the
River POEMS
Traveling
the
River POEMS
Hope Whitby
Dedication Haiku my parents: Jesse and Alice—my two sisters: Vicky and Kelly
Traveling the River Copyright © ���� by Hope Whitby Cover art © ���� by Lisa Mistry All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First published in ���� by Life in �� Minutes Press ���� West Cary Street Richmond, VA ����� lifein��minutes.com/press Distributed by IngramSpark & Life in �� Minutes Press ISBN ���–�–������–��–� Printed in the United States of America First Printing, ����
About the Cover Art Petersburg, Virginia-based artist Lisa Mistry conceived and created Traveling the River, the artwork on the cover of this book, especially for Hope’s poems. Lisa used linocutting to create an original block print representing the Nottoway River in Virginia, which Hope visited with her family as a child. Lisa’s choice of block printing, evoking both European and Asian printmaking traditions, reflects her heritage as well as Hope’s passion for Japanese poetry forms.
“Traveling the River” is a poem that I hold close. It sets the tone for this book, and it launches my story. The river depicted on the cover is the Nottoway, which runs sandy and shallow, deep and full, with small falls and black rocks, and twisting curves with hidden pockets. As a young family, my parents took my sisters and me there to fish and for canoeing and johnny boating. We played in the river shallows with our dog, Chico the Chihuahua, who shared with us many cool dips on hot summer days. Having Lisa Mistry bring her vision to these words was the best decision. Her choice to apply a Japanese aesthetic to this Southern landscape was genius. The canoe she painted in the bottom right corner and the large magnolia blossom to the left take me back to the bluish green river that flows throughout my life no matter how far away I may travel from it. —Hope Whitby
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An ancient poet from my tradition said, “I have something to say. I will say it before death comes. And if I don’t say it, let no one say it for me. I will be the one who will say it.” — Kofi Awoonor, ���� –����
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Why do I write? I write because of the empowerment reading has given me. Written words nourish me. I have found myself in haiku, poems, novels, and essays. In return, I share my own written words in the hope they will nourish someone else, with further hopes they will write and nourish someone else. When I write, I am never alone.
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My Poem for Jennifer D. Nurture me— my words, my spirit. Nurture me— and I will nurture you. Cultivate my imagination with Angelou, Neruda, Merwin. Give my words seed and they will take root and bloom golden like a wheatfield, wave boundless as the sea, and, together, we will reap the harvest.
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� She had always wanted words; she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape. — Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
Genesis a star fades away much like a melting snowflake returning to mist in the spirit realm floating pieces of stardust wait to be reborn God’s breath becomes mist forming life on a mountain apelet cries for milk
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Traveling the River for my dad, Jesse The canoe skims the river Mist surrounds us It makes me nervous We paddle in unison not speaking, yet knowing when to lift our oars Rising sun slices through the trees My dad taps my shoulder No daydreaming River slightly bends— branches hang low, leaves are tender, dragonflies dot the water Their pattern broken by the splash of a fish Will he jump again? My dad taps my shoulder No daydreaming
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Taking flight, startled birds call to their mates Their feathers beat echoes in the trees A glimpse of a doe bolting from the bank creates a shift in the canoe My dad taps my shoulder Did you see her? Gorgeous
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Where I Am Haiku #ďż˝ steady mist of rain Southern winds tangle my hair torrents are coming
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Earning My Gardening Badge at �� Stillness is waiting for the marigolds to take root in hard dirt which has taken most of the day to till and wanting, more than once, to walk away seeking kinship with the BrontÍ sisters who are visiting from the bookmobile which is returning to collect them at the end of today.
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Day �� Haiku my heart hesitates seeking answers, keeping faith sometimes things happen
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Before Sunrise the night had shook its sapphire blanket of stars into blackness. Some bright, some faint, these vessels of light shone without judgment calling me to gaze upon the sky as Jupiter swept past Venus in a cosmic ballet.
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The Stained but Pure White Dogwood Sometimes it snows in April with no consideration to the violets and frogs, crocuses in the yard with blooms devout and tender as young girls preparing for the Sacrament of Baptism. Wearing tiny veils of white, they memorize the answers, but dare to ask the question— Why did your Son have to die so we could live forever?
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Sky Haiku Venus at Dusk a bright rising star holds court with the crescent moon ruler of our hearts Sliver earthshine at twilight old moon in the new moon’s arms dark side’s smoky glow Final Act a failed star glows orange flashing beacon through dark clouds the eye of Taurus Waxing Gibbous Moon what begins as new rising from golden remnants of afternoon sun A Sagittarius Sky pink December dusk the archer draws back his bow Jupiter’s fire child Bright Star a chilled moonless night Jupiter’s in opposition Who dares rival God? 37
A Serpent’s Point of View ...do they only stand by ignorance, is that their happy state, the proof of their obedience and their faith? — John Milton, Paradise Lost I’ve watched them smile incessantly as they pluck berries from vines. I’ve watched them whisper unnecessarily as they slipped through lilies. I’ve watched them reap blessings unjustly as they praised the splendor of their Master’s garden. But, it was when I saw them kneeling at the stream— he, holding back tumultuous spirals of hair as they defied his fingers, so she may see her glinting eyes while cooing at her rippled reflection that I knew for certain who was chosen to fall.
