Güd wrtr

I will always love you
in the shelter of my mind
on the edges of a meadow
where the sun shines all the time

—”Meadow: from The Book of Rounds,”
Emil Adler and Ryan Heller with The Austin Chamber Ensemble

•••

There you are,
on the edge of a meadow,
in the shelter of my mind,
knee deep in a gentle stream,

lanky you and the reedy fly rod
lazily laying the line gently
on the surface, the faux caddis fly
tempting, you hope, a trout.

But it does not matter if you
catch a fish; you will briefly admire it
and release it anyway.

Catching is not the point of fishing,
you taught me.

The point is to be so completely
and utterly yourself, you could
not be anything, anywhere else,

as you are forever in me.

•••

(in memory of Clifford Ernest Polland, born this day in 1952)

It’s a garret, I tell people—really just
an upstairs studio in a former auto
body shop-turned-arts-center where

people come to write with me, a space
I thankfully inherited, sweetly outfitted
with bookshelves, long tables and

red chairs, even the paisley tablecloth
on the snack table. Move-in ready,
as they say. And oh, the writers who

have sat in the red chairs and written
their art out, me offering poems
and prompts, the shelves littered with

inspiration—cubes with words for
rolling, old keys for holding, a panel of
century-old mother-of-pearl buttons

sewn on velvet for touching, for dreaming.
But this is, more than less, a dusty attic,
So, before summer heats it up too

unbearably, I hustle the Shop-Vac up
the dozen stairs and set to sucking up
the schmutz, taking up broom and mop,

rags to wipe down horizontal surfaces,
whisking tablecloth and curtains into
bundles bound for the washer at home—

along with the fleece blankets we sit on
or wrap around our laps during the cold
months. I finger through dozens of

nametags standing upright in the red box
bearing the handwriting of so many
who’ve come to write with me, some who

will never again lift a pen or poise fingers
over a keyboard. I set their nametags
on the highest shelf, along with memories

of the one whose 1899 dictionary lives on
the revolving stand by the window, as well
as the one who created the process we use

to reflect on what we like, what stays with us,
what is strong about brand new writing that’s
flowed from them around the tables.

Thanks, Heide and Carolyn, I say. Thank you,
Sherri and Dolores. And Pat, our belle
of Amherst, who pops into every session

from her spot in the firmament, I see you
in a corner crouched over your yellow legal
pad, your pen vigorously writing, me wishing

to hear you read one more brilliant time.

•••

With thanks to Katie McCleary for finding the loft where she founded 916 Ink young writers and later passing on the space on to me. Much gratitude to Pat Schneider, who created the Amherst Writers & Artists method and founded the nonprofit organization that serves writers around the world. And to our other writers no longer on the planet, may you all be gathered around a table somewhere in the mystery, writing with others. We have not forgotten you.

Every week I usually forget most of the basics:
a) you are loved. b) life is absurd. c) it’s hard to be a human.

—Kate Bowler

•••

Why is this so difficult to etch
into your consciousness? Because
you find it hard to believe that

You are loved simply because
you are? For no good reason?
Yes, indeedy, nutty as it sounds,

You are loved (always and
forever, and well worth
repeating, the love).

And given one ridiculous act
after another, well, yes,
life is absurd. It helps if you

can shake your head in
amazement and chuckle
a little, rather than mire

yourself in misery. And
sure, it’s hard to be human.
We are big, doofus-y,

two-footed creatures who
forget the basics, who think
it’s all about us, when, really,

it’s best to step outside more
than we do and notice the slant
of light coming into your

wee part of the world.
That’s your light, dear human
beloved on this earth,

yours to share and shine into
this wacky, absurd, sometimes
painful, precious life,

yours to notice and, in those
moments when you remember,
to cherish as long as breath

and so much more is yours.

•••

With thanks to Kate Bowler for the inspiration.

I thought it might be helpful for You
to have some information about me.
Written down, you know? On paper?

Of course, You know everything.
Work history, educational path,
all the skills and references—
though those don’t mean spit
anymore. Like the paper, which,
as You well know, is dinosauring
its way out of existence. Like fossil
fuels, come to think of it.

But I have to tell You, I’m
surprised by Your big question:

How well did you love?

You mean how I grew my soul
and tried to fix the broken places
in my karma?

Or maybe how I served others—
so much of that existence spent
doing unto and for others?
(Do animal rescues/placements
in good homes, some of them
mine, count?)

Listen:

I gave it my all to be a light
and do my bit to heal humanity.
I got lucky to get paid to stand
in front a lot of students and try
to teach them stuff. I was a big
rah-rah for writers, edited them,
published them. Wrote a lot, too,
interviewed folks, put their stories
into the world, mostly on flimsy
paper.

Wrote a bunch of not-so-hot poems.
Had fun doing it. (Poetry counts,
doesn’t it? Even the lousy ones
should count for major heart work.)

I think I accomplished most of the tasks
I didn’t know I set out for myself
in that lifetime, but…

How well did you love?

To quote another lady poet—
a really good one—I loved
to the depth and breadth
and height my soul could reach,
though it took some doing
with some people.

You know who I mean.

I loved heart-on-my-sleeve
imperfectly, as many, many others
loved me, some romantically,
many more friendshiply, and
I’m beyond grateful to them,
though there are more than
a few who deserve apologies,
no doubt.

Tell you what:

I’m pretty sure I lived and grew
in love, and that—I often theorized
when I drew breath—was the reason
You poofed us into existence,
gave us bodies and a lifetime
in which to use them.

Was I right?

If not, oh, what I’d give to do
it all over again, once more
with feeling and my thanks for
sending me into this experiment
in humanity.

Really, truly. Cross my heart
and hope to… Well, You know.

