For those of you who have read my contemporary story of Red Riding Hood and the Wolf, Red Riding Hood’s Real Life ~ a novel in verse, here’s a little pandemic update. Special thanks to G.G. Silverman for her workshop “Way of the Wolf” where this new poem howled into being.
Mornings after breakfast of Earl Grey and freshly baked bread, dough mixed by Red, risen, kneaded by me, she confines herself to the bedroom of our three-room cabin by the sea, where she plays with a kiln-less sort of clay, shapes absence into kaleidoscopic moons, while I, in the living room delve into pastels, not my usual palette, but with the pandemic draining joy I’m forced to employ Pepto-Bismol pinks and Mickey-D yellows to do the bidding of my once feral imagery. This is how we pass molasses minutes of daylight, but the nights—o the nights— remain our delight, cloaked only in slinky shadow of overcast or in adoring lunar glimmer, we smolder with desire, light fires within the hearths of one another’s haunches.
Can’t believe after umpteen rejections I finally made it into one of dream journals! Thank you, Tim Green. My poem “Twenty Twenty” published on New Year’s Eve 2020:
Poet Marvin Bell died last week. I had the opportunity to meet and work with him several times. He was always kind in his feedback and upbeat, excited about poetry and life in general. Rest in peace and poetry, Marvin. Here is a poem I wrote for him fourteen years ago, after his famous Dead Man poems.
The Dead Man knows Haystack Rock is not one of the eight
wonders of the world.
Still, he half-expected (his alive half) that it would be
like another World’s Biggest Kielbasa in Chicopee or Half Dog-Half Deer outside
Des Moines.
Roadside attractions and tourist destinations often turn out
to be the way some enterprising folks bilk the low-intellect Americans of their
not-so-hard-earned bucks.
The Kielbasa wasn’t much bigger than a picnic table.
The half and half dog simply had a bobbed tail and graceful
stature.
But Haystack Rock takes the Dead man by surprise, he who’s
seen so many rocks, above and below ground.
If he were a pre-teen he’d dub it Awesome.
At his wizened age, whatever that is, he calls it Awesome.
Despite all the photos, postcards, and paintings of it—its
presence in person is awe-inspiring.
The scale, he thinks it must be or maybe that old Hebrew
notion of the rock as God.
Whatever it is, it feels good sometimes to feel small.
With a perfection such as Haystack Rock before you, it
lessen the burden of having to try to be
so perfect all the time.
It becomes obvious how fool-hardy the quest for perfection
is for anyone, especially the Dead Man.
2. The Dead Man At Chailly, Sunrise 1865
The Dead Man finds himself in front of the most gargantuan haystack
he’s ever seen—hay not rock.
The sun has already climbed midway, so that the haystack
casts its shadow over him.
The Dead Man is confused.
He knows he was just in Oregon, thinking about the shape of the stone
and how it reminded him of something else he’d seen.
The Dead Man notices there’s something odd about this
place.
The sky seems to comprised of tiny dots of paint.
The haystack too, the green ground, the shadow, the distant
blue mountains, all dots of paint.
Am I in need of
glasses, am I going blind, is this a seizure? the Dead man wonders.
Just as the Dead Man is about to faint with worry, he
remembers Monet, the painting.
This is the one that Monet painted before all the others.
It took Monet 25 more years to do that famous series of
wheatstacks.
This is the haystack that started it all.
The Dead Man realizes he is standing inside the painting.
The Dead Man checks to see if he is also made of tiny dots
of paint.
He is not.
Somehow the notion of art has transported him inside it.
The Dead Man decides Monet’s obsession with the scale and proportion and color of haystacks was more than justified but wonders about the 25 years of not painting haystacks.
I’ve been grappling with the death on August 10th of Pat Schneider, founder of The Amherst Method of leading writing workshops. She was my workshop mentor, and taught me everything I know and love about facilitating groups for generative writing. But she taught me so much more than how to be an empathetic leader. She forever changed my life and how I thought about writing, including my own words. This poem is for Pat.
