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The following is a working edition of a chapbook. The poems are dated as reminders to me about when they occurred. Expect changes as I edit. I welcome your comments. Please let me know which poems you feel are strongest, and which don't hold a candle to the rest (and need to be extinguished.) Send comments to fairfieldreview at hpmd dot com (with a sneer to the SPAMers :) --egh, 20 Oct 12 20-Oct - First draft of poems written while commuting and traveling. Favorites --the ones I am currently attached to-- are:
_________________________________________________________________ Poems in Transit © Copyright 2012 E. G. Happ Nyon, CH 1260 All Rights Reserved ________________________________________________________________ Preface We met briefly after church one day and did what poets often do. We talked about our writing. He had a dry spell and I was writing poems on trains and buses, commuting to work in Geneva. He had just finished a long battle with the New York college where he teaches and was drained; I was looking for a change of jobs and the poetry was therapy. What would I call a book of poems written while commuting, images flying by the window, awaiting the station of noticing, where thoughts get on and off? "In transit" he said. Yes, that will do nicely, and we agreed that life was train and bus, inherently transitory. Poets can do that, speak in metaphors and cut to the heart. Here are the sheaf of poems --from October to October to October, as the leaves that fall from trees also remind us of the life that comes and goes-- that came to be, somewhere along the path from Nyon to Petit Saconnex, and back again. EGH October 2012 ________________________________________________________________ Journey He asks, how do you journey into a poem? do you pack for summer or winter? is there a sign-post or a map— perhaps a crossroad? will we be counting steps at night or driving in the rain? I like how this billboard appears out of nowhere with its jingle of endings— what's that about? we've had to slow down here, pull to the side of the page, while all these other words go racing by as he looks up at clouds sticking to the fingers of an ancient oak, she kisses his cheek, and says, come, take my hand. 22 Jan 12 Back to Top Autumn Sun Driving west on the Merritt in the late afternoon the sun washes everything to silhouette, the light dancing off bits of chrome and hatchback glass like a jeweler's torch; if it were not for the patch of trees between the Ridge Roads yielding the vision of the shaded, I would not see the burning maples waving me to exit here. 16 Oct 10 Morning Sun The bus slices through the morning sun as the houses and shops dice her hooded stare; cars still asleep in their blue-lined places wait silently fresh from the evening the frost on their windows glows silver backlit from gold that passes here. 29 Oct 10 Dusting For the first snow in the valley there is a dusting, an airbrush touch of winter, a dab of alpine blanc; everything hums the same bar in a morning etude, the rows of gamay vines are the strings, the pines a row of trumpets, winter cabbage timpanis, willows winds, even this silver frame that rings the train window is my companion, has caught a bit of the manna as if to hold it up to my mouth and whisper "eat" 26 Nov 10 Mums I remember his hands reaching under the ball of roots, finger nails ringed with the loose loam as he lifted the mellow mums from the hole he dug months ago. Now with frost looming in the morning forecast they need to be moved inside. This void in the earth where once there were leafy stalks reaching to the heavens calls out to me. This vessel of fertile ground where earthworms dangle and a few fallen leaves leave whispers in their wake sings a song that tugs at the roots of me, reminding me that just yesterday you boarded a plane for the east toward where the sun sets as I rise and ache to be with you. 29 Nov 10 La Neige The lights of the station are dodging through the flakes shifted from an unseen baker perhaps thinking of a baguette or boule... For now we are the cold table and thoughts of a warm oven giving rise to an aroma that would lift a soul through any storm are somewhere else, perhaps at the chocolatier about to drop a dollop of semi sweet truffle… I am reminded I have not yet eaten and the train is late 30 Nov 10 Riding Riding into an impressive sunset the western ear-lobes of the Alps cast in a yellow-pink glow, listening to the taps of a lingering sun, Mount Blanc tres blanc in the sights of a lingering sun; and all this day-after winter beauty is not as stunning as it would be if you were following the point of my finger, I the capture of your eyes, and the gush of wondering wind as we say together, "look!" 2 Dec 10 Bamboo At night the tall thin bamboo sway in the stifling breeze, waving me back to my room where the cool breath of AC fogging the glass perched on the bridge of my nose, taking me back to a cold eve on the other side of the world, just nights ago when the bamboo shivered stiffly in the blowing snow; and it is ever a wonder how something as simple as a gangly green stalk takes me back to somewhere else that I had forgotten or lost in the every-day, that now stands out and shakes me like an outstretched hand. 4 Dec 10 from KL A purple purse She tells me of the purple purse passed one-to-one at the offertory, something singular amidst familiar words— but hearing this, my mind wanders to silken altars and a hue that glistens even before I run my tongue across the pursed lips and feel you arch up in a gothic rise as you begin to sing the two-notes that begin the sacred journey that will ever be a mystery. 