fortune
Somewhere in the crevice between dusk and dawn just before the grey glow of daylight creeps through the blinds, awakening my ache
for just one more hour of sleep,
and you
Your hand reaches down from the heavens, once again stroking my forehead
from the bridge of my nose to the hairline smoothing out worry lines etched
since childhood, erasing mental litter, like waves of the ocean washing the shore
The very shore where we strolled on
our first date, your large hand cradling mine, my own hand saying “yes,” while we spoke in low tones as I’m speaking to you now across the divide:
You wouldn’t believe that the country you fled
to find refuge from uniformed men goose-stepping through your dreams, insisting
in the native tongue you detested
that you are one of them and there is no escape
That very land that worshipped blond and blue boys
is now led by a woman, is embracing
a million desperate dark-skinned people,
and the grandchildren of your uncles and aunts
wash swastikas off buildings, place bronze plaques
on sidewalks announcing the truth of their clotted past lest they forget
While the country where you sought and found asylum— remember the woman lifting her torch to the huddled masses— has closed its borders in a great forgetting of fake news
and alternative facts
Did you know what was coming? Is that why, twenty years before the buried grenades of terror and hate
burst forth like fireworks in America’s spacious skies,
you returned to die in your homeland’s pastoral countryside?
The same countryside abutting the Black Forest
my family crossed on foot through perilous nights
to Amsterdam’s port, to the bowels of a ship,
to my country tis of thee, just before the glass shattered in yours?
27


By what miracle did we find each other’s hands in the dark, did I allow the fingers of the enemy to caress away nightmares of men in striped pajamas with yellow stars?
And by what quirk of fate are you gone, but the dreams are back just before dawn, so I escape through the crack in search of hallowed ground, where I can finally kneel at your grave,
sing you to sleep, and rest my head on the grassy mound.
Linda Blachman
Albany, California, U.S.A.
Inspired by “The Joins” by Chana Bloch (185).
28


How to Read a Poet
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Lift your eyes and ears to the day around you. Find what gifts it has given you.
Now you are ready.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Turn your eyes and ears to the words around you. See what gifts the poet has given you.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Thank the breath. Thank the poet.
Thank the poem. Breathe.
This is holy.
Carol Bessom
Newport News, Virginia, U.S.A.
Inspired by “How to Be a Poet” by Wendell Berry (103).
29


30
Fall Verticals
(Acrylic painting)
Cheryl Andrews
Seguin, Ontario, Canada
Inspired by “When I Am Among the Trees” by Mary Oliver (44), “Trees” by Howard Nemerov (174) and “No More Same Old Silly Love Songs” by Neil Carpathios (180).


For Your Spirit, Traveling Home
Carry no fear though your lungs may rise
like wings longing for flight, breath, while
in the paper-chambered cavities of muscle
and bone, betrayal stuns and smokes. Remember the laughter, sugar-spun, in a summer haze before you learned how the shifting ground could divide happiness, how what is lost to one still blooms in another, a blessing that builds
a wall. Pack forgiveness, feel its rinse
and wash. Notice what remains. Hold it all gently, ocean salt on your skin, a blue-sky hope, the purring warmth, cat and dog
and bird, a kingdom that sighs
your name. Pick the seeds that grew
the impossible watermelon, the memories
that shine, musk of saffron, feast
of snapper, toast to the lady of night.
Gather your lucky numbers, your diaried dreams, words that wheeled
with your feet—symphony of city
and stone. Listen, for your mother’s
call, your father’s rasp, stripped
of its surly and sad. Hear each voice, sage
and saint ’round a bonfire truth, burning your failure and shame. Feel the dirt, sapwood hum, earth-rooting psalm, instructions
that live in your veins, coax this body, foreign and bright, into plans with the vanishing world. Let the prayers fall, the hands scent you with yearning and sandalwood, raise
a small sweetness to your parched and silent lips. You do not have to be here
or there, follow the siren tears or quiver
of summoning light.
You are a pilgrim, milkweed
heart in a hallowed mystery, walking
us through the dark.
Naila Francis
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
nailafrancis.com
Inspired by “For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in its Human Feet” by Joy Harjo (189).
31