All Pat Schneider Taught Me
by Lana Hechtman Ayers
You never know at the time,
or at least I never have,
when a chance encounter
will change the course of your life,
and in my case, the flow of generosity,
not only away from the heart to others,
but back toward.
Having been writing since
I could manage a crayon between
my chunky thumb and index finger,
those words rushed and sloppy
were my life raft, a way of testifying
that was surviving daily assault
and still breathing, still willing
to keep breathing, but barely so.
Until I discovered the Amherst Method
casually perusing ads at the back of
a writer’s magazine, I was certain
my words had no use to others,
artless and overwhelming,
without value, and beyond that,
a waste of precious trees.
In that training circle
in the Amherst Writers Method
Pat Schneider’s living room,
I learned how to listen deeply,
not only to others, but to my own soul.
How its voice could raise a bell
in celebration with and for others.
How its lonely distant train whistle
on the night breeze could help
relieve others’ suffering.
In that sacred Amherst circle,
the voices around the room,
were as much my own as their own.
I learned listening is
the most active verb
and speaking is an act of generosity.
I learned forgiveness
of self and others
begins with the words written
on the page, then breathed out
by the lungs, flowing liquid oxygen
into the veins and every organ.
My life with words transformed
from despair to joy,
becoming charged with vitality,
with a soul-renewing energy.
In those precious days with Pat in her cozy home, my breath changed, my heart changed. I became a writer welcomed into the family of writers, as grand and myriad as every human who has ever spoken a syllable of their own truth. And I learned to believe my own truth could be art as well as power.
In this chaotic time of battling racism, illegal and immoral government actions, and the coronavirus pandemic, we hope to defeat them once and for all with as few lives harmed or lost as possible. And yet within the daily of strife of these, I feel my lost loved ones still with me somehow. The memory of their love helps get me through the darker days. This short piece below is about my dad, lost to me on this side of breath nearly three decades ago.
~ ~ ~
A Man of Few Words, But Good Ones
Lana Ayers
My father was a man of few words. He never started conversations. He left for work weekdays before I woke. But his absence made a deeper silence in the house than the quiet when he was at home. Back at 5:30 each workday night, he liked to change out of his coveralls uniform with lace-up boots, take a quick shower, and put on casual slacks in black or brown, with a plain tee shirt, his hairy toes wiggling out of the front of his beach-thong slippers.
Then he’d read the
newspaper before supper, his cigarette sending untranslatable smoke signals up
to the ceiling. Mother told my brother and me not to disturb him. He needed to unwind,
but he never seemed like a ball of string to me.
At supper, we kids
weren’t allowed to speak except to say pass the ketchup or are there
more potatoes? But after our meal was finished, and after I swore I’d
gotten all my homework done for the next day, my father was fair game.
Parked in his well-worn
striped armchair, the black & white television tuned to a Knicks basketball
game or a Cassius Clay boxing bout or to Bonanza, full of big hats and horses,
my father sighed heavily and rooted for the good guys. C’mon, you can do it!
It was then, without my mother or brother around, I asked him one the thousands
of questions that floated around in my head day and night. The kind that drove
my kindergarten and early grade teachers to tell me shut up and sit quietly—we’ve
had enough out of you. But my father didn’t seem to mind.
“Daddy, why is the grass
green?” I’d say.
“Because it sets such a
nice backdrop for the yellow dandelions.” He mimed picking a flower and placing
it behind his ear.
“Daddy, why do birds sing
all the time?”
“Because they want to
make Dean Martin jealous,” Daddy said, wiggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx’s.
“Daddy, why do I have to
eat peas? They taste like mush.”
“Peas are a secret weapon
against sadness,” Daddy said, leaning over to where I sat at his feet to brush
my forehead with his calloused hand. Rough as it was, nothing was ever so
tender.
“Daddy, what is God?”
Daddy got up and clicked
off the television knob. Back in the striped chair, he patted his thighs. I
went to him and he pulled me up into his lap with ease, even though I was a
chubby thing. I liked being so close to him I could count the hairs growing in
each nostril, like dense, secret forests.
“God is the sky,” Daddy
said, one arm hugging my back. “When you see the stars at night, that’s god.