5 Dec 10 White bridge in a park where we are guests "...our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee" --St. Augustine, Confessions, Book 1, Chap 1 In the beauty of a foreign land a simple bridge of whitest cloud and an echo of a parasol above the two who have paused in their journey to look down to waters that flow from east to west; I am reminded that we are strangers here, aching to be home even as we rest in a familiar bed, an arch above what passes by-- and as we watch and wait a new home comes to us with a belonging that can only be the whitest gift, and our ache becomes the greatest joy. 12 Dec 10 Morning Poem I go through the door and there above the fountain raining light from a window a star of a hundred crinkled eyes watches me shrug my knapsack and fish for my gloves, pushing back against the grey morning and melting snow the music of the water gurgles in the stone white basin under a trickle of sun here on my street on my path at my door. 21 Dec 10 Morning Poem ii The sun slices the finger lake with a knife of burnished brass, as if to divide this from that like a fence or a closed mind that does not argue with itself, a peace that is fleeting and disturbed by waves that cut the calm as a storm or a dawning 5 Jan 11 Reflections The lights parade by quickly, a window at a time to the left, and slowly in the glass of the train door arcing back; so much depends on where you look; this lake-blue bag in the reflection from the strangers seat across the aisle is so luminous it must be holding stars 6 Jan 11 On the Train to Genève Vast tufts of fog are lifting from the lake, the morning sun climbing over the Alps; we hurtle through one then another: one town yawning in yellow, the next squinting in the mist; reading this morning a short bio of Doctorow, I wonder how the story will unfold, the headlights of this train lapping up the rails to Genève, and I, facing the rear, back to the wind seeing what already has gone by, am full of hope. 7 Jan 11 Music on the other side Two musicians are playing fervently on the tram, while I, standing on the platform, glass doors closed between us hear no sound save the whoosh of the cars behind me and the idling engines of those stopped like me at the light across the way. An old man with sunken cheeks stares emptily from the train-car, oblivious to the music that wraps him as a swaddling cloth. 7 Jan 11 Early Morning Before the light has spilled over the rooftops and through the frosted glass the crows are at a beginning or an ending-- it is hard to tell in this darkness that is passing, in this dawning that is knocking once more on the drum of my ear like a lamentation for the night, a calling for the sun. 12 Jan 11 Back to Top Occupied A news paper, coffee, pastry dunked, drawn cigarette, glowing phone— each has hands occupied, one after the other, waiting on the platform for the morning train 13 Jan 11 Missed Train Running across the street before the light permits, bounding up the stone stairs to the train whose doors have just closed, finger extended to the point of light that flashed green and then went out, the car lumbered slowly on while I like a dock swayed behind . 14 Jan 11 Montreux We leave before lunch under a round blue sky, jet trails crossing it as etchings in a crystal salad bowl; the trio of chimes on the regional to Brig announce the stops: Gland, Morges, Lausanne-- and then Montreux— down the steps after steps to the Lake where one after another photo continues the poem 15 Jan 11 Passing by The row of cars next to Trembley Park are covered in frost, each a shadow, dark in the slice of sun that wraps around them. 17 Jan 11 On the 3 bus, Geneva Lights left on Someone left the moon on last night; we stood at the bedroom window and marveled at how bright its fullness was, the clouds from the snow squalls lit up as linen under summer sun were its unwitting curtains; but now having pulled aside the kitchen drape before the coffee drips its morning melody, la lune stares from the other side of heaven and I hear my father say to turn it out before I leave the room. 21 Jan 11 Back to Top Wind The wind is whipping to the west with the fury of a front marching through without regard for who stands shivering in its wake; were it not for the blatant blue sky and sun pulling itself up over the clouds wrapped around the mountain, we would think this was a winter storm standing with our backs to the gusts we line up on the platform like crows upon the wire confused about why the trains are stalled upon the tracks below 21 Jan 11 Waiting for the Nyon –Geneva train Clarity of Night Even the lesser stars are out tonight-- those finer points that reveal themselves in the clarity of night-- "sleep on it" my friend imparts, it will be clear in the morning; and "put a pad and pencil next to the bed so you won't forget," having etched it with a stroke of midnight clear upon the bleach-white page; I think