Parting
by John Moncure Wetterau
Copyright 2013 John Moncure Wetterau
Acknowledgements:
Cover photograph "songbird" by Victor Romanyshyn.
Victor may be reached at:
[email protected] or
Studio 203A
61 Pleasant Street
Portland, Maine 04101
Some of these poems first appeared in: Poetry East-West, The Maine Sunday Telegram, The Maine Times, Nostoc, Backwoods Broadsides, H.O.M.E., Headcheese, Chants, Backwoods Broadsides Chaplet Series, Café Review, and in the collections, To Keep You Company, The Book With The Yellow Cover, On the Road to Dharamsala, and Sans Fin.
Author's Note
These new and selected poems are presented in four groups, beginning with the most recently written and ending with the earliest. When I was nineteen, I chose the artist's life proudly and joyfully. More than fifty years later the pride has been mostly replaced by gratitude. The joy, I see now, is life itself. J.M.W.
Table of Contents
New Poems
Sans Fin
On the Road to Dharamsala
The Book With The Yellow Cover
More books by the author
New Poems
The Artist's Reward
always the blank page,
the blank day,
to make your marks
(as Colleen put it),
another chance
to get it right,
or closer
Sankta Lucia – 2011
December, a white church
on a Maine island
at dusk—Sankta Lucia
in a snow-white dress,
wearing a wreath of lighted candles,
leads her attendants singing
through the crowded pews.
She is newly beautiful,
standing in front, flanked
on each side by younger girls
in order of their size and age,
all in white.
At one end, extra close
to the next attendant,
the shortest looks up earnestly,
round face, round eyes, tiny
round compressed mouth.
She is too young or shy to sing.
She is hoping for a good outcome;
she hopes with all her being
for something sensed
in the air above us.
As Sankta Lucia promises light,
the little girl prays without words;
together, we will brave the dark.
O Rosy
Dusan said you died a beautiful death,
"at peace, the complete peace given
only to those of great integrity."
Ten years since we lay together
in the small bedroom with the roof
window, making light of life.
We loved you,
your kindness flowering
from a field of sorrow.
Lying beside you, feeling
the pain never spoken…
O Rosy, I have not your alchemy,
have little of your kindness,
how do I change this to gold?
I can't see for tears. Can only howl
like a wolf: Rosy
O Rosy
After Fate Has Ripped Away
The Curtain Of Your Dreams
And You See That Everything
Is Taken From You
lightness
spreads through you,
quiet as
sunrise at sea
My Uncle Robin
Light
in your cabin window,
practicing late:
Dixieland piano
fading through the pines,
vibrant, disciplined,
mellower each year,
keeping faith with
the sound you loved—
only faith can carry on
what matters;
I heard this in the woods
forty years ago, but
didn't fully understand.
Robin, you should know,
The Yellow Dog Jazz Band
is playing your music
in Tallahassee.
Early Spring
flowering cherries, sunny
lavenders / grays / whites
twenty years ago
I stood beneath them
in a black linen shirt,
feeling handsome,
a bit foolish
Spring forgives all—
vanity then, hope
now
Portland
Getting Ready to Leave
after rain,
sun
beating a drum,
shadow of hands
playing on the floor
in a darkened corner
out there somewhere,
the muse is waiting,
mute and trusting
Leaving Maine in June
The leaves are full,
my lives scattered
in their season,
ready for use,
bits & pieces:
hope, joy,
persistence.
Chang Moi Rd, Soi 2
cool morning air,
industrial garage door
partly open—a man
weaves the bottom
of a basket, holding it
with one bare foot
on an overturned bucket,
hands flying in circles,
the basket widening;
he senses me,
twists his neck to see,
his shoulders tighten,
hands never stop
Dharma Walk
slim in white
head to foot,
moving steadily
through crowds,
shoppers, vendors,
smells of grilling chicken,
chilies, steaming rice,
revving motorbikes—
her eyes
freed of desire,
irrepressibly alive,
greeting Buddha
every side
Chiang Mai Gate
Tuk-tuk Driver
head shaven, beads,
Asian shirt, a westerner
in his thirties
bows elaborately
to the tuk-tuk driver,
palms together,
bowing again,
turning away
well pleased
the small bald brown man
watches him leave,
silent, amused
Ballad
open to the sidewalk:
cement floor,
a lathe, well oiled,
clutter of mechanic’s tools,
metal desk, papers,
an orchid,
fuchsia and pink
behind one wall
a man is singing,
his voice descends
like a falling leaf
slanting sideways,
this way, then that
Chiang Mai
River Ping
muddy, moving slowly
by the Governor's Mansion,
I'll be leaving soon
in the same direction
on this path
along a grassy bank,
but first:
a yak horn ring,
traveled around the world,
must be returned
to the Himalayas—
a prayer hurled
for the giver,
for love joining
and flowing—almond arc
dropping into light red brown,
tiny splash,
spinning & settling
Bedouin
I grew up alon
e,
alert to love
as a Bedouin to water;
when the young visit,
soft-eyed, well cared for,
walking with full packs,
uncertain in the heat,
I take only what I need
for the journey
to the next oasis:
a grandmother content,
a monk in orange,
a schoolgirl awakening,
the treasure of her days
unspent.
Chiang Mai
Kirstine Aloha
Steady eyes, Baltic bluegraygreen,
painter's eyes, a hint of pain
not quite remembered,
broad forehead, chestnut hair
loose and full,
long arms,
you are kneading bread
in a well-lit kitchen,
floured hands push
and roll the dough,
lovely hands that held
the boy you led to music,
that wouldn't kill a kitten
on the farm;
white dust glows in the air,
a tiny heaven
above the globe,
over the Himalayas,
over Hawaii, where
they say aloha,
not goodbye,
aloha in the bread,
aloha for the ones
who eat it,
aloha always.
