A Poetry Portfolio presented by Donna Jane Metzler cover art by Brenna Elsbeth Baird (daughter of Donna Metzler)
Eaton Lane Do you remember the days Before anyone had worries (that they were willing to share) Those were the days When we’d go swimming in Graysheck pond At night Leave our clothes on the reedy shore Crane our necks to see the moon rise up over the trees Hide from monsters That we knew were not real Fingers like prunes There was no fear then Or maybe we just never knew Those were the days That we’d pile into the station wagon Some of us in the very back Licking popsicles And having them drip on our bare legs With the warm wind blowing the stickiness dry Those were the days When it was too hot to stay inside at night And we played jacks on the porch By the light of the living room lamp While momma drank cobblers in tall glasses
Kristiana The first time I caught your eye, you turned away I got just a glimpse I was stunned I’m sure my mouth was open Silly boy Because I had never seen eyes so blue But it wasn’t the blue of the ocean or the sky or cornflowers Or serenity It was chaos Bright, inevitable, swirling chaos After that first glimpse, I wanted more and you did too There was that day that you ran two fingers along my bare arm Electric You must have wanted me to look But when I did I still only caught one chaotic eye And we both turned away It was too much Because it was everything all at once Then later, on that first night (I will never forget that first night) It was dark And I could see only the silhouette of your eyes I felt a calm And not so much chaos Although it was there somewhere, deeper than the dark eyes And it seemed like you looked into mine too but I didn’t know for sure Then even later you told me that it took a long time for you to look into a person’s eyes And that some eyes are easier than others You were wistful Apologetic For your aversion
But it isn’t just you Because I turn away too I asked you what you saw in me Because I couldn’t believe (or maybe I didn’t want to believe) That anyone could love me The cocky and quirky red-haired boy with too many words You replied What do I see you in you? I see the world in you And I knew at that moment that those chaotic eyes could see More than they revealed themselves Except that I also knew that in your eyes I could see your soul I didn’t understand it But I could see it And I understand now that the reason we avert our eyes The reason you do The reason I do Is that chaos is unfathomable That the soul is real but unreachable And it is hard to go to place from which We know we may not return But now Now that there’s sometimes a calm Now that we don’t turn away as much I realize how much I love chaos
Poetry, 2016 (found and learned poetry inspired by Thomas Lux (“Refrigerator”) and Mary Oliver (A Poetry Handbook) More like a river – you float along its currents And on the surface: not a lot And what there is (seemingly indecipherable meter, obscure metaphorical allusions) that daunt the spirit, overwhelmed, confused. This is not a place to go in hope or hunger. But, beneath the form, metric and structure, unencumbered by rhyme and metaphor, on-fire, alit from within-red, heart red, sexual red, wet neon red, shining red in its liquid, exotic, aloof, slumming poem after poem moves along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves that wild, silky part of ourselves without which no poem can live. Poems, poetry, not unconscious, not subconscious, but cautious. Something so seemingly essential that it cannot be taught, only given or earned, or formulated in a manner too mysterious to be picked apart for the next person. Every poem contains in itself an essential difference from ordinary language –constant, subtle, intense and radiantly interesting. Maybe we see a poem as foreign to us, as from a different time, but the desire to make a poem and the world’s willingness to receive it indeed the world’s need of it those things never pass in all the perils and sweetness of conspiracy to be someday mine then the world’s. It captures beauty and, if it is all poetry that carries one from this green and mortal world and lifts the latch and gives a glimpse of a greater paradise then perhaps there is a fervor and desire beyond the margins of the self because you do not eat that which rips your heart with joy.