The Wolf’s Prayer (as told to Jack Schwarz)
The Lord is a shepherd,
But I am no sheep.
Who else might He guide?
Those who fly? Those who creep? Those who swim, hop, and climb? Those who scurry or leap?
Those who stand still to serve,
Curled and coiled in a heap?
Those who bury themselves
In the dark and the deep?
And what of the army, the parcel, the pod?
Are troops, gulps, and colonies led by their God? Will He watch over regiments, towers, and arrays? Does that watch include every swarm, gam, and gaze? Will He defend dazzle, and gaggle, and mob?
Are shoals, beds, and schools also part of His job? Lamentations and murders and fluthers and bands Also long for the touch of His kind, loving hands. And what of those beings who travel apart?
Does He save space for them inside of His heart? We aren’t all lambs, promised entry to Zion;
Is it Eden or Zoo for lynx, fox, wolf, and lion?
I'm off by myself, or else with a pack.
My Lord, will You run with me, guarding my back? My Father, my Brother, my Comrade, my Friend? My Alpha, my Ally, right up to the end?
Jack Schwarz
Columbus, Ohio, U.S.A.
Inspired by “How to Be a Poet” by Wendell Berry (103) and “When I Am Among the Trees”
by Mary Oliver (44).
32


Lost, Aiming Towards Fluent
All water comes from one source. Water is never lost though I appear to be.
I did not choose to flow downstream from the source; I just followed my family. Fast and fluent, thin tributaries flow and flood into each other
create larger movement, broad and deep, swift and wide—never still—
I struggle to hold still, listen to the world breathe around me
I can run the river from the ocean, moving upstream
against the current, pausing in black pools under fallen trees, resting, recalling where I am.
I choose smaller, slower water; shallow riffles
between deep pools and near-bank eddies, until I enter
that ephemeral stream where a seep between rock and clay emerges and my spirit knows home.
but
I’m not sure it matters which way my river runs for to live fluent and free, like a river flows enigmatic, transformative, in motion
is what this journey is about
Pamela Devereaux Wilson
Living in the Luckimute Watershed near Corvallis, Oregon, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Fluent” by John O'Donohue (82) and “Lost” by David Wagoner (49).
33


Autobiography of a Leaf
By A. Leaf, as told to Ron Stone
I cannot remember just how I got here.
it’s as if I awoke being fed through this stem growing out of my tree. I remember facing the sun, knowing it was nourishing me.
It was springtime, and I was small,
“no bigger than a squirrel’s ear,”
I heard a farmer say.
Tender, supple, a bright yellow-green,
I danced in the wind with my kin.
This world was designed just for me it seemed. Every step life has made ends up here.
The water I drink first made its way to the sea,
then took flight in a cloud to come nourish me.
In summer animals, four-legged and two-,
stopped and sat in the shade I and others had made. That’s how I met you: you looked up and I waved.
Now the days have grown short and I have grown cold.
I hunger and thirst, and my green hue is gone,
leaving a long-hidden red. You say it looks lively
but to me it feels dead or how I would think dead might feel. My grip on my tree of life grows weak.
Some around me have had to let go.
They lie there beneath us, under your feet.
You tell me that we will all decay and turn into next year’s leaves; thus life will go on. If this is true then it would appear
the world was designed, not for me or for you, but for life.
Ron Stone
West Linn, Oregon, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Learning from Trees” by Grace Butcher (124), and “When I Am Among the Trees”
by Mary Oliver (44).
34


The Glory of Change
Annette Langlois Grunseth
Green Bay, Wisconsin, U.S.A. Inspired by “Twilight” by Louise Glück (143).
35


This Very Night
When tired, rest.
Let muscles fall lax and thankful for good work.
Before sleep, remember.
Think of all those who made possible your good day.
In dream, thank them.
Send warm hugs and soft kisses, if you like.
Asleep, allow blessings. Like sweet twinkling stars, they lighten the dark.
Before waking,
roam eons and planets, your cosmic self humming.
When you awake,
praise Earth’s wide open new day. Be glad for life.
Elizabeth Bodien
Kempton, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
elizabethbodien.com
Inspired by “When Hungry, Eat” by Phyllis Cole-Dai (a found poem given to new subscribers of the
Poetry of Presence mailing list).
36