I'll stand out here in the cold buff of a January night and hold my fingers still in the ebony gloves that keep me from finding the edge of the page. 24 Jan 11 Commuting with Heaven in my Hand Sometimes the connections run together, the green light at the corner, the train pulling in as I step onto the platform and the bus waiting at its stop-- it flows as a current one into another and another and I in my inner-tube of pen and paper take it in as it comes, thankful for the rare moment of startling grace 26 Jan 11 Awakening I read that Merton died in the tub fixing the fan, electrocuted, as an experiment gone bad or a sentence; and yet doing the work of mystics, noting from where the window blows and to where it goes; as the splash of water I imagine when he fell into the final awakening that stops us cold. 31 Jan 11 "In 1968, at age 53, [Merton] died by electrocution when he attempted to adjust an electrical fan while stepping out of a shower. " --Dr. Mardy Things Seen Twice An early day frost on an early spring day is a tease, a "not yet"; the sun winks between still sleeping trees under a crisp blue sky, fog puffing from my mouth as I walk briskly by, taps me on the cheek and says: there are parallel universes: this one in which I walk and the other I imagine walks with me. 9 Feb 11 Back to Top Schedule The wall clock is learning to dance: one-two, one-two; the full moon trips through the low clouds over the lake, and the walk-light hobbles off and on— so much for the smooth passing of time; I feel its constant stutter as a hur-r-r-ry up there is work to do and it’s not what's tugging at my finger tips. 17 Feb 11 A Dose of Frost Frost on the railroad ties have a rhythm, a dose of cold at a time; I prefer those icy places in my life where upending is a step away interspersed with wild greens-- a chilled salad, if you will; and a rain forest or two, with lions and tigers and bears, oh my!-- even if poking up through grey rocks like crocuses on the hillside not yet lime 18 Feb 11 Waiting for the 8:50 train from Nyon Listening to the news from trees The chorus rises each day, new voices fresh from the south gather on still bare branches and sing with an excitement not heard for a season, becoming the great comma in our melting. 18 Feb 11 Morning Poem iii It is snowing lightly on this promenade of gray street lamps of threes, in front of shops not yet awake; a few passersby wrapped in scarves and woolen hats are not quite to where they are going; the snow dissolves before it touches the cobblestones that crunch under my steps, the salt and sand lingering from the last time; I think of these elements as I arrive at the next hotel and I want you to know the door opened as I reached for it. 1 Mar 11 Budapest, Hungary Morning Poem iv Four days before the bell of spring light rain barely makes opening the umbrella worth the extra hand; I wheel the luggage to the train and climb the short steps lugging and balancing bag and backpack and the canvas gardener's bag you packed with lunch and snacks; on any other winter day this would be a grey and gloomy ride, but there are things opening up on every side, and this field we just hurtled by glows with a fresh coat of green as if the artist were up all night broad brush in hand an endless bucket of verdant oils at his knees, highlighting with determined strokes what I would otherwise miss. 17 Mar 11 On the train to Zurich Back to Top Morning Poem v I am traveling past the vineyards, the pruned and twisted trunks still bare, belie the emerald grass that is out in front by days; and I remember walking with you along the gravel path among the rows of sycamore trees, trimmed to the shoulders before the winter frost, now at attention in wait for a sign that this yearning like a candelabra aches for the match; it could be a day in a summer twice before when I would wake to the tiny light hinting on my phone and I'd search as we did just yesterday for the tips of green among the black and white of letters on the page. 27 Mar 11 On the way to the airport, Geneva Low White Clouds They've gathered around the green mountain, a wisp of a necklace, like I remember near the western bay in February when the rains broke and the late light touched up the darker clouds that had moved on, and I take all this in from a train that lumbers east past lime-leafed trees and fields rowed with straggled vines of new antenna and I wonder whether all this verdant abundance sees the traveler whisking by. 29 Apr 11 Address book Seated on the roundabout bench with the tree shading the indoor perch, an old man leafs through an address book a page at a time, as if studying all the faces called up by the names and numbers written there-- some in blue, some black, some grey with smudges where some digits were erased and the new penciled in. And I am in the traffic eddying around his island clump of stones, passing before his eyes and behind his shoulders arced over his hand that has paused. 