Simplicity There is something to be said for simplicity In its stripped-down, bright-eyed glory There is nothing to interpret or analyze Simplicity has no subtext to the story Simplicity does not leave a furrowed brow It does not toss and turn in bed Simplicity says just what it means to say And leaves the rest unsaid But simplicity hits the understanding Like a ray of sun upon the eye There is no mistaking what it says Yet we are left to wonder why
Runways (counterargument) The man who conceptualized flying machines, who devised the wandering eyes of the most famous woman in history (perhaps she is a sort of Mary) and who sat intently while manifesting the intricacies of Vitruvian man said that simplicity is the ultimate sophistication. One wonders about hidden complications or bare truths that remain unapparent to preoccupied eyes But captivation is essential as Chanel knew So we create runways of thought and creation because seeing is believing and because simplicity is the true hallmark of elegance
Kingdoms You with your winter eyes Unshimmering Like crater lakes that don’t ice over because they are Too deep You were a raven in the last life Or maybe it’s this life I cannot tell You seem to exist in both At the same time You with your dark tangled hair And translucent skin Too thin How many times Have I found you on the shore With your sandcastles Surrounded by narrow winding roads And a moat that gently (and then violently) Fills with foamy water As the sun lowers in the sky Secret entrances That traverse under the soft wet sand to the inside of your kingdom Protected by intricate towers Created by the delicate dance of your slender fingers and winter eyes
Monumented by flags of seaweed and beach debris Driftwood at the lintel Of the drawbridge And when your kingdom is built You sit in the sand Feet curled around mounds of white grains Winter eyes squinting toward the sea Not taking notice Of the people leaving With their chairs and children The seagulls descending On everything but your castle Which remains intact Until the tide slowly and then quickly Takes over Crashing and receding Filling the moat Destroying the roads Turning your intricate towers First into smooth remnants of their forms And finally into nothing at all
You watch this Dark hair swirling Amidst the salty breezes Not with remorse But with acceptance Each wave taking more and more I watch this And love this I’ve learned not to intervene Although I do recall That one often sees ravens in pairs
Runner They told us That I was in a constant state of high alert This feeling that I was everything all at once All the time This feeling of being ready for everything But being prepared for nothing Talked about As if I was an ethereal being That hovered about their lives like a ghost But I heard every word I understood every word Because I was in a constant state of high alert There were days that I just needed to run They called it running away But that wasn’t it I wasn’t running to or from I was just running The perpetual movement soothed my over-attention I still need to run But I try to remember To put my running shoes on Before I leave the house
Don’t go into the Kitchen She once leaped tall buildings in a single bound She held the branch of a tree wielded it like a lightening bolt snatched from Zeus’s hand leaves fluttering in the afternoon sun That was back when she could fly Now she sits and smokes her cigarettes one by one until they’re gone She sips her Diet Cokes until they’re gone too She sips until There’s nothing left at all
Still Life You sat for me At first with your hand awkwardly under your chin as you gazed out into nothingness Stiff pouty lips But as you got tired You leaned into your palm Scrunching up your cheek and your calloused fingers crept lazily toward your eyes Which shifted onto your lap or the chair I could not tell But it was something instead of nothing And when you did look up at me Your eyes were glassy and your smile was playful and crooked And that’s when I started to draw
Late Afternoon Sun
First it was cream sherry Then it was the Stinger made with crème de menthe and brandy Then it was the Vodka Gimlet Then just vodka Lots of vodka Then It was anything I’m sorry I tried to wake you up
12 Years Younger For an entire day My brother tried to convince me That I was radioactive He wouldn’t let me touch Anyone or anything I played along For his entertainment Later he told everyone How gullible I was If he only knew
Deinstitutionalization The world was swirling dangerously on the day I left I said I had nothing left to give You said You weren’t asking for anything So, what was the purpose? So that was it And I left We learned that lack of sleep was the most predictive of mental stress I slept We learned about the rejuvenative effects of sunlight And its influence On cortisol levels I sat in the sun At first I got the word stuck in my head Institutionalized I wondered what they said at home Institutionalized I guessed that they did not know
About the long and lazy mornings Or the sunlight on my face And arms and in my soul Basking Non-meditative, cat-like But after a while I stopped thinking about the word Because it no longer mattered to me what they said But I did start thinking about the possibility That my sleepy shaft of light would fade Or even disappear And every night A new word began to impress upon me Deinstitutionalization And I worried that I would not be able to sleep In my old bed In our old bed I wondered if every day would return to grey If I would be able to find the sun at all In those dark places In our dark places Deinstitutionalization
What He Didn’t Know
Grandpa said That it wasn’t my fault He said She had demons That there was nothing I could have done Or should have done To prevent it But I hear more than I say And there were conversations that happened amidst her tears And my silence Grandpa said It wasn’t her fault He said That I had demons That there was nothing she could do Or should have done Except love me Grandpa spoke the truth out of both sides of his mouth
