THAT NIGHT — 11/23/63: a Different Mother’s Day

the hospital was full that night

of mothers come to term

too soon

mourning the young president

 

a nurse brought masks for tears

scribbled nothing

in her chart

 

six contractions —

Catherine in my arms

 

less time

than it had taken him to die

and certainly less pain

 

(Rochester, Minnesota, the Mayo Clinic, the world into which I had conceived and born my daughters, altered for all time!)

“Far and Wee”… Homage to e.e. cummings, of course

Thanks to the Poetry Foundation, to e.e.-the-magnificent, and spring itself:

[in Just-]

 

in Just- 
spring          when the world is mud- 
luscious the little 
lame balloonman 
whistles          far          and wee 
and eddieandbill come 
running from marbles and 
piracies and it’s 
spring 
when the world is puddle-wonderful 
the queer 
old balloonman whistles 
far          and             wee 
and bettyandisbel come dancing 
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and 
it’s 
spring 
and 
         the 
                  goat-footed 
balloonMan          whistles 
far 
and 
wee

NOT ‘ROSES ARE RED’ — current poem

I know, I know.  Poets are supposed to be writing about wine and roses, the arrival of spring, zephyrs, and so forth.

My Muse isn’t the least BIT interested — this is her truth this ‘cruellest month’…  Bear with me…

 

CALL IT BLASPHEMY

 

listen, God

I’ll trade You

I’ll take those three hours, any day!

 

forget this sentence of eight entire decades

even the scourging – what was that

an hour or so?

 

when you have a cruel mother

you are afraid everywhere

even in utero

 

o.k., so there was the Via Dolorosa

mine the VIE Dolorosa

and nobody helped carry the heavy wood burdens

 

no kind person wiped tears from my face

on that foreign balcony above a sea

when I finally realized that both daughters

 

were now the property of a cult

–over thirty years ago, Lord,

longer than they were IN my life

 

ah, You say, but there was the Agony in the Garden

indeed, every seed and bulb I planted

was the attempted burial of agony

 

“Will you not watch one hour with Me?”

I have been watching eight decades, Lord

waiting for faith like a mustard seed

belief in just touching the hem of Your garment

 

believing in mercy

 

Listen, God

I’ll trade

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

April 12, 2018

 

 

 

 

“Nor’easter Four” — poem

1 A snow clearing 2011

 

Nor’easter Four

 

what I do not understand about “nor’easters”

is that every single one this month

has poured in like a rain of arrows

in some major battle for survival in our storied west

every single flake arriving

from the SOUTHWEST

 

as though there are two storms

comprised of fickle flakes

sometimes more than half

being the soft lazy wide ones

–nearly the size of dimes

and brighter

 

then the white deluge changes to dots

tiny as sand, as salt

as fog, or dust itself

 

the larger often seem confused

as though asking

–as with WWII posters –

“Is this trip necessary?”

 

reversing trajectories

inexplicably, determinedly

changing directions constantly

sometimes even rising

 

but fine flakes remain no-nonsense

–every so often taking over

filling every pane

sometimes, almost invisible

showing their heftier relatives

how to create

storm

 

1 a snow branch burden 2011

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

MARCH 2018

Advantage of Taking a Wrong Turn — Poem on Cape May and Wildwoods

Willet (Tringa semipalmata) Bird, Morro Strand State Beach, MorrWhat about the rest of you, NJWILDBEAUTY readers???  I am really feeling a horse-in-a spring-barn restlessness, day after gelid day

it’s intriguing going back over poems of other years when I cannot really go anywhere.  Tomorrow’s beach walk at Bay Head has been indefinitely postponed.  Here’s a Cape May situation where lemonade gradually emerged out of the lemon of taking a wrong turn