3 May 11 Back to Top Morning Prayer Silent in the last seat on the train, alone in a two by two, sits a priest or pastor--we cannot tell; and he is staring into nothing, with a set and dour expression devoid of joy, nary a whistle, not even the motion of an eye. Perhaps he is in prayer, or pain; we cannot tell, perhaps should not tell; and yet how the large silver cross around his neck catches the light dances on its chain sings for a word. 9 May 11 Memory Digging deep into my pocket, searching for my memory stick, I confirm what others have said: there is always more in my pockets than meets the eye; it makes for delays at airport screenings and fumbling for the key to unlock the door at night. I touch each item with the blindness of a new born mouse burrowing into the familiar, looking for the one sense that will bring the source I seek; but I do not find it. Taking out the wallet and the pocket knife I whittle down the options until the silver curve of its hinge and dangling broken chain on my fingertips bring the "aha" I've found you! 10 May 11 The Appointment The train drifts into the station; it is painfully slow today, the large iron wheels squeal as the brakes are applied by the careful engineer with the reflective sunglasses; one by one the cars ease by, passengers in prayer to whatever befalls their laps; it is not their stop. and on a day like any other day I get on and wait for the pull of the large red engine, the engineer's hand nudging the throttle forward. 26 May 11 Back to Top Commuting Commuting is about knowing where to stand. This train slips into its place; the doors to the empty car open at the red mark on the platform and this car after its journey stops at the stairway to the bus that waits for only seconds; and if by chance there is a seat free at the front of the #3 getting off at the chosen stop allows crossing the street before it pulls away. All these minutes string together adding to a start of day when the office staff expect my walking through the door from one world to the next each day a little death, [each day a new beginning.] ? 1 Jun 11 Wheels When I first see the old man seated on the other side of the bus, I think he has a scooter, three wheels, folded up-- I imagine all the wheels-to-go in our travel through this galaxy, the many under this aging bus, the bicycles I dodged outside the station, The cars parked as wings along the avenue-- All rest on tires wrapped around a core; the scooter twins race past our windowed doors, the skateboards that have moments of sudden flight, the wheels and cables that carry the gondola aloft, even the gray ones on this gents folded walker, But what stops me in my tracks are the ones on the gears of the plane that will touch down as you arrive 3 Jun 11 Morning Sounds The electric bus moves with a whir and a whine like the small mixer before it dips into the bowl of nuts; at each stop it sounds as if the plug was pulled. the softer whoosh of the AC enters overhead; the hills create another sound, something like a muffled two-tone siren and at the top, the air brakes exhale before it moves on-- all the time I am transported back, and oh, how I long for you to stir-- the morning sounds, with eyes still closed, reach out for a morning kiss. 6 Jun 11 Impatience In a letter to a friend I note how impatience has changed with the flapjack flip of the decades; I was so impatient for success, independence, the finer things, a kiss, buttons popping like corks, writing with possessed fury, aching for inspiration. And now I am impatient with all the things that do not matter, endless meetings of recitation the rows and columns of made up numbers, the little fears of making budget, deadlines, and the performance review Give me passion, time to think, raucous conversation, vignettes of silence, a sip of wine, a phrase of touch, and the notice of the board that tells me your plane has arrived. 8 Jun 11 Windows There are little lights on the side of the hills rising from the lake, and through the morning mist they catch the sun and send it back with a calling: “there are windows here” 4 Jul 11 Tracks In the morning there are small clumps of dirt everywhere, as if horses clomped their shoes on the walkways at midnight before retiring to the barn; even the platform at the station is spotted with telltale traces; somewhere there is a field pocked with shoe-prints as if a quarry; after the concert rang its final note, the caravan passed this way, and as prophets, left small tracks of an earthy song. 21 Jul 11 Morning Poem vi Lone red engine sneaks through the station on the far track, before the express squeals between us, then another, each in its own way telling me that distance is relative to the breeze in its wake that turns my neck, a soft pant of morning air as if you were here on the near side of the bed, and slowly roused, we leave this station of sleep coupled at the lips. 16 Aug 11 Morning Fog Heavy eyes in the morning sun squint, the haze lay heavy in the lake, coddled in the Jura and Saleve; what is awakening is slow, before the second cup of coffee, the fog lifting, shaken out, rolled up as if sleep can be shelved, clarity willed, love called to your side out of thin air, across oceans and time itself. I will sleep more tonight, more in its gift that comes rolling in when it will. 17 Aug 11 Passing through The announcement comes seconds before the Lausanne express rockets through the local station, it's red and white sleek skin blurs by with fleeting weight, its double-decker coaches holding the morning passengers set on their ticket's destination-- we see none of them in the blink of passage; if there was a child at the window waving, I can only imagine if she sees the blue in my eyes 18 Aug 11 Back to Top Summer Storm You can feel it approaching, the storm in the distance, wind's breath picking up, articles tossed about, the dimming of the lights, the urgent whispers... the accelerating of time, rushing over the cliff, the drawn out moan around the trees bending, the drops of rain on the forehead, and the flash of light, the rumble in the loins, the coming of the deluge, the steam rising from the streets. 