The Albuquerque Prompt Group

Issue 20

collage by Janet Ruth

Homage to W.S. Merwin: Glosa in Six Voices
Based on “The Solstice”

 

i.

They say the sun will come back
at midnight
after all
my one love

The ancients knew
and we can tell
from old ruins that
they say the sun will come back

I say
the sun is mine
even
at midnight

doesn’t it shine
when our backs are turned
when the moon takes the sky
after all

we depend on its light
flinging power
for me for all and for
my one love

ii.

but we know how the minutes
fly out into
the dark trees
and vanish

palms
how incongruous
beach movie palms
travel poster palms
he from Princeton
from the harsh Northeast
fond of living in France
yet love makes its own matches
he spent years growing palms
but we know how the minutes

effervesce in air
how after a certain age
a month is gone in a child’s afternoon
sleep is seeded with lists
unfinished work and old regrets
his heart polishes phrases
while his mind tumbles
seed lists and planting schedules
they divert him
fly out into

the tropic afternoon
palm fronds louver sunlight
ocean clouds promise night rain
damaged acres await
take shovel and wheelbarrow
tall boots and gloves
work until
love calls dinner
as the sun scrolls down beyond
the dark trees

his endangered palm trees
shadow-makers at midday
keepers of symbol and magic
dark lace whispering
against high blue
work through back pain
make do with stiff fingers
as another afternoon whirls by
as the scarce sweet hours arrive
and vanish

iii.

like the great ohias and honey creepers
and we know how the weeks
walk into the
shadows at midday

all the serpents great and small
snakes basking on sun-drenched stones
at mid-day in high desert June
while piñon and chamisas persist
in their own country
like the great ohias and honey creepers

in their land of rain and fog
but here the seeds and spores
can lie dormant for years
waiting for sufficient snow and rain
a bountiful season
and we know how the weeks

months years go by
without publication
or any sort of demonstrable garden
though the daily work goes on
until the acequia flows the farmers
walk into the

verdant fields
mice grow fat on corn
snakes grow fat on mice
hawks fat on snakes
and bobcats seek the solace of
shadows at midday

iv.

at the thought of the months I reach for your hand
it is not something
one is supposed
to say

as one who anticipates the worst
I should have been thrilled
in an unsatisfying way I was
right but you were gone
I don’t know where nor do I ask
during the night I mistake the cat
and her movements through the house for you
one of your nocturnal trips to the bathroom
I flip to your side of the bed and check
at the thought of the months I reach for your hand

I reach for your hand
as if space were something we could carve out of air
and portion out in parcels
like love
we were never the type to expect much
and now and now
I’m happy for you
in whatever state you are
I guess I’m content as well
it is not something

something
about counting the daffodils each spring
so yellow they almost hurt
I no longer remember how many bulbs you planted
other plants are long gone
I’ve adopted a grow-or-it-goes attitude
never your approach
I muddle through my many lapses
one mistake
one is supposed

one
it’s kind of a lovely number
less dismal than zero
whiptail lizards flourish
without the need for a partner
besides you left me the cat
who spreads herself out like the bed is hers
time was we could finish each other’s sentences
it’s not sorry but love that is hard
to say

v.

we watch the bright birds in the morning
we hope for the quiet
daytime together
the year turns into air

winter nights are dying
cold dark hours filled with brittle stars
balanced on a knife’s edge
we teeter on the precipice
look backward forward
between darkness and light
between anger and forgiveness
we watch the bright birds in the morning

as light begins its climb
above mountain peaks beginning
the reign of warm days
lit by that close-burning star
we leap from edge of gleaming blade
into a hot and howling wind
that blows us clean
we hope for the quiet

after the scouring sirocco sweeps past
leaving us raw but purified
wind fans embers
we shelter in the dark
scours to germination
the seed of change we plant in the sand
anticipating that we will share
daytime together

do not forget darkness or sharpness
send down roots in search of water
push up green tendrils in search of light
new season from old from brokenness
stardust and bright feathers grind potsherds
mix with water knead and pull up new vessels
earth tilts toward the sun
the year turns into air

vi.

