Post Poeming

Draft #2  (two sonnets)

(1)

Restful abstraction slides through me as if

I was Jack Frost with too many pretty

panes to remember or like God (maybe),

who sets us all swimming in love that is

unconditional, then is still until

we knock (or some one or thing knocks for us). 

Lately I notice I have themes—that themes

have me in their grip—and I travel these

(repeatedly) without needing to rest.

Dreaming I drive to work (just as I drove
for years), praying along with sunrise and

traffic, pulling into my parking space
ready and remembering nothing—not
what I saw or said or saved myself from.

(2)

Someone or something must be knocking for

me, as I did for past students, actors,  

and committee members!  My classes rushed

by (though students’ time still lagged); my focused

stage characters moved in trance; rehearsals

took my voice flow from above; committees

gathered my spirit with others to tasks,

concerns, business, and a sense of us.

Like magic, absence and abstraction hold

creation in comfort.  I—who, after

birth, feared oblivion—swim instead in

love, feed instead on multiplying fish,

and cast my line to stock as many poems

as I wish to welcome guests in my home.

Posted at Poets United "Poetry Pantry #151."  The original draft is below.

Frost on Window, Wikimedia Commons

Draft #1 (one sonnet)

A restful oblivion slides through me

as if I was Jack Frost with too many

panes to remember or like God (maybe),

who sets us all swimming in love that is

unconditional, then is still until

we knock (or some one or thing knocks for us). 

Later I notice I have themes—that themes

have me in their grip—and I travel these

(repeatedly) without needing to rest.

I drive to work again (just as I did 
for years), praying along with sunrise and

traffic, pulling into my parking space 
ready and remembering nothing—not 
what I saw or said or saved myself from.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

Mother's Day

Scrabble Board by pixelperfectdigital.com

Together this year, Mom and I don't wait:

Scrabble board between us

we fight our duels with wooden tiles and stories to relate

we dive in as if starving for face time 
with tea and cookies, 

dictionaries and words.

Wins and losses? 

We lost track 
we play as if riding teeter-totters 

we talk seriously over our turns

as if we are a dance of brightness, 

love, laughter and fate.

Posted for Poetry Pantry for (and about) Mothers Around the World  at Poets United.  Another poem for my mother, "Daughter Love," is here along with two of her paintings.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

On the train

foggy Hudson River and Catskill Mountains from the train

(1) The First Leg

after Trenton we speed up

past school-bus orange road graters

arms raised to show their muscles

oddly idle 45 minutes south of the Big Apple

duplicate houses and lumber

yards and electric grids

spindly trees, young and growing

or old and depleted shield

towns from transport

more tools of roads and tracks

unmanned though muscular stand

(train windows as their best audience)

an army ready to advance their lines

wherever and whenever ordered

(2) The Second Leg

scenic Hudson River, water in coach

and in the sea-wide shore-less bed

humble majesty, coast guard defense

lighthouses crouched so long amid

rocks and rising waves of water

that people forget they are military,

window shoppers lift up their eyes

Palisades, Storm King and Hunter

slopes, ski trails and forests hugging

thruways and muffled traffic as swift

as the Hudson's channels, much faster

then tugboats and laden barges

(3) The Body

Full spring and its flood levels

whistle hoo-hoo signaling

Hudson depot where white and

purple lilacs garland and scent

where an elderly man sits small

with pipe, newspaper and baseball

cap on a shaded bench until

he sees conductor lifting down

a familiar suitcase and his daughter

until he takes her bag and hugs

she shushes her brain buzz

until she finds paper and pen

alone after dinner, after smiles,

tales and lots of family loving

she returns season in and out

measuring her changes against

unchanging tracks, repeated

greetings, gestures, arguments

only a little more wear 

only a little more weary 

only a little more silent

 Train station, Hudson, NY, USA. 
Supposedly oldest station in New York in continuous use; photo by Daniel Case.

Posted for OpenLinkNight ~ Week 96 at dVerse Poets Pub where Claudia is hosting.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

 

 

 

Artist Date at 4th and Chestnut

 ~

I photograph the lilac tree hoping the scent that stopped me in my tracks will adhere—AH—stand still until I return from Grandmother’s driveway.

I photograph the open-mouthed tulips roaring “Look at me!” so loudly the black-iron gate cannot contain them—AH—this time it’s spring in Albany I see.

Crossing the cobblestones to Ritz 5, I resist photographing people though they look so —AH—I remember heels, tight dresses, and dyed hair from before the Second Wave of Fem …

The tattoos are new. 

I don’t photograph them either, but smile as I imagine reading in bed—AH—I smile and buy a ticket to Robert Redford’s “The Company They Keep.”

~

Photos by Susan Chast

Posted at Poets United Poetry Pantry #149 with gratitude.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

Dear Frost

A Re-Reading of Robert Frost's  "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

The Woods are lovely, dark and deep

and I have no promises to keep—

for all I know this may be sleep

saved up from summer and fall

when I had no time to watch at all

Well may these woods fill up with snow

as a cooling and softness before

journey’s end—and though more

day emerges as solstice turns

my heart for rich darkness yearns

Sweep of easy wind and downy flake

help in sighting sound words to use

in telling the tale you now peruse

of retirement with no need for sleep

of joy in memories from the deep.

Posted for Theme Thursday for May 2, 2013 - REJOICE.  Robert Frost's famous poem is below.  Reposted for Open Link Monday at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads in the month of Robert Frost's birthday.

Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

**from The Poetry Foundation