HEADING OUT

 

if you make the wrong turn

leaving Cape May, as I

have, you may find yourself

 

on a series

of delicate bridges

arching high over clam boats

 

alongside fish factories

where sinuous cormorants

stretch and preen upon dark pilings

 

the pewter-hued roadway

stitches hillocks to tussocks

carrying you through new marshlands

where shorebirds strut

and willets cry their own sharp name

 

road like a rainbow

heads you now toward

the Wildwoods

where all the woods

are gone, of course

 

but there remain other

definitions of Wild

and Stone Harbor rookeries

beckon

 

you may find in your lostness

that radiant marshes

are where you’d really

been heading out

all the while

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Let there be light…”  

 

 

WHEN A DEAR FRIEND DIES — for Alan

Christmas Fog Brig Tasha Alan 2015

Alan MacIlroy and Tasha O’Neill birding foggy Brigantine on Christmas 2015

The news we always knew, but never believed, slashes out of morning, startling and impossible as thunder snow.

Although creativity is the heart of the matter in the home Alan MacIlroy has left for our true home, — neither words nor images come to my summons, as mourning descends upon me.

My dearest Tasha is widowed anew.  Alan’s ruddy car sits in their driveway with its subtle license reminding us of his priority:  TH JRNY.   Now he has embarked on the universal journey.

Over more years than I can tally, Tasha and Alan and I have shared priceless rituals, from fireside lobster in Maine to Christmas picnics at Brigantine Wildlife Refuge.

The day of our foggy Christmas feast, a peregrine falcon had stationed itself upon a speed limit sign — “15 mph” — just beyond the Brig’s northeast corner turn.  My camera does not do justice to this monarch holding court for a rosary of reverent automobiles immobilized upon the dike road.  Alan, Tasha and I quietly slid out of his Christmasy car to stand in silence, worshiping.

After a significant interval, Alan announced, “Let’s not go over to Scott’s Landing for our Christmas dinner.  How could we leave the peregrine?”

Only as I type this, do I realize, the word peregrine means wanderer.

Alan is the consummate mentor.  “Mr. Fix-It.”  Every problem solved, especially in advance, especially for his cherished Kingston church, and local businessmen and women.  Each wooded trail at their Maine home maintained.  Every lobster boat observed upon stormy or tranquil bay.  Each wood fire, kindled on a cooling summer’s night.  His dazzling, impeccable TR 4, shining on the driveway, ready for a jaunt.  He is each woodworking project magnificently accomplished, including caning two chairs for me, burnishing the Provencal olive wood cutting board that had dimmed since I lived there.  Grace, gentleness, generosity.   Smiles and that quiet voice we will no longer hear.  Alan was the essence of tranquility.  Alan is love.

His quietly merry  spirit will be with us on every future excursion. Yet the glow of that luminous man has become memory.

Mary Elizabeth’s crystalline phrases echo as I find myself bereft of words.  May her inspiration be with NJWILDBEAUTY readers  — in this dire era, –in which too many days begin with yet another cancer call:

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.

 

I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;

 

I am not there. I did not die.

***

 

Brigantine Christmas PIcnic 2015

Tasha Prepares our 2015 Christmas Feast

***

“How can we leave the peregrine?”     Now, our wanderer has left us…

Territorial Peregrine Brigantine Christmas 2015

Poem Written in Lobby of Mass MOCA art museum – A Saga of Transformation

Sunshine at MASS MOCA October 2014

 

MUSEUM LOBBY      (a.k.a. Mass MOCA – Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art)

 

conduits of yesterday-metal

vie with writhings pf formidable tubes

against the striated ceiling

 

columns unretouched in this century

allow the past to bleed through

–here, the hue of Mohawks in rain

–there, the tone of too many tears

 

beams scoured by time

jostle too-shiny

modern replacements

 

I resist descending

this fierce metal stairway

leading to that basement

where factory workers headed

to restrooms lacking all rest

where harshness and high walls

surround sinks that still insult

 

this lobby, capacious and echoing

streams with guests

–eager and savvy

–even the children

skipping toward grim gate and guard

 

everywhere

pillars / ceilings / room dividers

flaunt splotches and scars

vivid as palettes of the brilliant

whose lifework adorns

relentlessly eloquent walls

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

Mother’s Day, 2017

***

Factory Wall MASS MOCA October 2014

***

Factory Bathroom MASS MOCA

***Factory Washroom MASS MOCA

I actually thanked the Mass MOCA guards for the policy of not retouching the industrial past of this glorious museum, –full-to-the-brim with the most challenging art installations.  They were gratified, especially when I added, “This reality honors all who worked within these walls.  And underscores the powerful meaning of each artist’s work.”