Best lifetime ever.
Amen.

The unfilled air space, the interval,
the gap in the vascular tissue of
a stem through which a leaf grows,
unseen to our wondering eyes—
the lacuna—

air space in the cellular tissue
of plants like the ones
presently flourishing
overhead in such
abundance.

Seemingly thousands
of leaves have sprouted
so quickly that we strain
to envision the skeletal trees
of winter,

now fluffed out like
green sheep up there,
grazing on spring air,
bouncing around
happily,

tightly bunched foliage
closing the gaps so
that only pinpricks
of space remain
unfilled,

showering us with
winking diamonds,
sun sparkles that
catch the eye of those
gazing upward,
amazed.

(for Billy Collins, author of the poem,
“Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes,”
on the 138th anniversary of her death,
May 15, 1886 )

You will want to know
that she said yes every time,
that she undressed him, too—
no shy maid, that one—
that, no matter how much he
wished it wasn’t so,
she undid him in ways
his poet’s pen could not record,
and she gave her hope and passion
not only to the page—
as has long been thought.

Should you go to Amherst,
take the tour of her yellow house,
wide-eyed with its green shutters.
Listen to a doe-eyed docent
relate anecdotes of the petite
recluse who penned poems
on scraps of paper and stuck them
in the voluminous pockets
of her demure white dress.

Stand in her bedroom aerie
where, after she died, her sister
did as the poet asked—burned the letters—
but for some reason spared the poems.

Take in the tiny bed and imagine
him there with her—
their twin souls all sighs and dashes—
singing the tunes without the words—
never stopping at all.

•••

“Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes,” Billy Collins
Poetry magazine, February 1998

(for Georgann)

You got me in the chair the first time,
my feet marinating in a small pond
of warm, swirling water.

This is gonna change your life,
you assured me.

Painted toenails? I wondered.

The from-the-knees-down massage,
you said, and yes, polka dot toes.

Sometimes I go solo
as a woman named Mandy
scrubs my calloused feet baby fine,

her back curled into a comma
over my lower limbs as I give
thanks for her strong hands

kneading my calves into
submission. Told ya, you
whisper from your spot

in the firmament, as the big
chair’s magic fingers work
their way up my spine.

Mandy’s apron reads,
“I can’t change the world,
but I can change your nails.”

She does far more than that,
her sure hands polka dotting
my toes a warm bubble gum pink,

which you would admire, though
you’d choose something bolder
for yours—maybe Big Apple red—

both of us wiggling our tootsies
after women like Mandy set us
firmly back on our cleaned feet,

our worlds brightened, if not
changed, by such a professional
paint job, such kind attention

delivered with a wisp of color.

(for Don DeVorss)

The man with the donated heart that
powers him in his second life tells me,

Succulents are survivors,
and I say, Like you.

And he grins, the once-upon-a-time
boy who rode the same bus as I

to our rural elementary school,
the one who played basketball

at our high school as I directed
the pep band at home games,

the two of us separated for decades,
friends again in our late years.

The man with the donated heart
nurtures succulents at home,

has worked with plants all his
adult life, who, like the tender

growing things he tends, is
a powerful survivor. He gives me

three precious specimens in
gorgeous pots—each an exquisite

living sculpture—and I drive them
home as if I have infants in the car,

aware of their fragile beauty, their
inherent toughness I cannot see,

grateful for the gift of trust from
the man who carries the beating

heart of another in his strong body,
one that matches his generous soul.

•••

With thanks to Don and Julie DeVorss for the gift of the lovely succulents!

is that none of this has been inflicted
upon you so that you’ll learn a lesson

or grow a tougher skin or somehow
become a better human. In fact, if it’d

been up to us, we’d have paved
your path with roses (or whatever

sweet-smelling thing catches
your fancy) and walked with you,

holding your hand when it wanted
holding. All that bad stuff, we didn’t

want to see any of it happen—the
terrible bosses, the loves unrequited

or just plain gone wrong, the P.E.
teacher who failed you because you

couldn’t catch or hit a ball. Or far worse.
We ached for your hurt little heart.

We really did. And all we could do
was send love your way in a form

that we thought you might receive
it—puppy kisses from the family

beagle, someone offering you
a listen, maybe even a hand to hold,

and again with the perky flowers.
We know that you missed a lot

of what we hoped you’d see or
hear or feel—so much birdsong,

the surprise of a kind smile when
you didn’t expect one. Bad stuff

happens in your world. You people
sicken and struggle and die.

We’re sorry about that. But look
at so many of you who offer each

other a kind word or a hug, a bit
of music or a painting that lifts you,

a cup of tea and a listen.
We didn’t create that. You did.

All of you marvelously flawed,
confused, complex humans.

You did that.

How often people tell me,
You’re so lucky to have your mom,
which crosses my mind on

Momdays when I pick her up
at the house by the lake in her car
since she no longer drives,

as I deposit her at various
appointments, run to the store,
back to her house, put away

the purchases, sit with her skittish
kitty who adores her and is leery
of most others, then fly back

to pick her up—for lunch, for
the next appointment, get the
car washed and deliver her home

where, as the season swings warm,
I’ll water the patio pots ripe with
green and blooming things, as my

sister does on her Momdays, and
so much more—bringing her new
grandson to see his great grandma.

“Yes, I am,” I tell people, so very
fortunate to return in some small
measure the carting around,

the feeding and caring she did
for my sister and me all our young
lives, the one who made us,

the one who taught me to drive,
who still gives directions about
where to turn, which I don’t mind

since so much has changed about
the place where she and our father
plopped us 58 years ago,

next to the lake where we skied,
where she still lives, where she
raised us lucky, lucky girls.