but we are together in the whole night
with the sun still going away
and the year
coming back

I dream of humpback whales
a mother nurturing her calf
as killer whales chase
a threat
to us when apart
but we are together in the whole night

my dream collapses
under splendid sun of day
until cirrus clouds cover
and darken the sky like night
my dream repeats
with the sun still going away

in my new dream
of laden clouds you leave
never to return
I rumble in my sleep
wake to find you near
and the year

approaches a turn
from dark to light
sun rays spoke in a wheel
Orion changes position
a full night sky
coming back

 

-Deborah Coy (i), Faith Kaltenbach (ii), John Roche (iii),
Scott Wiggerman (iv), Janet Ruth (v), Gayle Lauradunn (vi)


Source & Method

The poem is a Glosa, each part composed by a different member of the Albuquerque Prompt Group, using a stanza from Merwin’s “The Solstice,” (Merwin’s words in italics). The associated collage was created by Janet Ruth from phrases and images in the poem.

The Albuquerque Prompt Group is a collective of six poets who meet twice a month to write to a poetry prompt, followed by a group critique. ‘Homage to W.S. Merwin’ is their first collaborative poem in three years of existence as a group.


 

Janet Ruth

Issue 17

VARIOUS FORMS OF HAPPINESS

 

click for larger version


Source & Method

This is an erasure poem from two pages in Annie Dillard’s book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Chapter 2 – “Seeing.” The artwork (pen-and-ink) is my own.


Janet Ruth is an emeritus research ornithologist, living in New Mexico. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. Her first book, Feathered Dreams: Celebrating Birds in Poems, Stories & Images, is a finalist for the 2018 New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards.

 

Janet Ruth

Issue 16

THE FLOWER OF HER AMAZEMENT

—A cento in homage to Mary Oliver
using 45 lines from 45 of her poems in Devotions

The witchery of living
 ……. is my whole conversation with you, my darlings,
though time is draining from the clock.
The world has fallen out of reason.
These are the hours with the old wooden-god faces.

Be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world,
the sun rose up like a pot of blood.
Put your lips to the world. And live your life.
Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it,
standing around as though with your arms open.

There is only one question; how to love this world.
This is a poem about the world that is ours, or could be,
the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
Nothing’s important except that the great and cruel mystery
 ……. of the world,  of which this is a part, not be denied.

Just pay attention, then patch a few words together.
You don’t ever know where a sentence will take you,
the pencil haltingly calling up the light of the world—
scalding, aortal light—in which we are washed
 ……. and washed out of our bones.

I don’t know exactly what prayer is.
Maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world in the clasp
 ……. of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer, but it must be close.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles
like a woman who is balancing a sword inside her body.

Sometimes I need only stand wherever I am and be blessed.
Holiness is visible, entirely.
Said the river: I am part of holiness.
I lay on the grass listening
 …….to his dog voice, crow voice, frog voice.

I tell you this to break your heart.
The world is full of leaves and feathers,
 ……. and comfort, and instruction,
All were shriven, as all the round world is.
It tastes like stone, leaves, fire.

I was made of leaves,
the reckless blossoms of weeds,
old twist of feathers and birch bark.
The glittering pandemonium leaned on me.
I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.

Do you love this world?
Have you changed your life?
Who will chide you if you wander away
 ……. from wherever you are, to look for your soul,
when those white wings touch the shore?

Imagination is better than a sharp instrument,
looked at me with his gravel eyes,
He has a gift for you, but it has no name.
Joy is not made to be a crumb—
still ready, beyond all else, to dance for the world.

As long as you are dancing, you can break the rules.


Janet Ruth is an emeritus research ornithologist, living in New Mexico. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. Her first book, Feathered Dreams: Celebrating Birds in Poems, Stories & Images, is a finalist for the 2018 New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards.


 Photo by Ahmad Odeh