And in the daytime, the fluffy white clouds, those are god, too.”
“I thought God was like a
person, only giant or something,” I said.
“The great thing about
God is that each person can see God the way they want to. I look up at the sky
and feel peaceful,” Daddy said.
“Even when it’s raining?”
“Even then. Rain makes
everything grow. And quenches thirst.”
“Even when the clouds
look like elephants or crazy clowns?” I said.
“Especially then,” Daddy
said. “God is always up there for me. And for you, too. Like an upside-down
ocean of goodness.”
“So why doesn’t god do
anything when everything hurts so much?” I said.
“I know that’s hard to
understand, Baby” Daddy said. “The universe is good, but some people in it
aren’t always so good. You just have to keep believing in the good, that life can
be good, even when things hurt.”
“I don’t know if I can do
that, Daddy,” I said, hot tears dripping down my face.
He brushed my cheeks. “Well, until you can believe it for yourself, I’ll believe for you. When you look up at the sky, I’ll be a cloud, or fog, or the clearest blue, or the reddest star, radiating my love for you,” Daddy said. “Just remember to look up.”
My emotions have been all over the place in these last couple of weeks. It’s been so difficult to stay optimistic and motivated. I’m trying to focus as much as possible on blessings. Of which there are so many–clean water, fresh food, my pups and kitties, my husband, family, friends, the beauty of the natural world, the beauty of all the arts, that I am still here. Here’s a poem that I hope you’ll find uplifting.
Lana Hechtman Ayers
Threads
Threads hang loose from
the ties of my too robustly
laundered mask.
Any day could be my last.
This was true even before
the coronavirus.
But the sky distracts us
with its palette of blues,
its permanent drift.
There’s a Buddhist rift
in autonomy now,
how probability
shifts destiny as if
fate was ever
more than poetry.
The stars are themselves
at last, clearer now
without excess exhaust.
Despite all human losses,
summer blooms & blooms,
fragrances brighter.
My personal regrets grow lighter,
float off. Only what I can do
this moment matters.
Old misgivings scatter
like dust motes in a breeze.
I remember to breathe deeply,
though breath is the way in
for this unstoppable death,
it’s also the only way to live.
Lana Hechtman Ayers
Random Assignment
What in nature could dwarf
unjust murders
by agents of human law?
Not the rain
that washes the streets
of pollen and petal fall
spilled blood
and the spittle
of a black man’s dying breath.
Not the sun
that pretends bright mood
and warmth penetrating
that soul of all who bathe in it—
full spectrum white light
composed of rainbow.
Not the breezes
that blow across continents
and great waters
across imaginary divides of greed—
breezes joining breath to breath
to breath
all equal in lightness.
Not the mountains
that kaleidoscope through
green, blue, grey, brown, black,
golden, pink in changing light—
each peak
all races.
Not the trees
that bless the air with
transformative life—
trees of every shape, size, description
drought tolerant
torrent tolerant
tolerant.
Not the ground itself
every shade of brown
millions of years of heat and upheaval
cooling and hardening
and softening in great rains—
gouged, relocated, steamrolled,
tread upon.
Not the clear not sky
its firefly stars
blinking from vast numbers
of eons ago
their code of creation embedded
in every creature’s DNA
on planet earth
every one
everyone.
And none of it
nothing of nature
dwarfs the violation
the violence
of one human against another
rooted in
random
assignment
of pigment.
Lessons from Lockdown
None of us can truly know
the heart of the innocent man
waiting on death row,
though living in this pandemic
makes us feel closer to
believing we fathom some
great injustice.
That death is the only promise
life ever made, is made
more visible now
by this invisible virus
soaring in and out on breath.
Taking stock, taking inventory
however you say it
(and not just of consumables
like toilet paper and beans)
arrives eventually,
for all of us,
days or weeks into lockdown.
Whether we’ve been furloughed
(or just plain let go)
from our jobs,
or have taken to working from home,
we come to that urgent
question honestly—
what matters most in this moment?
Contemplating impermanence,
cherished clichés come first—
love and family and peace.
