How discretely she arranges
her porcelain figurines
in 18th century skirts; with cheeks
like amorous tangerines.
What if, between their thighs, beneath
the lace and filigree
there were sculpted just a touch
of incivility?
But let's discuss the weather.
The crumpets are divine.
She says: 'I baked them just this morning.
The recipe is mine.'
'I wonder if I could,' I say,
'if I were short of yeast
or flour— Could I skimp a little?
Would it matter in the least?'
'On no, my dear, leave out no detail!
The recipe's exact.
I'll know if there's been skimping but,
as mother always said—"Tact."'
Recipes | March 2nd 2023 by Me
I’m currently working on a separate poem and this one snuck its way in. Enjoy.
I thought that “the final hymn” would be the last hymn I would write for North of Autumn, but it wasn’t five minutes after I posted the hymn that the current poem began to write itself out of my imagination. I call it Ellie’s Hymn because Ellie is Zoē’s deceased mother and the author of the hymns that appear in the book. These are the final words of the book and are as much a farewell to the reader.
I know better than to say:
Give no thought to when.
There’s nothing to wish the ache away
But that we’ll meet again.
Give to the intervening hours
As much as absence takes
But nothing more—our love is ours;
And the bonds affection makes.
To you alone the keys
Who, friend and lover, part;
To you the secret codices
And chambers of my heart.
Ellie's Hymn from North of Autumn
Sorry I’ve been away. Between trying to lace up all the jobs delayed over the summer and finishing the novel, North of Autumn, I haven’t felt much like taking the time to write a post. This last hymn in the novel took me quite a bit longer to write than the others. And maybe not longer, but I never felt myself in the right creative space. There is no S-Bahn or U-Bahn to ride in middle Vermont. I can’t explain it, but European public transportation really makes me a happy and productive poet. The good news is that I’m within pages of finishing my second novel. I’m winding down my carpentry now and will be spending still more time writing. I’m already planning my next poems and am eager to start my next novel.
I’ve seen them sometimes out alone,
Out walking roads too late
For any business but their own—
Lost to what they contemplate.
I’ve seen as they have seen: the grim,
The few remaining rags
Of autumn strung from the black limb,
How every hour lags.
I too, without a place to go
And nothing to my name,
Have wandered through the rain and snow
And would have said the same:
There’s only guessing at what may
Or may not come tomorrow,
But I have seen enough today
To know the taste of sorrow.
by me,
October 29th 2022
I’m back in Vermont today. One thing I don’t miss about city life is the noise. Most of Berlin’s streets are off the main arteries and offer truly beautiful neighborhoods, villages within the city with streets shaded by trees, full of cafés and singing birds. The birds will almost perch on your plate if you let them. And these streets can be right around the corner from major thoroughfares like the Kudamm or Karl-Marx-Allee and you’d never guess it, but walking along any of the main arteries is real punishment for the ears—the tire noise of automobiles and the furious snarl of trucks. You would think that a car or truck’s exhaust system or engine would be the main producers of noise but they’re not—not remotely. The single most problematic noise is tire noise and the decibel level of that noise is dramatic even at lower speeds. Tires are largely what make city streets loud and it’s predominantly harmful to ones hearing.
Traveling on the trains, the S-Bahn and U-Bahn, isn’t any better.
The newest S-Bahn is a drastic improvement, quiet as a cathedral, but I only rode one of these. The rest of the above and below ground trains are god-awful. They have no air-conditioning and so Berliners open the windows and by the time the trains have screeched their way through curving tracks, metal grinding against metal, and traveling through the angry echo chambers of the tunnels, it will be a wonder if all Berliners aren’t deaf by their fifties. Between the busier streets and the public transportation the assault on hearing is non-stop. I’m particularly bothered by it having tinnitus. I remember stepping into the underground parking garage beneath the flat where we stayed and thinking I wanted to live there. There was no noise. It was pure silence. Most of Europe has really got to get it’s car-centric cities under control.
The field out back of my house, deep in Vermont, was blissful with the sound of crickets and tree frogs. The air was moist and August-sweet.
Anyway, I wrote this latest on the flight back, 37,000 feet on Aer Lingus.
What has the snake to do with malice
Who never once harmed me?
She takes my garden for her palace
And grants me tenancy.
She wears a robe from tongue to tail
That glitters in the sun—
A turquoise rippling through the swale
Surveying what I've done.
I think that if she could she'd choose
To demonstrate her wit.
She'd have me read to her the news
And let the weeding sit.
But then again perhaps snakes know
Where all our monsters dwell—
The gardens where our foibles grow
(She knows them all too well).
But I don't mean to be untoward
(We're both the other's guest).
If nothing else then going forward,
Let each by each be blessed.
Hymn #17 The Garden
by me
August 17th 2022
Because I still sketch all my poetry by hand in sketchbooks. This was written while visiting the Botanical Garden. Written for the book but also a touch personal.
Forgive me if I'm worse for wear. There's nothing I've to show For writing poetry here and there. I should take care, I know— The ant instructs us patiently— The winter will be long— But where would summer's evenings be Without the cricket's song?