22 Aug 11 Out of the Fog This morning Lac Leman is a cappuccino-- its top a frothy milk as if it's been poured from heaven and settled in between the Alps and the Jura waiting for a sip of sun to dispel its cloud of knowing 12 Oct 11 Out of the Fog ii It is a grey morning as the green express races west along the lake-- this is the season when Mother Nature takes down the comforters left on the upper shelf, shakes them out and covers the cooling waters-- I remember a pet hamster under the sheet, a fleeting lump searching for the edge of the bed when it poked its nose out into the morning sun just beginning to camber over the curtain-- my train pulls into the station a lump at the end of a journey I imagine I will feel even when you come to open the door 16 Oct 11 Jostling Hurtling to Manhattan— there is no other word for the roller coaster of a New York yellow taxi— no one yields; a merge is a jostling, everyone in the funnel of a narrowing to the tunnel. This is what happens to time when we start with the end in mind, no opening up, no yielding or running the roller coaster in slow motion in reverse, an un-hurtling that jostles the mind. 19 Oct 11 On what saps my energy On the 3 bus on a Monday morning I can hear the sucking sound of the milking machines before I arrive; we learned in Gruyeres that the wildflowers on which the cows feast daily provide the distinctive flavor of the cheese, that ageing concentrates and hardens; yet the milk here has turned and the cows have lost their way; the floor is covered with a dozen hoses, all sucking the air out of the room. 24 Oct 11 The pull of fall The workers in the bright fluorescent green and red jumpsuits are competing with the leaves they rake over curbs and walkways— fallen and swept away, the evidence of turning fades as quickly as a flick of the wrist, a wave of the arm, leaves billowing to a pile someone comes later to pick up. 31 Oct 11 What would have been Eight open cars of a slow freight train are pulled into Nyon station filled to peaks with sugar beets. I take out my camera as the morning train to Lausanne pulls in between us and all the sweet promises that wait, slip away 2 Nov 11 Morning Poem vii In the early fog a tall legged crane with white rim glasses is standing on the balustrade along the country road watching the morning rush without a turn or blink as if we are fish swimming by with eyes gleaming and he is coiled in the wait . 3 Nov 11 Without I pass by the chocolate shop on Grand Pre and wonder how long it can survive in a world where cutting appears to be the only creative act that's how Americans now look at the world: what can we do without, as if the editor in us chops words here and there until only punctuation remains and we ache among these breadcrumbs for meaning, for hope 22 Nov 11 Patisserie a la Gare She has reached the head of the line and now faced with the hundred morning choices at the glass counter of this patisserie she leans back and surveys the plenty, points and asks about this one and that; what is simple becomes complex, rich with possibility "no" she says, "I will take that one" instead. 1 Dec 11 Skimming I skim through the book of poems looking for a line that catches the smooth stone of my eye as the water grabs the edge of a flat stone skiffing across the lake top which I in a crouch have thrown this is not what these learned minds have sought— a reader on the shore a random wind driving up a word like a hungry fish waiting for the flitting eye of a dragon fly to pass low enough as pause it can be snatched to the belly of a poem and taken down to the depths where there is the digestion to a little death. 31 Jan 12 Nail in the Face He announces the trick to an audience who’s been laughing; holding an old oak-handle hammer and a ten-penny nail, the kind carpenters drive into a row of two-by-fours before hoisting up the wall— you have to give him his due as he tilts his head back and bangs the nail into his right nostril. and I wonder where this idea rose up like a bubble in his head that he’s now likely burst, as we look on gawking with that kind of cringe that says “why?” just before he takes his bow. 4 Feb 12 Magic "It is the star to every wandering bark" Shakespeare, Sonnet 116 She is a sower of wishes With a wand for a hoe A star for its blade And this air of magic, Something out of a Disney Imagination With a bit of bippity. bobbity boo, and pumpkins become something that transport, Like the soup she whisked out of found items in the fridge; There is such a creative act, Not in what she does As much as who she is becoming; That is a magic I never tire of tasting. 