Shelter, and safety and sustenance.
Friends and all our faculties—
sight and breath and movement
most of all,
while touch evades
those of us fully alone.
Home is the sky
that is always beautiful,
and the tree that leans a little,
the chickadees coming
to the feeder outside
the kitchen window.
The low moon swooning
and disappearing into the night.
Heightened awareness
of sweetness.
Beloved voices arriving
on the various devices.
Giving and grace
become commonplace—
singing, composing,
planting herbs,
dancing at the curb,
dropping off goodies
for the elderly couple
up the street.
We can keep this all going,
the simple goodnesses,
the heightened senses,
even without threat of virus,
without sacrifice.
All that is necessary—
a shift in attitude from
being among the condemned—
to a gratitude for what is,
for the absurdity of uncertainty’s
boundless lessons and blessings.
A decade ago on this date, my brother died of a 9-11-related illness.
This poem is from a collection about my brother, called
The Dead Boy Sings in Heaven.
The title comes from all my memories having been altered by knowing
how young he'd die, so that even in my childhood memories,
I began thinking of my brother as the dead boy.
He's in my heart always, but especially now,
since he was a first responder.
The Dead Boy Cruises
for my older brother Alan
This may be the happiest
moment of my life.
I never get to tag along
with my brother at nighttime.
I’m in the backseat
of the dead boy’s
hilarious friend Vinnie’s
red AMC Pacer,
squeezed into the middle hump
by his friends
Richard (the smart one)
and Danny (the cute one).
My brother rides shotgun.
The windows rolled down,
the stars clear,
the radio throngs
“The Night Chicago Died”
all the way up
Rockaway Boulevard.
Everyone is quiet.
All there is
is the cruise,
and the breeze,
and song after song,
that make my heart beat
likes it’s in my throat.
As if to signal a turn,
the dead boy
extends his arm
out the open window.
My brother’s hand becomes
a sail.
Mother’s Day Gift in the Pandemic
As the young man comes closer
than three feet to hand me
a complementary
Mother's Day gift bag,
You may be killing me
is what I think but do not say,
feeling the heat of fury
rise in my throat.
I am trying to keep my mouth shut,
hold my breath,
my cotton mask no match for his youth
and eagerness to provide
cheerful customer service.
He has on a mask, but somehow
I can tell he's smiling—
happy eyes.
He’s high school age,
maybe a bit older,
wants to chat.
Says he's going to go
for lots of hikes.
Never has he appreciated the sun
so much since coronavirus,
all this being trapped indoors.
He seems so fervent and strong
and maybe will have
a whole life ahead of him.
I hope so.
Mine may be over soon
now that his breath has come
within the death radius.
He glows with health.
I have lived longer than
I ever believed I would,
an angsty teen thinking maybe
I'd make it to 21.
But the years passed with me
still breathing.
I see now even in the worst
of times—with my grandmother
dying, my violent husband
trying to kill me,
my father dying,
my separation, divorce,
my best friend dying,
my brother dying—
all of it was a gift
I had little idea how to unwrap,
how to make use of.
Now as each day is
a promise not made,
I cherish the sweetness
of this boy's optimism,
my little puff of anger gone.
I have never been a mother
to any but four-legged creatures.
Suddenly I have this lethal urge
to hug this young man—
Coronavirus be damned—
tell him he is wonderful
and loved and the world is
better for his presence in it.
I do neither.
I don't know him.
But I do wish him well
and thank him
for his heroism in this time.
I hope the world will be
the kind of mother
he needs most.
As for me,
today is as good a last day
on earth as any.
Though I'd rather rain
than this balmy sun.
I've had a mere five decades to
practice my humanity,
still very much a work in progress.
No one ever gets it completely right
my Buddhist coach assures me.
Last week she came close to
being in a fatal auto accident.
The sun was not so blameless then,
blinding her as she came
around a curve.
Who would have thought us
as fragile as we are
against light and breath?
Today I will pet my dogs
and cats and hug my husband.
Drink tea.
Eat a ginger cookie or two.
It will be enough. More than.