Just a reminder for anyone new to the blog. These poems are being written for a novel I’m writing (or at least will get back to once I’m back in Vermont) called North Of Autumn. (I’ll be back this coming Thursday). The poems are those of a deceased character who read and loved Emily Dickinson. The poem that follows is possibly the most “Dickinsonian” of them. I thought up this one while biking the Mauerweg, a bicycle path that follows where the Wall used to be. It’s mostly a paved and beautiful path. In just the roughly thirty years since the wall, towers, and mine fields were removed, a forest has grown up; but the most startling strangeness is the transition from former West Berlin to former East Germany.
The West Berliners developed right up to the Wall when it was still standing, while the East Germans deliberately left their side undeveloped, the farms and fields untouched. Now that the Wall is gone, the effect is surreal. Going south, the city just stops. It doesn’t gradually peter out. It just stops. There aren’t even roads. Just dirt footpaths. If you’re biking East, and if you look to your left, there will be houses and apartment buildings, roads, buses, playgrounds, etc. If you look to your right, there’s nothing but flat fields and trees as far as the eye can see. You would think you were somewhere deep in Germany’s farm lands. The fields would never last in the US. There would be stroads and strip malls in no time. I can’t help hoping this little piece of Berlin surreality remains unchanged.
The seasons do not tabulate The yearly gross and net, And neither do they contemplate What quotas go unmet.
The endless inefficiencies Give reason to be worried (There's no escaping winter's fees) Yet dreams will not be hurried.
The dreary mind cannot affirm What nature testifies— The paltry labor of the worm Becoming butterflies.
This was largely written on the M10 Straßenbahn and the 200 bus going to the Zoologischer Garten; and was, believe it or not, inspired by a woman actually sitting next to me at a café who was discussing French fashion (though in German). The words in Italic are pronounced the way the French would pronounce them (read with the meter), otherwise the rhymes and meter are a mess.
There sat a woman next to me Who praised Paris and Haute Couture! How fashionable—Mais oui!— Their personages of note.
I almost butted in to say We have our 'noted' too Sometimes they visit the café Doing what they do—
The firefly's unmatched attire, Radiantly on trend, Ensembles few to none acquire (I tell you as a friend);
Regard the swank and rakish crow, The black accoutrement— The perfect compliment to snow Too timeless not to flaunt;
As well I hardly need explain The glamor of September, The catwalk of an Autumn lane, The season's boho splendor—
The chic sangfroid of Maple trees (Decidedly iconic). But rest assured, my dear (do please!), I drank my gin and tonic.
The U2 must like me. I wrote this poem in one sitting, getting on the U-Bahn at Schönhauser Allee and getting out at Sophie-Charlotte-Platz. That doesn’t happen very often, but I can see how Emily Dickinson wrote so many poems in so short a time. The ballad hymns almost write themselves. The short lines, 8s and 6s, don’t give much scope for over-thinking, especially if one rhymes. One goes where the rhymes lead. The trick is to make them seem wholly coincidental—as if the poet had no idea, none at all, that the poem was rhyming. And if the reader doesn’t notice, all the better.
I otherwise would hardly write (These poems are hit or miss) But here I sit, alone tonight, Still thinking of your kiss.
Just so you know, a storm came through; The garden is a mess. You ought to see the honeydew. They're floating more or less.
The mellons drift from row to row, And peas are here and there. Don't bother asking if I know Which vegetables are where.
But I can tell you either way The mellons are delicious, The flesh— so cool, so sweet. To say Much more would be seditious.
I washed the dirt from some tomatoes; Diced and tossed them in With several waterlogged potatoes— (The soup's a little thin).
The weather teaches us, I guess, What is and isn't ours— But have I mentioned, nonetheless, How beautiful the stars?
Thursday's Letter Written on the U2 on August 31 by Me
I’ve extended my stay in Berlin until the middle of August. The weather in the poem was inspired by weather, not in Berlin, but back home in Vermont. Something like a small tornado or wind sheer came through and dropped trees across roads, on top of cars and rooftops. That got me thinking about the garden and raspberries in our backyard.
I’m writing this on my smartphone—a new trick for me. Not sure what it’s going to look like when I publish it. I’m in Berlin again. My father died earlier in the month. I knew he was in poor health and had hoped to see him before he died. In the meantime, my daughter has taken up temporary employment with Germany’s NASA—the Deutsches Zentrum für Luft and Raumfahrt, or DLR for short. Also in Berlin. So here I am. I haven’t had time or the place to continue writing North of Autumn. I have had time to continue working on the poems. I just finished this one while riding the U2, the U-Bahn line between Ruhleben and Pankow, stopping at Sophie-Charlotte-Platz.
Whatever rakes the attic floor, There won't be any ghost; And if there's scratching at your door, A gust of leaves at most.
Though I may whisper my good-byes, Who hears the Thrush's song, Who's seen which way the Raven flies Will never stay for long.
I'll have crossed the fresh-laid snow And left no trace behind; The summers that I used to know Will since have slipped my mind.
P.S.
Life is itself enough to scare The living half to death, No need for supernatural fare To steal away our breath.
Finished on the U2 July 28th 2022 by Me
The hymn steals lines from a sonnet I wrote many years ago but was never satisfied with. I don’t think I ever posted or otherwise published it. Also, a little something from Berlin:
PoemShape 