Untitled
One of the most beautiful and inspiring phrases in “Blackbirds” comes directly from the words of St. Paul, found in Acts 17:28—“we live and move and have our being.” So it seemed fitting to discover that poet Julie Cadwallader Staub, born in Minneapolis and now residing in Vermont, earned a degree in religious studies in 1979 from Earlham, a Quaker college in Indiana. A visit to her website confirms that incarnational spirituality permeates her work; her poems celebrate a natural world infused with divine mystery and goodness.
“Blackbirds” uses the single image of a flock of birds in flight to create a moment of epiphany—to arrive at a vision of hope for human solidarity. The first stanza speaks to the reader directly and simply; by starting with “I am,” Staub draws us into relationship with herself and with the experience she is about to relate. The “new sound,” “a rustling, ruffling quietness,” stills the ordinary background noise of daily life and prepares us for transcendence.
Then the second stanza astonishes: “a curve I didn’t know was there,” “all those wings,” “against gravity,” “a beautiful winning,” “one body and one mind.” The description is so vivid, so clear in the reader’s mind that it has the power to evoke a spiritual truth through what is natural and real to the senses, just as our sacraments are intended to do.
The use of the single, stand-alone line next—“How do they do that?” marks a turning point in the poem. It is a question that demands not an answer, but a full encounter with the sacred. In the marvelous abilities of Earth’s creatures, the Creator is revealed.
The human society of the following stanza contrasts sharply, painfully with the beauty and wonder that precedes it. Interestingly, when Staub revised “Blackbirds” (first published in 2009) for inclusion in a 2017 edition of Poetry of Presence, the two harshest lines in that stanza—“with its cruelty and fear/its apathy and exhaustion”—were cut from the poem. To me this decision suggests a turn toward mercy and compassion, even for the most benighted of God’s creatures (that would be us!).
“But instead...” Staub adds a new line to the 2017 version: “that is not our own” further qualifies “this curving and soaring world.” Thus rather than focusing on the negative aspects of our “puny existence,” we recognize our place in the community of creation. This is where “we live and move and have our being.” One more deletion marks the 2017 version of “Blackbirds”: “every now and then” no longer limits the times “when mercy and tenderness triumph.” Again the poet seems to be striving to move beyond a limited view of human potential toward the conclusion she reaches in the last line: “ah yes, this is how it’s meant to be.” “Blackbirds” proclaims the Resurrection message “in the spring air”: we are redeemed to “move together/ toward a common good.”
Michelle Dugan
Upper Darby, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
Inspired by “Blackbirds” by Julie Cadwallader Staub (50).
37


I Was With Everything
I was with everything that was quiet this early, late October morning .. until it wasn’t. And yet what entered the still places was so gentle.
The rain falling on the river .. so soft, so few .. I could count the circle droplets.
Each one felt like a smile .. a kiss .. a kindness.
I was with everything that was sleeping .. until it wasn’t.
Like the fish turning, breaking the water .. there was no jumping, leaping
this dark, still morning .. only turning. This gentleness, so welcoming .. my soul soft .. open.
Lights on, one at a time on the other side of the channel .. this quiet, dark, slow moving, waking river.
And then the waking ones were walking .. waking, each on the way in their own way.
I was with everything that was dark, until there was light, and that came easy too and in its time. There was no breaking of the day .. this too felt like being welcomed, received, embraced .. held.
It is good to be a witness. To be with all of these endings and beginnings, this becoming morning. I am happy .. being with this river, this quiet .. waking October morning.
.parker..
Portland, Oregon, U.S.A.
Inspired by “How to Be a Poet” by Wendell Berry (103), “Testimony” by Rebecca Baggett (67), “Getting Up
Early” by Anne Porter (66), “This Morning” by David Budbill (57) and “The Quiet Listeners” by Laura Foley (48).
38


The Beach Road
This morning
Before the sun
Breathed in the moist ocean air
Before the sky
Changed her grays to blues
Before the joggers jogged
And the dog walkers walked
Before the tiny cottage windows
Were lit with light
A lone deer and I
Traveled the quiet beach road
Together
Each of us in our own lane
With her long lean legs
She matched her pace with mine
With my four round wheels
I matched my pace with hers
We gazed at each other
With curiosity
Until she turned left
Through the grasses towards the pond And I continued my long journey north For a play date with my granddaughter Maybe next Wednesday
We will meet again
Joanna Zarkadas
Plymouth, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
Inspired by “A Brief Détente” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer (74).
39


40
Fogbow, Hidden Wholeness
Lydia B. Goetze
Southwest Harbor, Maine, U.S.A. Inspired by “Fog” by Twyla M. Hansen (179).