14 Feb 12 For Shirley on Valentine’s Day Cold Frame I remember the long planks of grayed wood and the old windows that lay on the weathered frame; those were the early boxes of spring where seeds were sown before the last frost by my grandfather, long gone to his own frame in this earth, walking the rows, lifting the windows like a god, checking for the tinge of life, calling the dormant to rise again. 18 Feb 12 Back to Top Wind chime The wind chime wags it's steely fingers from somewhere above this narrow street where I have turned to walk another path to the bus that waits-- and I am gathered in, feet planted, head tilted back, eyes up the facade to where it shimmers in the morning light. 20 Feb 12 From the train, while pausing at Coppet Station The field has been stripped of its eggshell bed sheets by a sun that climbs over the alps earlier each week and now on the mattress of earth there is a hint of a raucous green that is always at the beginning and yearned for ever since. 21 Feb 12 Beams He waves his hand above his head, breaks the beam that opens the door and walks through. Out on the street a troubled women in a crumpled grey coat raises her hand and makes her plea en Français; he does not understand, shrugs; she waves it off, tries English; He's heard the lines before. She's lost her ticket, needs help getting home, "Could you spare some change?" He reaches into his pocket, comes up empty, apologizes. She is polite waves goodbye; the door whisks close. 1 Mar 12 The Tenor The Italian tenor past his prime stood next to the conductor and with a wave of arm outstretched strained to put the accumulation of his weight to push the tenor's note, wiping the sweat from his face between each measure with a large white handkerchief waving a truce with the years once ago I was a bamboo of boy, cool and quick to wave with the wind; now I am the man who blots his face arriving late for the morning train and squints to see the conductor coming down the aisle. 15 Apr 12 Morning Poem viii Winter wakes up and realizes spring has taken over the food bowl; there is howling with the wind; one has his back up with no letting go; tulips bend and fold, even the grass shrinks; but I refuse to wear a coat; in the ides of April is the story of a hope that ever rises. 17 Apr 12 Morning Poem ix I've started three poems and none are finished, each having a turn on something seen, that just passed by, having altered my path if just for another step. and in each I wanted you to see it with me, to stop and gasp another breath to feel the warmth or chill when something tickles a spot on the back of the neck or thigh. in all there is an ache that reminds me of a vase that sits and speaks with me, this vase that once held a freshness of daffodils; this vase that is you. 18 Apr 12 Unfinished Poem 1 This became two poems.... I am reading about wimp verbs while walking with progress through the gate and up the path to work; it is spring and I should be idling, owl-ing my neck, stature-ing with the horse chestnut trees, still lime green with white stars of spores about to nova, catching passage on the sunlight politicking thru the limbs shaking their fingers at me like an old witch. 18 Apr 12 Unfinished Poem 2 A wing of a bird graces the gateway path, left behind (I imagine) by the large angora who lives under Annex II; I am stunned that this freedom, this flight ripped from the very core of what makes a bird a bird, has fallen before my uprightness of step after step, and I grieve. 18 Apr 12 Unfinished Poem 3 The spores are floating down like jellyfish of the air this sea of spring that is rife with birth flexes its fingers of white against the hues of green; even the grey of the passing cloud that unburdens itself has a wail of one that is coming into this world, one for which we hope. 16 Apr 12 Morning Poem x I've started three poems and none are finished, each having a turn on something seen, that just passed by, an has altered my path if just for another step. And in each I wanted you to see it with me, to stop and gasp another breath to feel the warmth or chill when something tickles a spot on the back of the neck or thigh. And in all there is an ache that reminds me of a vase that sits and lies with me this vase that once held a freshness of daffodils; this vase that is you. 18 Apr 12 Washing your hair Washing your hair in the morning is a reading of history, much of it is familiar at least in its qualities, and occasionally there's a bump blemish and tender spot that reminds us of something encountered that didn't move as much as us and if vigorously shaken the yolk inside will separate and we need to think hard about what the connections were before we did this; but in the rinse is a clarity a smoothness that is refreshing, in a fog of little sleep there is a new awakening. 29 Apr 12 Time I have time by the tail and though I wring out each wonder that pulls me back to what just was so I can see a second time, still it pulls and with heels dug in I pass the signs that announce each destination as if it was the last. 2 May 12 Morning Poem xi The trickle of eau potable runs from a brass spout as if there is no end; there is no "off", no tap; like the Alps that ever feed it, it simply is. and as I cup my hand to catch its fresh coolness-- in this wasteful foolishness, like a lover. I imagine drinking from the tree of knowledge. 