De-coding an Old Poem

 

Today I read poems I wrote 10 years ago
and didn’t understand them, except
I could tell they were intense.  No
playing around allowed.  I must have
understood them once upon a time. 
Myth is like that, and tarot cards, and
spells—accessible to those who first
coded and recorded their secrets and
hid their power, and after that,
a mystery to solve.  If I let them sink in 
past the scrutiny of the mind, and seek
them on the emotive, on the playful level.
If I laugh at myself, laugh with myself.
If I trust that I was present at the beginning.

Then, relaxed enough, I believe I can return
and read to find the hidden meaning.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast 

In praise of forgetfulness

 

 

Forgetfulness walks hand in hand
with its twin, forgiveness. 
I’m grateful for this pairing,
Mom and Dad.  We held each other
in anger and recrimination
far too long.  I regret we had
to age to overcome details,
but I’m grateful that it happened
before you died.  Love is left.
The pride and sharing I longed for
from you is partly realized,
as is the closeness you wanted
from me after decades of distance.
 
Over the years I lived fully—
without apology—but tried
to share my art, loves, plans
and hopes with you as they evolved.
Better to remember Rilke’s
lesson to rejoice in your own
growth, but don't try to take your
folks with you.  They wouldn't be
able to understand.  Simply
love.*      At last, all of us did.
Forgiveness walked hand in hand
with its twin, forgetfulness, to heal
the pain we caused each other. 

 

For Sumana's prompt "Forgetfulness" at What's Going On? 

 

* ”. . . rejoice in your growth, in which you naturally can take no one with you, and be kind to those who remain behind, and be sure and calm before them and do not torment them with your doubts and do not frighten them with your confidence or joy, which they could not understand.  Seek yourself some sort of simple and loyal community with them . . . .” ~ R.M.Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1934),  Page 39, “Letter Four” 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast 

Today’s Sermon

 

                                     

is waking early enough
            to catch rain at dawn,
 
to stretch the pain out
            of my body before rising,
 
and to remember the tasks
            and joys of the day.
 
Today’s sermon is
            wind rushing clouds away
 
so my errands are dry
            and not sloppy.
 
Today’s sermon is
            clumps of grounded brown leaves
 
along the walkway
            that leads to my car.
 
Today’s sermon is
            easing into my seat
 
returning packages 
            to on-line merchants,
 
getting a haircut, and
            freeing my mind.
 
Today’s sermon is
            that some days carry
 
grace without surprise
            and without rainbows.

 For Mary's prompt "Today's Sermon" at What's Going on?

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

Homecoming

 

Van Gogh's Irises (1890)

          If I returned to the place I felt most at home in my life, I’d unlock the door to a basement apartment on Washington Park in the early 1980s, kitchen open to a private backyard—an extra room for cookouts, gatherings, reading, listening to music—all with the feminist friends who made up family, women who cooked and worked and played together, who kissed and hugged and held each other with love and accountability.  Who do we spend time with?  What is justice and where could we find it or how can we build it?  A Women’s Encampment for a Future of Peace and Justice is one of many visions we shaped into reality—trial, error, and success within reach while the home oasis softened the journeys we took separately and together, experiments with collective living and problem solving. 

          Can I get more specific?  A joy to come home at work’s end and find messages in the notebook by the telephone—no mobile phones, no texts.  A precious kind of silence and trust. Looks like 5 for dinner.  I make spaghetti with tomato sauce and salad, and put up a pot of lentils for soup, and as guests flow in, they add a wedge of cheese, a loaf of homemade bread, onion and celery for the soup, a jar of salad dressing, halvah desert, and a CD of new music. A wonderful breaking of silence with tales of the day and evening plans, maybe a rehearsal or movie, maybe a meeting at the women’s center.

Each move, we weave new
webs of friends flavored with the
same herbs and spices.

For Sherry's prompt "HOMECOMING"at What's Going on?

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

 

This poem wants to disturb your peace.

 

source

This poem wants to disturb your peace.
Look around.  Like me you might not
see refugees or other home-
less people. Like me, you may feed
and house only your own little
family.  Like me, you may feel
happy to be privileged with
safety and permanency—you
may not know how fragile these are.
But it’s vital to know, vital
to rehearse the moment you will
lose everything.  So you have things
in place—a plan to meet your tribe,
a pack of supplies and tools like
screwdrivers, can openers, life
savers, safety pins, a change of
underwear, a blanket.  What else
is essential?  Photos?  Paintings,
pets and pet food, plants?  Pots and plates?
I will head north, where water is
plentiful and people friendly.
With my walker for balance, I
will look for smooth surfaces to
travel on, benches, cooked food, and
clean water, public bathrooms, and
toilet paper. I will look for
people who, staying home, will help
me on my way.  Me and others.
I picture a crowd, a stream of
walkers doing our best to stay
cheerful and energetic no
matter how little sleep, soap, soup,
and sweetness we discover. No
matter how welcoming or
hostile the borders are to us.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

 

Giving Thanks

 

source

Let us feast this weekend
for thanks giving on its
best of the harvest and
turkey, too; and let us
 
feast on the company
of the new oldest and
youngest of our tribe, on
the sports and games we play
 
and watch together; and
let us feast on the way
our eyes and smiles say love
even if our mouths don’t.  There
 
is work to do, too, with
thanks for the hands and hearts
that wash the pans, and the
knowledge that when this week-
 
end ends we will go back
to earning our living,
to living, to taking
care of the planet and
 
to making our voices heard.
We’ll feast then with people
who support our causes,
though some here now will not.
 
Let us know the limits
and the learning edge of
those we spend time with
and, most of all, ourselves.

For my prompt "Feast" at What's Going On? 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast