Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 22 January, 2010
In the hayed field thick with dusted mist,
As the noon whistle of the village hissed,
We noted how the dead were neatly placed,
How all lay labeled, how all were given space.
We remarked the craft of marble wreath,
And proposed that those who lay beneath
Were clad in the fashion of their day,
Some fitting shroud in which to greet eternities of clay.
Nearby we saw the fruits of Arbor Day and said
How lovely were the trees; how well pruned and fed.
The trees ignored our gaze, as was their right,
And spawned a host of shadows, imitating night.
The hill before us, like some weathered tomb
Passed by in spring, above us loomed
With high and wind smoothed walls of slate
On which the trees' sharp branches scraped
An etching of themselves slashed into sky.
But we were late into our day and a bird's cry
Made us spy the gray and shaken sheets of storm,
That sheathed us soon and drove us down
Into the brambles where the ancient Indians lay,
Sheltered by the weeds from the weather of the day,
And resolved beneath to, sightless, calmly wait
Upon the last night's opening of the gateless gate.
"The weave of roots took our eyes away.
The seeping rain removed our clay.
Our husked dried skin is steeped in sleep.
If you would awaken us, you must dig deep
"Beneath the earth of whittled leaves
Beneath the grief that no longer grieves;
To awaken us you need a careful touch,
For dig you must, but never dig too much."
We turned from the field and its rustle of birds,
Where sunlight had played on summer words,
Playing now to winter's chiseled stones,
To the hissing silence of abandoned bones.
Their stillness slashed dry grass with scythes of wind,
And made us wish we could a thousand acts rescind,
But we knew our wishes were for naught,
For what is easily sold is dearly bought.
Instead, we startled life in a whirr of wings,
And in that moment came to present things.
We went home, made tea, and sat together,
Held hands at evening and talked about the weather.
I was going to ask Gerard whether he had every published an anthology of his poetry, then decided to Google to find out for myself:
http://www.solopublications.com/jurn7109.htm
Something wonderful, indeed.
There is obviously more out there and more to come. How about a bibliography (to date) Mr Vanderleun?
Posted by: Frank P at January 23, 2010 2:46 PMActually, I don't know if that was published or not. I recall being asked to submit but I lost track of it after that. I have seldom pursued publication but there have been a few here and there over the years, but I quickly lose track. There was something out of a publisher in France a few years back but I'd have to look it up.
Posted by: vanderleun at January 23, 2010 2:55 PMThat, Gerard . . .
Well.
What you managed in that last stanza is very nice - very Frostian.
Hay fields and inner and outer weather.
Always know great lines when I wish I'd written them.
Posted by: Cathy at January 23, 2010 5:46 PMI would very happily buy a book that contained a collection of your poems. It would be especially nice if it included the pictures that accompany them too.
While I could just print the poems out, there is something more satisfying (and more portable) about having a real volume I can hold in my hand and go back to easily at will.
If you do find a publisher, tell the editor to be sure to put the date of presentation on your website of each poem on the page where the poem is printed, since some of your poems connect nicely to the "feeling" and events of certain times.
Posted by: Gloria at January 24, 2010 11:26 AMThank you. Perhaps I'll do one myself via print on demand. That way I could control the process.
Posted by: vanderleun at January 24, 2010 1:54 PM"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated to combat spam and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.
HOME