As a creative person, I viscerally feel how stifled those factory workers must have been, laboring deep within these endless, now empty, but then emptying, spaces.

On this week’s Berkshire Journey, I realized that the transformation of Mass MOCA echoes that of the miraculous Michener Museum in Doylestown, –once a prison where my friends (mothers, nursing mothers, grandmothers) were impounded over an entire weekend for daring to lie down in front of bulldozers who would destroy the banks of the Delaware, so that the dread PUMP could be built to deplete our sacred river.

James and Mari Michener’s vision has been realized, that art triumph over incarceration.

I salute all the visionaries who knew that thought-provoking installations could surpass industrial dehumanization.  Being at Mass MOCA is like standing under a shower of fresh mountain waters, mixed with electrifying ions, generous helpings of stardust, and more than a dash of cayenne.

***

Campanile MASS MOCA Entry October 2014

WHEN YOUR EASTER OUTFIT IS BIRDING GEAR…

Hold on to your Hat Jeanette Hooban at Cape May Hawk Watch Platform Easter 2017

“HOLD ONTO YOUR HAT!” – Intrepid Jeanette Hooban on Easter

Hawk Watch Platform, Cape May, New Jersey

Over the weekend, yours truly set off for New Jersey’s two birding meccas, –Cape May and ‘The Brig’/Forsythe Wildlife Refuge.  As usual, she was running away from Holidays that used to be magical, in quest of winged rarities.  This memorable journey unfolded after Intrepid Jeanette Hooban declared [some months ago], “Carolyn, Easter is YOURS!”

Cape May Hawk Watch Platform aster 2017

HAWK WATCH PLATFORM:  Support these courageous and generous donors, without whose work and words, people could still be slaughtering rare birds by the thousands, all along Sunset Boulevard.

The Climate Change that ‘doesn’t exist’ had other ideas.  Gale-winds had flags snapping almost to the tearing point.  Out of the SOUTH — the direction in which migrants need to be flying.  They may as well have faced a wall.

Wild Wind & Flags Cape May Easter 2017

NOTE THOSE WIND-WHIPPED FLAGS

Jeanette and I learned that only swans, osprey and a smattering of gulls were strong enough either day to surmount the mistral-like onslaught.

Mute Swan in Territorializing Posture Cape May Easter 2017

MUTE SWAN INSTITUTES TERRITORIALIZING POSTURE

We were given three oystercatchers at the Meadows at Cape May — walking around, seeking the ideal spot for the scrape they consider a nest.  Territorialzing was inevitable and amazingly raucous.  Get that verb though, “walking.”  At the Brig, –on the side of the renovated road, opposite Atlantic City–,  a pair of oystercatchers walked around on the pale gravelly substrate, nesting on their minds.  These could have been the pair I watched feeding one young a summer ago, in that same place, where Sandy had devoured the road.

There were a few great egrets in stunning breeding plumage.  They, also, were walking.  Terns wheeled and plunged.  A yellowlegs (I can’t tell greater from lesser unless they’re side-by-side) and some willets also tried to feed in low water, –feed on foot, not on wings.

So, right now, your NJ WILDBEAUTY Cape May activity report is being replaced this time by this poem.  It was written when the Dodge Poetry Festival was still held at Waterloo Village.  Joy Harjo, a feisty, eloquent Native American, magnificently conveyed her splendid multi-level poem, “She Had Some Horses.”

