Mary Jean's Grand daughter

At six months old, Sarah was already
insulted, mortified at the offer of a bib.
Do you not see how dressed up I came
for you today? she seemed to ask,
tiny bow in her new red hair,
already fashionable in her yellow
and green outfit. It was just a
suggestion, I shrugged, thinking
yeah—you do look great,
thinking more silently:
reincarnation?

She accepted the baby food ‘til
she was able to get hold
of a sandwich from the adult
tray, looking back at me
with those eyes I’ve known
all my life, those Manion eyes
and her hand –pinched my
cheek, pulled my glasses off,
squeezed my nose—look at me,
she said, (minus the words
she’ll be in command
of all too soon, I’m quite sure.)

Mary Jean’s voice, earlier in the
day, before her daughter and
grand daughter arrived, whispered—
Teething ring—do you have one?
I do, I answered—I have grand kids!
too! Put it in the freezer, I heard her say.

So, that’s how I welcomed you, Sarah.
I was one step ahead of you.
After that, I was ten steps behind.

Jazz and Blues

Alison Burns is singing

How Long Has This Been

Going On?

in Montage, and as I turn

my head away from watching

her sing, turning instead

toward the audience,

I see a glassiness

in the eyes of a stranger—

and it is her response

to the song

that tears at me.

A man, on the other side

of the room shakes his head,

ever so slightly, as if to rid

himself of a memory—which

comes out, nonetheless,

like a sigh— his lower lip

a trembling ledge—and I wish

I could put these two folks together.

Doctor's Office

Not unlike Groundhog Day,

over and over, this conversation

takes place:

I have an appointment at two thirty.

Name?

Elaine Heveron.

And you are here for?

Yada yada.

Still living at the same address?

Yes.

Same phone number?

Yes.

Same insurance?

Yes.

May I see your insurance card

and driver’s license to copy?

Okay—here you go.

Same primary care physician?

Yes.

Here’s a clipboard—just fill in

the form, front and back, hand it

to the nurse when she calls you.

The form asks:

Name_________________

Address________________

Phone_________________

Insurance_______________

Reason for visit___________

Primary care doctor________

I say, I can’t believe this isn’t available electronically.

The receptionist says, It is; but we can’t get it.

Once again, I don’t get to read People Magazine.

Assignment I

It is not just the exercise—

that she asks us to imagine

the person we most love in the world—

to be lying dead on a slab in a morgue.

It is not only that she tells us—over

and over, to flesh out the details

of his now lifeless body. Nor is it

the imagined task of having to dress,

for maybe the first, and definitely

the last time— our dearest loved one.

It is not even the idea of the flood of

memories heaving over us, like storm

waves, entwined with the stringy seaweed

of why — why did we not see this coming?

I am fifty years old on our wedding day.

There will be no children.

His boys are young men. Yet, in time,

two grandchildren catch us by surprise.

It is not just the assignment; no—I

have not even begun my unbearable

litany of precious memories and things

I might share, were he really lying there.

No, not yet. This work now comes first—

to fight for our life while we’re both still alive.

© elaine heveron - Aug. 22, 2011

Omega Celebration of Poetry

What was 5 days celebrating poetry at Omega Institute in Rhinebeck like? First, the thrill of seeing beautiful Marie Howe again, brilliant poetry goddess, balanced in head, heart and wit. It was seeing her daughter, Grace, so perfectly named, as she grows into her lovely, sweet, beautiful and very polite daughter.
What is it about Omega that makes it feel like you've really been on vacation even though you're sitting in folding chairs, working hard on new ideas about writing? It is the staff, mostly volunteer college kids in T-shirts and head wraps, mellow as the summer day is long. It is that there is no TV, or newspaper, or sight or sound of cars. No, it's not that; it's the local, fresh, organic produce, an amazing choice of healthy dishes, three times a day. No, it's not just that they have that, but that we don't have to shop, cook, clean, or think about food, except to enjoy it.
No, it's not that, it's the paradise of tall green trees, bubbling creeks, rolling landscape, lakefront with hammocks, tents, canoes. No, it's the cushioned walks on mulch paths. No, it's the hike up the stone steps to the sanctuary. No, it's meditating in the sanctuary. No, it's the massage therapists--the deep work they do. No, it's the 91 other poets who attended, especially the 81 who didn't talk so much. No, it's the open mic, 4 minutes per poet, Charlie's first reading, maybe someone else's last, the quiet respect and appreciation.
No, it's the exercises, given freely and shared afterwards in small groups. No, it's the opening up intimately with other writers. No, it's the exchange of poems we never knew and now will never forget from our teacher's wealth of knowing.
Was it Patricia Smith's daring us to go down the darkest path to the poem we avoid writing? For someone, yes. But for me, no, it was the three hours of laughing at Billy Collins and then, when I met him on the path, that moment I got to make him laugh.
No, it was being in the same room with Mark Doty, hearing his voice, seeing the light of his eyes, even as he saw us larger than life after 4 eye surgeries.
No, it was having breakfast with Nave, who we met at the Taos Writing Salon, and lunch with Frances, who we met at Omega years ago and Block Island Poetry Project. And the new folks, all so grateful to be just where we were. No, it was being with my husband--the only "couple" in the workshop of 92, and hearing folks say, "It must be nice to share this with each other," and be able to nod, yes, it is.
Is it just that? No, it's learning to look at things from a different point of view. To say yes. To say no. To pack up the car, empty of our books, journals full, hearts bursting and astonished.

Why there are no new poems here

I haven't posted any new poems, in case anyone is perusing here lately, because they are all going into the new, soon to be released book, Not Every Woman Swooned on Plain View Press.

They won't be a surprise if you've already read them here; plus some editors call putting a poem on your own web site as publishing it; so they would, technically, not be new in the book if I did that.

Is anyone visiting here that cares? If I get a comment or two, I'll write something just for you.

The Trouble With Winter (an older poem)

It is not the snow or the cold,
not even the wind or the ice.

Nor is it the darkness of daybreak
or indigo evenings.
It isn't the smell of exhaust or
how it blackens the snow,
like an insult.

It is not the lost glove,
or the cold wet sock,
when your foot lands too deep
in a hollowing snow bank.
It isn't chapped lips, cracked fingers
or skin that begs to be scratched.

It is not losing your keys in a darkened
white void. It's not even the fear
of slipping on ice, breaking your
leg or wrecking your car.

It isn't the stillness, or having
to slow down your life.

The trouble with winter is knowing
the homeless roam freezing at night
as you pull up your blankets and
whisper your prayers.