Chiang Mai
When Eleanor
hummingbird
olive & yellow, hovering
beneath a canopy
of dark banyan leaves,
taking what is given,
once seen
The aria from
Goldberg Variations floats
through the French bakery
near Chiang Mai Gate,
Glen Gould, I think.
When Eleanor plays this,
joyful and relaxed,
her true love, Bach,
has no need for words.
An Oughtred Boat
the beauty of these curves—
bursting, brooding, enigmatic,
promising, smiling even
in the waves, the waves
bearing this insouciance lightly,
as though holding a baby
or an egg or hope itself—
made by hand,
to carry your soul
across the bay
On a Honda 125
hiding from rain,
curled sideways
behind her boyfriend,
his arms reaching forward,
her head lowered,
cheek between
his shoulder blades,
the modest curve
of her body—
Asian, resilient,
moving away
at the green light
Asgard (for Inge)
two wooden chairs
valley and mountain
the singing and grief
of all living things,
in this silence
comforting the earth
Glennifer,
Australia
Inge
I
barefoot, head up, striding,
sure & quiet
II
driving, one strong hand
resting on a slim thigh
III
Viking cheek bones,
light blue eyes,
wide mouth, smile
a shaft of sun through clouds,
lighting a gray sea
IV
green
sheltering mountains,
purple blossoming jacarandas,
grass, fruit, flowers,
herbs, vegetable gardens,
a pond and family of ducks,
singing frogs, silent snakes
redyellowbluegreenflash, parrots
to a tall camphor laurel
compost piles, nature
in rhythm and balance,
including Inge
planting, feeding, watering,
tending
V
on the ground,
hidden by bushes, an archway
of dried twigs & stems
carefully set side by side,
curving outwards
and back toward the center,
open at the top—
built by a bower bird
for a female to walk through,
choosing him for her mate—
originally decorated with scraps
of anything a special blue,
empty now, a masterpiece
for a season
Asgard
Gleniffer, Australia
Aussie Justice
Inge and I wait outside her Land
Cruiser while Mort fills it with LPG.
A sour-faced driver slides up behind
Inge to the next pump, too fast,
too close; she didn't see him,
might have been hurt. Mort
fires the heavy fuel cap
at the back of the driver's head,
"SORRY MATE,
DIDN'T SEE YOU COMING!"
The cap ricochets off the door frame,
flies ten meters ahead to the asphalt.
Silence. Inge bemused, knowing
her sons capable of anything.
The driver stays in his car.
I retrieve the cap, hand it to Mort,
"Pretty good shot."
"I reckon a centimeter to the right
would have taken his glasses," he says,
calm, quite satisfied.
Waking, Sunday
doves calling: there's hope for all … hope for all …
Bach cantatas, 80 and 147
(Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring);
remembering
the smell of snow
Chiang Mai
"Forever Young…" (Thanks, Bob)
On the cusp of old age,
looking for a home
on land or water,
perhaps a van
with a painting
on one wall, a bunk,
camping stove, cooler,
a few boxes of books,
tools, a basin
for washing—
a boat is less practical,
more cheerful, not so
mechanical—I'd rather
wake up on a boat.
For the Silent One
who sells stamps and packaging
at the Chiang Mai Post Office
on Prapokklao Street,
speaking only
with her eyes and fingers,
as though to keep intact
a quiet inner music—
to be given to us,
one by one.
Hallelujah
life, a silhouette
defined
by the darkness
into which
it disappears,
yet, this morning,
by Angel's Cafe,
an eighty year old,
hair swept up, held
with a simple comb,
walked confidently
on the cobblestones,
delicate cotton
singing with blue,
flowing to her ankles
Chiang Mai
Mary Cassatt
In an Italian restaurant
in Chiang Mai, designing
a table for a van in which
I will live, a toddler with
short fuzzy hair is attended
by his mother and two Thai
waitresses and Mary Cassatt
who, childless, painted maternity
just so, tender & watchful.
The little boy rubs his nose.
He will not remember, but
he will stride forward
confidently.
Listening
electric guitar:
jazz riff across the alley,
over and over—practice—
the same notes
never boring;
the caring carries,
the attention,
better than
bravura performance
Veerachai Court
Saturday Night at Daret's
I must praise
the rough justice
of nature—
the ravenous young,
an old woman sitting,
chopping, peeling, scraping
all day long, her gentle,
free, forgiving smile—
we have “had our innings,”
as Rosy would have said.
Only those who dare
the no space
between humility and pride
escape
the cruelty of time.
Chiang Mai
Sans Fin (selections)
In a Hotel in Perajil
Slide your money
under a plastic shield
for the key to Suite 1,
Aqua Velva blue light,
for full-on white,
or two strobes flashing
near the bathroom door—no dark.
Red neon BAR in the window.
Shouts, engines, horns blasting,
disco thumping.
Alone. Tired.
Lie down.
And be quietly overcome
by grace—
understood, approved,
a part of all.
You only need
a handful of these moments
to get through life.
Panama City
Domingo
In the plaza, an Indian girl
in a red & white cotton dress
strums chords slowly,
searching for the harmony
she feels or wants, singing
a few words quietly;
her music, so simple,
heals like sunlight,
universal air.
Boquete
For Jeanne
Lobster buoys
heaped on a dock
in melting snow,
bright bands of
red, green, yellow,
tangled lines,
high tide,
an American flag
hanging motionless,