15 May 12 Sol In the early morning those who walk toward me have the sun on their faces, as I study them-- a reflection; some looking down to this white granite pavement, some looking up radiant and squinting, and others looking straight ahead as if through me; together, all have seen a burning bush I cannot see; but I have seen each face as if a mirror 15 May 12 Two sides of spring The snow on the Jura recedes like a hairline, a rolling back to move on to a nascent season, so unlike our human condition where hair is left behind in the reprise; in some springs the snow lingers, there are cold days in May, but there is always a summer to put it to rest to usher the wild things 18 May 12 Idle Talents Copper pots hung on the peg-board gleam in the morning sun like idle talents; there will be no simmering in store windows no trial mix of spices and tasting until something new wafts from the cauldron; ah, but they shine and catch the passing eye. 18 May 12 Summer roll-out Summer sneaks up like a old Chevy full-size on a slight hill whose parking brake has been released and in neutral with a idling driver begins its drift backward just enough so its startled guide stomps on the pedal for an abrupt "wait!" "I’m not in gear yet!" the beaded sweat on the brow after racing thru spring has not yet begun its slow roll to the chin and loosened collar. 26 Jun 12 Back to Top Signature Between the large pale glass smooth tiles of a washroom, an author has left his name on the sliver of grout that divides tile from tile, as if in the depth of a book spine holding page from page; were it not for the date appended neatly with its dashes, I could have sworn I heard someone whisper "me". 8 Jul 12 Back to Top When to write a poem When the Regio Express throttles through the farms and vineyards thick with nascent clumps of fruit, from vacation to the city each row of bush and tree bend; even the corn, anchored in its field lean with the midsummer puffs of wind and point this way; for the return to what was vacated, feeling the weight of the body and the breathing quicken just before the waking, just before the alarm. 16 Jul 12 Back to Top News On the morning train after the summer solstice the sun slices the car in two and I am blinded; I cup my hand around the phone that has become my early paper to create a fist of shade that makes the text appear; and I think that this is what the writer does, dims the light a bit so the news that washes past us like a river stands up in the current, hands crooked around its eyes looking for us on the shore. 17 Jul 12 Evening Poem There is that point after the sun has set when the blue-grey glow before the night rolls overs frames the rooftops and trees as the silhouettes they are when we close our eyes 26 Jul 12 After the gardener The side of the hill the bus ambles by holds the fallen of the tall grass left by a mower I imagine a gardener gripping with long arms, feet anchored in the rise reaching out to the walk below and gathering it back into him, a breathing out and in, the dull blades whirring and whacking all that stands up, surrenders and dares. For the passer-by there is a silence, the tall blades of grass gone brown laying intertwined, remembering. 31 Jul 12 Evening Poem ii On our street there is a pub at the corner, the laughter rises, wheels of the bags pulled from the Gare chatter on the cobblestone; and then there is the bend in the lane, this narrowing where all the sounds are squeezed from the night and the stars wait patiently for that look that only comes from stopping and angling the chin up as saint and sinner that makes every worry a bit of pollen falling. 6 Aug 12 Waiting for the train People standing randomly on the platform hunched into papers or phones, thumbs dancing backs to the approaching train; walking thru this forest is not to see a single eye in a sea of morning people, no one speaking, no one touching; we are reluctant pilgrims and the paycheck calls 9 Aug 12 Back to Top Evening-morning poem I pause at the turn late in the new evening, stare up waiting for the fleeting flash of the burning dust from the tail of an ancient comet brushing the night with hints of its being, the fingers thru my hair as I tilt in hope thankful that the night is clear. In the morning, I pass the shock of sunflowers in the shadows against an old stone wall angling their necks so their faces find their echo somewhere over the roofs; it’s coming, and they are expectant like a star-gazer in the dark. 14 Aug 12 Periscope Is this lone sunflower just outside the shade of a tree, turning so slowly, with the slog of an August sun, a periscope on the deck of a silent ship cruising below the grass, a submarine crew of roots and captain earthworms? If you pause long enough you can feel it move beneath your toes, you can see the waves approach and the ears of a cruiser cat bob on the horizon. 14 Aug 12 For Holly and Ingrid Back to Top Awakening The jackhammers begin early silencing the morning doves they stutter into concrete walls to make a new way, a portal that was not there before but now lets in the early sun that comes up over the east roofs looking for an opening 15 Aug 12 Two Frogs Two frogs floating in the shallow pond jump for the same piece of bread bump noses and miss the morsel that sinks to where gold fish start a feeding frenzy and the frogs watch in disbelief. 