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A Courtship We climb at times with unsure footing, grasping at green branches while squirrels twitch their tails snickering at the thrushes who chant a song as old as the mountain. We ascend so we can have a front-row seat to the most amazing show on Earth. I say, Trust me, and you smile out of obligation— not to upset the beginnings of quickened heartbeats, butterflies, and late-night whisperings. Or how underneath trailing fingers, the skin of inner thighs feels as soft as a lamb’s coat. And how do you know of this place? I answered, From a conversation with a server at a 24-hour diner named Harlowe who went herself to wait for a man she called Cowboy. Did he make it? She didn’t say. After a final push and upward swing, we land on a rock jutting out to a pale blue sky with wisps of clouds too thin for animal-shaped daydreams. Sitting cross-legged with 39
shoulders touching, waiting for what we don’t know until— an eagle glides by. We watch as she soars in circles above our heads. You shrug as if to say you aren’t impressed. I smile as if to say, Let’s give it some more time. As the sun turns toward evening, another eagle joins the circling. Soon after, they fly higher and higher, until thrusting themselves into each other, locking their talons, cartwheeling in a freefall blur of brown and white feathers spiraling to a sure death before unlocking mere feet above the valley ground only to soar upward to do it all again, all the while screaming calls of passion. Several dives later, the eagles, tired and battered, now seem sure the other has passed its fitness test, fly together to a treetop to mate, then sleep.
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Exhaling, you put your arm around my shoulders while touching your lips to the top of my head as you crush me into your chest.
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Richard Burton’s Secret Name for Elizabeth Taylor was Ocean because violet-blue eyes invited him to dive into paradise. But it wasn’t Richard that Elizabeth was perched next to that September afternoon as one of the grand marshals of the Peanut Parade, it was Senator John Warner, on the campaign trail. For hours, the town’s people lined Main Street waiting for a glimpse of Maggie—the cat on a hot tin roof. Poor Richard, a bejeweled fish broke the sea’s surface, luring him to swim against the tide. The air smelled of turned earth, peanut sprays in every storefront, my seven-year-old heart fluttered in my chest. Closer came the sirens; the crowd crushed the street. I peeked around hips, stood on my toes before stamping my foot in protest. Then suddenly, I was airborne, sitting high upon my dad’s shoulders. There she was, right in front of me, draped in turquoise, leaning back in a white Cadillac. Someone whistled. Someone shouted, “Now that’s a star!” A toss of black hair, a smile bigger than her face, her headband: Cleopatra’s crown. Oh Richard, was it so easy for you to forget all that you had left behind on the shore?
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Elizabeth looked at me with those purple eyes, placed her red nails to her lips and blew a kiss, “Hello, Darling!” The convertible lurched forward, and, then— she was gone. My dad’s calloused hand rubbed my bare leg, “That was something, wasn’t it?” My fingers, sticky with cotton candy, touched his forehead urging him to follow her down the street. Richard Burton named his paramour Ocean, for whirlpools pulled him down. He gasped for air while his lungs filled with salt water.
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Late One August Evening Before Elvis, there was nothing. — John Lennon Dust clouds followed the stick I trailed behind me. I ran in circles for hours. Just because, I was bored. It was a couple more weeks of summer, then second grade. My first-day outfit was ready. Just because, I was excited. The screen door slammed and Mama plopped down on the top step. Just because, so I thought. Her cigarette had burned half to ash and she flipped her hair more than once. Just because, so I thought. Hopie, she said, Elvis died. Then Mama cried. We didn’t know Elvis. Did we?
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But we did. Every Elvis album stacked in her cabinet stereo. She imitated the pelvis roll, the lip curl. Just because, it made Vicky and me laugh while she swayed with baby Kelly on her hip. We all danced just because. Mama cried like she did the day her Granny passed last winter. So I cried too. Don’t know why— just because. Daddy told her to get in the house ‘fore somebody saw her. Don’t know why, Elvis dying made him so mad. Maybe Daddy was sad on the inside too.
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Colophon Traveling the River was set in Athelas, a typeface designed in ���� by Veronika Burian and José Scaglione. Inspired by British literature, and intended for books in both print and on screen, Athelas is characterized by its typographic tranquility. Facultad, a Humanist, sans-serif typeface developed by Andrés Torres in ���� for art and design communications, was used on the book cover and title pages. The book was designed by Llewellyn Hensley & Content–Aware Graphic Design—content-aware.design.
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And I don’t care if I sing off key I find myself in my melodies I sing for love, I sing for me I shout it out like a bird set free — Sia, “Bird Set Free”
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River POEMS