But he didn’t know Or at least he never said That I could not be loved Would not be loved That she could not do the one thing She should have done I didn’t know it then But I know it now That hers was not just a gunshot to the throat But a gradual and fearful death That my presence only hastened And although I denied her the one thing that she needed to do It wasn’t my fault And there were no demons I have learned to own her death I have learned how to feel sorrow And to let go of regret
That moment You slid into a seat barefooted when you should have been wearing shoes And I blinked several times You had always seemed like someone so far away So remote you were almost invisible almost But there you were right next to me There was a disconnect in my brain It wasn’t something I expected or even wanted I didn’t know what I wanted But now I do
Let go of the Echo
I do not shout from the mountain tops I whisper How can I hear the echo? I cannot But I can feel the beat of my own heart These days the resonance of a heartbeat seems more profound (and necessary) than the echo of words
Wednesday Night
Wednesday Night
Of all the consciousnesses in the world (and it is consciousness-boggling to think of how many there are) This one is mine This one Whose breath I can feel go in and out This one Whose thoughts I am having This one Whose time on earth is finite This one who has just this one chance to be conscious This one is mine Of all the billions of actual Thinking Breathing Loving Consciousnesses in the world This one is mine And no I am not drunk Or stoned I am not out of my mind I am in it That’s the point
Eccentricity
Centrifugal force Despite centripetal force I’m thrown out again
Stealing Shakespeare’s Skull An early morning rendezvous at the graveyard of the Holy Trinity Church The echo of the bells still hangs in the brittle air Mist settling on the tops of the gravestones Remnants of inscription illuminated by cloud-shrouded moonlight The irrelevance of the forbidden-Rooks caw as to signify a watchful world that won’t notice. The wormy fragrance of freshly-dug ground Black dirt beneath fingernails and swiped across the brow But especially the thrill of the poetic globe held triumphantly, fingers caressing its bony surface A silent victory A love affair consummated
Thought Experiment I used to feel sorry For Schrödinger’s cat Now I feel a little sorry For Schrödinger
Ophelia You were a coward You see you were the only one who could define yourself And you made a decision to define yourself through death And although some may say that it may have taken all the courage you had You gave in to the current You were one incapable of her own distress Yet There was a defining moment in which the satisfaction you sought could have been turned into a battle or at least defiance but instead you let the voice of conflicted conscience win
Elizabeth It was when first she called me Victor that I understood the reanimating power of electricity
Science Education My brother John always gave the best gifts One year It was a volcanic rock he retrieved from the top of Mt. Rainier Black and jagged The size of a golf ball Little crevices of sparkling purple and pink and blue Presented in a little marbled grey stained glass box Whose corners had been soldered in shiny silver Mount Rainier is formed almost wholly of hypersthene andesite In 1973 It was an exact replica Of the HP-35 The world’s first pocket scientific calculator hand-carved from a block of wood the screen emblazoned with HELLO on its light-emitting-diode numeric display I carried it around and performed calculations It’s no wonder I can perform simple arithmetic so quickly in my head One warm winter It was a kite made of tie-dyed orange tissue paper and little wooden dowels A meticulously constructed aerodynamic dodecahedron that reminded me of Escher But it crashed in a gust of wind on a picnic table He rebuilt it on Christmas Day
Mom They found her running down the street When I was twelve Naked from the waist up Deep scars On her breasts and neck Bald Except for blotches of wispy grey hair Her red wig thrown to the ground in some desperate attempt to be free She was running so fast and pushing so hard that she couldn’t be stopped Except by two of our neighbors Who had gotten in their cars To ambush her at the end of the street Hoods angled in They said that she had superhuman strength And had to be subdued Superhuman strength It was not a gentle undertaking Nothing about this had been a gentle undertaking So it made sense in a wicked way in a very wicked way
1982 There was that summer when we took to the streets on our bicycles wearing flowered vintage dresses from 1959 and rubber flip flops from Thrifty Drug Yours were red and mine were yellow I had to hold mine together with a hair elastic when they fell apart Back when everything was made in Japan Your tape player Played the Buzzcocks who wondered if you had every fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t have fallen in love with But that summer Wasn’t one of regret Because our horizons were reckless And the streets were ours
Window Pane Chipped pale blue paint and musty ledges Twist the sash lock with thumb and forefinger Wood cracked and splintered but still solid enough to open with a snap Wet muffled fragrances rush in
Barricades There were dark days when the sea called to me And I withdrew from her whispered summons. On those dark days I was content to be Held by the barricades, a mere woman. But the dark days come much more often now The sea, she rattles in her entreaty I look to the shore, remembering how Her waters once cradled me so sweetly. Return to me! She implores in the night. She beckons me in the din of the storm. The squalls call out her most desperate plight. The binds that restrain you must now be torn! Tonight I quit as creature of the earth, And retreat to my haunting place of birth.
Thank you.