 

“SHE SAW SOME BIRDS”

                                                           (Hearing Joy Harjo at the  Dodge Poetry Festival)

 

she saw some birds who

were little and magical

and easily mistaken

— one for the other —

warbling in underbrush

and sporting, at the last moment

a red kiss

or a brassy crown or a

gold coin on a dark

rump, — and tiny, so tiny

really almost

invisible

 

she saw some birds who

were too high on a tree-

limb or a thermal

or above slate seas

and twisting — this

way and that –, hiding

their field marks

 

they could have been

peregrine or immature golden

against the noon sun but

no one can quite

make this call

 

she saw some birds

with distinctive bellies

plastered flat against

dark trunks which they were

excavating high and deep

where no one can climb

or raid or even — at the very

least — identify

 

she heard some birds

in the wide marsh

as the sun slipped

away from her and even

worse, from her birds

 

who had concealed

themselves among sere rushes

which they exactly matched

so she could not see but only

hear their rattle or click or whine

and wonder if this was her

rail, her shy bittern

 

the ones who so skillfully lose

themselves in the sedges as

she so longs to do in such

a setting,… everywhere

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

 

Slouching toward tomorrow…

https://i0.wp.com/www.shorpy.com/files/images/31229u.preview.jpg

Adams Statue, Washington, D.C., by Augustus Saint Gaudens

Popularly known as “Grief”

Great Consolation for Eleanor Roosevelt in Major Family Tragedies of Her Life

But IS there any consolation for me, for us, for environmentalists, for the Planet?

***

I have so many beautiful new nature experiences to share.

Marvelous examples of fellowship, usually wrapped in nature.

Luminous times – whether with the short-eared owls of the Pole Farm just now, or savoring Epiphany’s King’s Cake with Janet Black and Jeanette Hooban, when Janet was out here from Manhattan for her Epiphany birthday celebration.

But I cannot rhapsodize.  Not even Nature herself blinds me to the horrors of tomorrow, January 20, 2017.  Doomsday to me; and, I fear, to the Planet itself, to Mother Nature herself.

My new pictures will remain in their files

Recent epiphanies will not be shared.

Instead, I offer the only poem that comes to mind — written in 1919, on the hem of the First World War — which I always thought was looking back into time — which turns out to have been prophecy.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

 

 

EXILE – a poem in honor of France

 

EXILE

 

despite the impact of Cézanne

upon the poet

Rilke considered himself

“exiled to the Seine”

 

I am exiled here

under a Caligula governor

to whom ‘my’ nature is enemy

while the new Hitler secures

nomination by the former

Grand Old Party

 

as every World War II book

recounts the rise of fascism

all too recognizable

on every side

in what used to be

our country

 

exile ME to the Seine!

I’ll start at that point of rockiness

where old fishermen gather new fish

beneath the venerable willows

— silence of shadiness

broken only by riverine ripples

 

nearby dark barges

— sleek and gleaming —

–quaint names glowing

at their prows–

evoke other lifetimes

hint of vagabondage

brigandry, while

geraniums and laundry

ripple brightly at their sterns

 

let me become habitué

of the Seine’s Left Bank

savoring anew the courtly lunch

at that dark and storied restaurant

upon the Quai Voltaire

 

followed by long studious strolls

among des bouquinistes

whether or not I buy

I’ll stroke venerable bindings

 

thinking in almost-French

Allons-y, à la Ste. Chapelle”…

“et, après ca, le pèlerinage”

to the grim fortress where

Marie Antoinette

whiled last hours

playing chess

 

awash in sombreness

I’ll seek “une glace

at ice cream’s mecca

upon Isle St. Louis

— seeming a venerable boat

at anchor

upon the dimpling Seine

 

wrinkling and whispering,

the river will announce

“Caroline, bienvenue.”

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

in mourning with France

for the tragedy of Nice

in the summer of 2016