I plan to post a variety of entries that will include poems and essays on various topics. I will start with a few poems from a rather extensive file. I had intended to try and publish another book of poems but decided instead to fulfill a wish on my “bucket list” and write a novel. Perhaps I will post an occasional chapter once I get the hang of this new mode of behavior.
I have chosen three poems on subjects which readers might enjoy. They are also short. Jane told me short is good to start with. Since my garden is doing a spectacular job of growing and because there may be gardeners among you I wrote a sonnet about gardening. I love to write sonnets because they represent a genuine intellectual challenge which probably delays the onset of memory loss and something else that escapes me at the moment. They are challenging because the meaning must be communicated in the space of 14 lines each of which contains the same number of stressed syllables and one must follow a rhyme scheme of abab, cdcd, efef, gg. At least that’s the case with this type of classic sonnet. Don’t request a picture of my garden since that would constitute an act contrary to the meaning of the poem. The poem about old athletes is self explanatory and may tell you something about them you didn’t know. The poem about fisherwomen allows me to give vent to a pet peeve which relates to the nonsense of requiring the use of the P.C. designation “Fisherperson” in publications concerning piscatory pursuits. Enjoy!
Fisherwomen
Please don’t tell me
you have a canoe you row
or a boat you paddle.
Nor does it have a genuine ring
to refer to tippet
or leader
or line as your string.
Such nonsense for me only worsens
when I’m told
I go to the river
with fisherpersons.
Let’s agree women can fish
and let’s call these creatures
fisherwomen,
at least that’s my wish.
And then of course maybe then
we can have creatures
we call
fishermen.
In terms of prowess
I make no distinctions.
In terms of companionship
I have a preference,
be it ever so slender,
and only this
do I ascribe to gender.
Old Athletes
There are poems about
old athletes written by
mere observers who pretend
to portray the pathos of
pitiful old jocks trying
to recover the magic on
public courts in some
park and dream for them
of youthful days gone by
without knowing the old fools
still live in the magic space
at the very top of a jump –
shot where the world rolls off
the tips of their fingers
spinning toward the hoop
and joyously move through
the morning mist upon
the phantom limbs of youth
with no regrets.
Garden Sonnet
They cannot believe it’s a simple thing
to grow a grand garden free of weeds.
‘Tis too hard for them this rite of Spring,
hand-tilling the soil, planting the seeds.
But for me there is balance to restore
in the deeper caring for the fate of plants
as gardening assumes the shape of metaphor
for embracing mindfulness over chance.
There is for each rich fork of soil turned
a reward of soul well worth the cost.
For every moment of peace thus earned
there is a worldly care that is lost.
It is not a simple thing this toil
unless you plant your self in the soil.