15 Aug 12 For Holly and Ingrid Morning Poem xii The cool mist peeks around the shower curtain, jitters in the early sunlight radiating from the high window; it will be another hot day late in August when hot days will and mornings shimmer; the drops beam down from a sun-flower shower-head and I swear there are wisps of steam rising from my head. 21 Aug 12 Evening Poem iii Over the wall and thru the trees, the sound of angels floats between the cars swimming toward home in the waning sunlight of a late summer afternoon. Only when passing thru the gate and looking 'cross the street do I see the church, doors open, choir practicing the language of redemption on this mid-week eve. 22 Aug 12 Loss I lost a pen on the train, an umbrella, a walking sticking, charcoal gray beret; somewhere gathered in a loss bin I have not found yet they keep each other company while I hurtle on the morning express leaving bits of myself behind that I hope to pick up again in the evening rush a dwindling assemblage that fills my backpack and pockets that I cannot reach bottom with my hands. 27 Aug 12 Back to Top Morning delay The flip-board turns over a yellow "plus tard" and we who huddle in the rain under black umbrellas do the math and type the news with one hand into phones to those who wait as we do gaining idle time for hope disappointment and poetry 31 Aug 12 Indecision I stand up from my seat in the middle of the train and look back and forth at the lines that have queued as the doors are opened, and they are the same size, they move with the same slowness of the morning before the coffee so like a squirrel on the roadway I lean left and right and left before the commitment, the position and the vote; then leave this busy transport for the moving stairs and buses waiting for their destinations 31 Aug 12 Morning Poem xiii The train is nearly empty today, a scattering of commuters who do not have a holiday; young and at a silicon valley start-up, we joked about bankers hours, bank holidays, and working thru lunch; we bragged about first to arrive and last to leave-- time had a redemptive taste; but here in the bank capital of the old world there are no bankers riding with us; even embassies are closed; and the pride of youth replaced with a sigh of envy. 6 Sep 12 Lyre I am captivated by the video of the lyre bird in the rain forest and the sound of the chain saws he has reproduced; this could be a poem about conservation, injustice and the threatened lyre, but it is the sound of falling trees to the left and to the right that has me holding my breath feeling the heart jump against its cage; being the last tree standing, whistling the warning to those who stand behind. 15 Sep 12 Back to Top Morning Poem xiv Two white patches simple white folds of cotton hidden inside the waist of an old pair of jeans hold a stitch in the palms of their hands where frayed belts loops pulled from their seats have been re-anchored— all this I notice in a blink while getting dressed in the morning and through a life of days imagining your hands pulling the threads. 22 Sep 12 New thoughts Sometimes these wise and jagged Alps hold early clouds in the hollows of their palms new wisps of thought that the sun will soon burn away, lift them into an obscure sky, but for now they edge across the rise like thumb prints to be studied and given names of criminals 26 Sep 12 Back to Top Morning fragment Our sunflower shower head has soft nibs of gray on a sky blue face, each streams the morning down. 2 Oct 12 The dream about forgetting Frozen before her high school locker, the combination having left for another day white numbers on a black dial march on with a turn of the wrist this one tuning knob standing between the one who is always learning and all the things that sit on hooks and shelves from yesterday. 5 Oct 12 Letters I am fascinated by the names we give to things that breathe and hold their breath, the little titles the bring them to us in a portrait frame, a day dream, distraction positiva. And what to make of a man of letters, the groups of twos or threes tagging along after a signature? I sometimes wonder if a poet is an interior designer of letters, arranging the furniture of what we've sensed in the core of things; but when I received your morning letter of the sights you saw from your window, as I read a continent away, I finally understood and knew my name. 10 Oct 12 Morning Poem xv The fog is a drop cloth east of the Puget Sound and the silhouette of pines are dark and quilled, not yet with their telltale green; a sunrise is starting up the band of flight, casting a faint glow of pink between the trees. This is the early morning, something I often miss; and all the aspirations of the day are breathed in and out with our own fogs and shroud of hues about to focus on the canvas 11 Oct 12 A Sheaf of Poems He called it a sheaf of poems, naming the gathering that itself calls into being as surely as voice in the darkness shouting "let there be light!" This portfolio of bits is folded into the pocket before stepping from the train; and pulled out another morning when sighting something crying for a name. 20 Oct 12 Back to Top ________________________________________________________________ © Copyright 2012, E.G. Happ and The Fairfield Review, Inc, All Rights Reserved |
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Document last modified on: 08/04/2013