CITY VOICES
POETRY TOWN
LETTERS
‘ A Certain Sense of Self ’
Mulled cider, pine boughs and melting wax; the smell of roast turkey at Christmas. The hushed roar of heavy snow falling slowly on empty streets. The rush of night wind outside the ice crystal condensation on the bedroom windows. The soft rhythm of her gentle slumber beside me in the dark. These are my memories, and my joys. Deliberate effort made through the years. Sustained effort meant to please. Thoughtful consideration of the other. The subtle joy of giving, learned from years of watching her. The warmth of a smile, and sweet contentment of rolling in affection. The reassurance of her too delicate touch. These are my riches, and my reasons for staying. There was a time I was without her; unbaked bread, raw meat, green wine. There was a time I presumed to understand reality; self deluded wrenched arrogance.
There was a time I closed myself and needed no one. How did I live before this higher order? My purpose now, protect and serve this better half of me. What wonderful counterpoint we are for one another. How odd I am to her even, how up I am to her down. How perfectly she tempers my inadequacy. How shyly she steels my courage. I am no man without this woman, but half a human being. I cannot be alone again. I fear my death; still more, the thought of life without her. I have become the dark side of the one they call us. I am her fist and her crusader. She is my heart and my conscience. I am a sword, she the scabbard that holds it.
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WORCESTERMAGAZINE.COM
D E C E M B E R 24 - 30, 2020
I am not as naughty a boy as you might think, I’m not a bad kid, I am not as bad as all that, Who knew paint should not be poured down the sink? Or that you should never try to shave the cat. No matter what stories you might have heard, I can be pretty darn good when I give it a try. The cat will never again be stuffed in the cage with the bird, Or slingshot to see if he can be taught how to fly. I eat all of mom’s cooking, no matter how bad I do my best to clean up my plate. Only once did I hide the car keys in the freezer on Dad The line I walk is narrow and straight. I am sorry about the window, it was an accident I was just playing ball with my friends. I will pay for the glass, one hundred percent And do whatever I can to make amends. I am sure that Grandma has forgotten about those plates She has forgotten about almost every other thing. And I never bring her frogs or the snakes she hates I have not muddied her carpets since Spring. And about my kid sister, her hair will grow back, Dad said she looked cuter than cute. I think the rug in my room looks better in black And Grandpa already replaced his gray suit. So give me a break, Santa, I’m trying real hard, It’s not easy keeping grownups happy, you see.
The volume and issue numbers (Volume 46, Issue 15, 2020) of the WM (or the T&G) don’t reflect the number of good writers whose names have disappeared, sometimes abruptly, over the years. I am here to thank a few of those who made the current issue of WM worth reading: Victor Infante (though his name is misspelled on p. 18) and Jim Keogh for their reviews. The “Worcesteria” column is now clear and informative. Veer Mudambi for a perhaps
incomplete but generous spread of Worcester charities in need of donations. Janice Harvey for exploring the dark side of our lives. While I long to stir honey into Janice’s hot apple cider vinegar (a la D.C. Jarvis of New England Folk Medicine fame) I look for her column first in each new issue. May 2021 fulfill at least some of our hopes!
You are Santa, you know the truth, I am really OK I’m not a bad kid all of the time, Just please bring me Christmas, I’ll do whatever you say, I will even stop writing in rhyme.
Please cut me a little slack for next year.
Julia Severens lives in Worcester.
Jack McClintock says this poem is dedicated to “Kathleen ‘Mavorneen’ Christmas 1997: Wife, friend, ally, and lover. You have shown me the meaning of virtue and made me want to be a better man. Without Wax, your husband John (Mad Jack)”.
‘Dear Santa, Let Me Explain’ Dear Santa Claus, way up in the North Pole Please, at least give me a chance to explain! How was I supposed to know Dad’s remote control Would get crushed when run over by a toy train?
You like us! You really like us!
Maybe pirates really did bury treasure in our yard, If I had found it, they would be happy, I guarantee. So maybe sometimes I get in trouble when I get into a fight Maybe sometimes I have to clap erasers after school, I’m just full of energy, holding me down is not right So what if I don’t follow their stupid rules.
Just one more thing Santa, and I hope you don’t mind I really want to spread holiday cheer, So if your list falls a little bit behind,
Christopher Reilley, a two-time Pushcart nominee and former poet laureate of Dedham, is the author of three poetry books, his latest, “One Night Stanzas,” a collection of love poems for the 21st century, is available from Big Table Publishing.
