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Poems from in between

Poems from in between

by Jenifer Cartland


  • April 24, 2020

    Seven attempts to settle my mind

    i.

    my mind chews its way
    through each of my lessons
    spitting back
    what the animal dislikes
    savoring its own justifications

    ii.

    I am lost –
    outbursted, debris stirred-up
    from head to toe,
    carnivorous, unyielding –
    yet you wait for me, still

    iii.

    storm rides
    its pounding path overhead
    swallows me
    while the eye between my two
    observes, disregards

    iv.

    like convent doors
    at the end of the school fair
    my ears seal
    to endless chatter
    and seek secret solace

    v.

    what I hear
    if I listen with true ears
    is your distant call
    waiting to be heard,
    asking where I have been

    vi.

    it is not for me
    to say whether coming or going
    is more or less noble
    I shall sit to watch, regardless
    prepare to make amends

    vii.

    my act of contrition
    is to sit here with you –
    to watch your moon rise
    to shift around my spine
    to rub my hands to warm them

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  • April 14, 2020

    Old elm (revised)

    Abandoned farmhouse,
    graying outbuildings.
    In your final winter, you stood
    with empty, cracking branches
    to tell us plain
    that your kind shade would be gone –

    My father, too, would warn us so
    in his gruffled, dying voice
    to give us time to account,
    to record, to not be frightened.

    Empty sky.

    Time unwinds.
    I see you bud up from soil
    in a crowded prairie before
    this town, this house,
    my people.

    I bend here on your stump
    shaved to the ground.
    Our kinship remains.
    Deeper need –
    a certain kind of new breath.

    We vine together.
    You remind me, I thank you.
    You hold me, I bless you.
    You become me, I become you.


    Time and life give perspective anew, and this poem changed as a result. Four years ago almost to the day.

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  • April 6, 2020

    And our longings will meet

    coming in the house
    with sand between your toes
    or mud covering your boots,
    you may pause
    by my old needlepoint
    and long for vague days
    cradled in my arms,
    singing on your father’s shoulders,
    woods, dunes,
    day dreaming on long highways,
    prairie, corn stalks clicking by

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  • April 3, 2020

    As we begin

    rain falls from fog
    through sleeping branches
    (frail, broken sticks?),
    soaks with slippery ease
    into soil to restore them

    Note: For my friends at Yoga North as teacher training begins.

     

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  • March 28, 2020

    2019, my Dad and coming back

    2019 was a year that was filled with loss for me and my family – a dear aunt, my step mother and then Dad. I have not been able to write much, but am now ramping up for NaPoWriMo. Plus, I am beginning a yoga teacher training and have promised to rekindle my writing practice as part of this.

    To recognize all this change, here is a favorite poem that I wrote for Dad, and a few links to others he inspired (he always made me think hard on Veteran’s Day). Hope you enjoy them.

    How trees grow
    Veteran’s Day poems

    Walking through woods without my father

    I am not sure if it is the breeze,
    wilder, more freeing than any in the city,
    or the wintergreen sending its scent
    up to play with the blueberries and pine
    that brings on this longing afresh.
    You would perch yourself on a ridge
    like this one overlooking the lake

    or a forested horizon, endless to me,
    and explain how the horses would trail
    over the opposite ridge or
    how they used to graze in the pasture
    beyond that overgrown farm field,
    how you’d camp between those two trees
    when you were twelve, or on the beach.

    Even though this is a different woods,
    new to you, I am somehow certain
    you would have such stories to tell.
    You’d pause to take in the air, deep
    and daydreamy, with your easy
    swing of a step that said
    you were not in the city, no, not today.

    You’d skim your hand over the leaves
    and look to the sky to tell me the time.

    Dad three portraits
    Dad at about age 12 (my personal favorite), age 20 (heading off to Korea), and age 70.

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  • March 23, 2020

    Tanka for working from home

    In interesting times,
    I write at my son’s old desk
    cut into his closet
    stuffed with childhood remnants
    curse, avalanche looms

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