Assessing Yes and No
Ahead of Another Anniversary
After Henri Cole’s At Sixty-Five
1.
Nothing was the same for her.
For eons she studied Buddhism,
never contemplating
or grasping monotheism.
Forever she lived for words,
imagining her early demise
while clutching her favorite book.
If she was honest,
she never read Tolstoy,
or Nabokov--
She refused their heft,
instead ingesting and obsessing
over Fitzgerald and Hemingway.
In the end, she divorced herself
from novelists and fell in with poets.
No, she wasn’t a crisp or chilly Frost,
didn’t adopt Dickinson’s feathery hope.
She stole, pocketed shards of Bishop
and severed Williams’ sugar plums
along with emerald-cut Plath.
Yes, she won playing Scrabble
but admitted she cheated (sometimes).
No, she couldn’t complete
a New York Times crossword.
Yes, she collected and color coded
two dozen binders of verse--
An assembly of Magi recipes,
self-healing remedies created
with Frankincense and Myrrh.
2.
She watched fog lick mossy oaks
while she wandered alone.
She refused to mope
over her chosen swamp-water-life
near a lake called Alice
where only gators thrived.
Yes, she misplaced then reclaimed her heart here.
Yes, it was when He chased her down
a feral rabbit hole of four football seasons.
No, she swore never to be netted--
No fisher’s hook or lure would work.
But a seasick feeling told her
He angled for keeps
when whispering the L-word.
No, she never (before now)
analyzed the sky,
following loud inches of sunshine
as a flock of migrating Sandhill cranes
bugled about monogamy.
She rebuffed their flighty song.
But she admits (more than 30 years later)
her breath momentarily ceases
each time her mate reaches out,
plants his lips on her shoulder.
Perched on a Sixth Floor Balcony
Awaiting a Belated Birthday Call
Hope is the thing with feathers ~ Emily Dickinson
Despair does not have feet--
It flies by itself,
stuttering like a lone fish crow:
Uh-uh. Uh-uh.
No other words or melody
can explain my melancholy,
as I count inky creature-clouds--
One-hundred-eight birds racing east,
away from a sinking sun.
They’re trying to out-fly darkness.
Shadows gather,
fluttering within and around me as I watch
lumps of time.
Studying this dying sky,
I wait and wait
for the slowest of the flock--
Like me, she can’t keep up.
I’d offer a song of support
but harmonizing was never my forte.
My flight pattern’s wonky,
a wobbly woodpecker.
When daylight’s extinguished,
I hold no candle,
yet grasp a single flicker-of-a-wish--
to hear the warble within
on my fifty-sixth birthday.
Impromptu Prayer to Polyhymnia
During a Getty Villa Museum Tour
In a menagerie of marble muses,
you’re the pensive one--
Wrapped in a floor-length robe,
with crumbling toes;
your apricot elbow’s pillar-propped.
Muse of sacred ancient poetry,
I beseech your smile.
Instead, your gaze remains stone-set,
only gifting a swift side-eye glance.
What if I dropped to my knees,
plead for your almighty blessing?
Oh, daughter of Zeus,
mother of Orpheus,
what penance will earn your grace?
Maybe if I pinky promise
a Mount Parnassus pilgrimage--
immerse myself
in the sacramental spring
that trickles down to Delphi.
Patroness of dancing and geometry,
if only you’d sprinkle
particles of gold-leaf into my creativity--
I’d offer a Pacific Ocean
of perpetual devotion.
Jennifer Grant is a recovering journalist. She spent 15 years working as a writer and editor for newspapers and magazines (from the Big Easy to the Florida Everglades) before creating a more poetic life. She now resides in Newberry, FL. Her second collection of poetry, Dangerous Women, won the 2021 Blue Light Press Book Award. Her first collection, Good Form, was published by Negative Capability Press (2017) and a tiny chapbook, Bronte Sisters and Beyond, through Zoetic Press (2018). Her chapbook Year of Convergence was included in Blue Lyra Press’ Delphi Series Vol. IX (2020). Visit her website: jenniferlynngrant.com
Ahead of Another Anniversary
After Henri Cole’s At Sixty-Five
1.
Nothing was the same for her.
For eons she studied Buddhism,
never contemplating
or grasping monotheism.
Forever she lived for words,
imagining her early demise
while clutching her favorite book.
If she was honest,
she never read Tolstoy,
or Nabokov--
She refused their heft,
instead ingesting and obsessing
over Fitzgerald and Hemingway.
In the end, she divorced herself
from novelists and fell in with poets.
No, she wasn’t a crisp or chilly Frost,
didn’t adopt Dickinson’s feathery hope.
She stole, pocketed shards of Bishop
and severed Williams’ sugar plums
along with emerald-cut Plath.
Yes, she won playing Scrabble
but admitted she cheated (sometimes).
No, she couldn’t complete
a New York Times crossword.
Yes, she collected and color coded
two dozen binders of verse--
An assembly of Magi recipes,
self-healing remedies created
with Frankincense and Myrrh.
2.
She watched fog lick mossy oaks
while she wandered alone.
She refused to mope
over her chosen swamp-water-life
near a lake called Alice
where only gators thrived.
Yes, she misplaced then reclaimed her heart here.
Yes, it was when He chased her down
a feral rabbit hole of four football seasons.
No, she swore never to be netted--
No fisher’s hook or lure would work.
But a seasick feeling told her
He angled for keeps
when whispering the L-word.
No, she never (before now)
analyzed the sky,
following loud inches of sunshine
as a flock of migrating Sandhill cranes
bugled about monogamy.
She rebuffed their flighty song.
But she admits (more than 30 years later)
her breath momentarily ceases
each time her mate reaches out,
plants his lips on her shoulder.
Perched on a Sixth Floor Balcony
Awaiting a Belated Birthday Call
Hope is the thing with feathers ~ Emily Dickinson
Despair does not have feet--
It flies by itself,
stuttering like a lone fish crow:
Uh-uh. Uh-uh.
No other words or melody
can explain my melancholy,
as I count inky creature-clouds--
One-hundred-eight birds racing east,
away from a sinking sun.
They’re trying to out-fly darkness.
Shadows gather,
fluttering within and around me as I watch
lumps of time.
Studying this dying sky,
I wait and wait
for the slowest of the flock--
Like me, she can’t keep up.
I’d offer a song of support
but harmonizing was never my forte.
My flight pattern’s wonky,
a wobbly woodpecker.
When daylight’s extinguished,
I hold no candle,
yet grasp a single flicker-of-a-wish--
to hear the warble within
on my fifty-sixth birthday.
Impromptu Prayer to Polyhymnia
During a Getty Villa Museum Tour
In a menagerie of marble muses,
you’re the pensive one--
Wrapped in a floor-length robe,
with crumbling toes;
your apricot elbow’s pillar-propped.
Muse of sacred ancient poetry,
I beseech your smile.
Instead, your gaze remains stone-set,
only gifting a swift side-eye glance.
What if I dropped to my knees,
plead for your almighty blessing?
Oh, daughter of Zeus,
mother of Orpheus,
what penance will earn your grace?
Maybe if I pinky promise
a Mount Parnassus pilgrimage--
immerse myself
in the sacramental spring
that trickles down to Delphi.
Patroness of dancing and geometry,
if only you’d sprinkle
particles of gold-leaf into my creativity--
I’d offer a Pacific Ocean
of perpetual devotion.
Jennifer Grant is a recovering journalist. She spent 15 years working as a writer and editor for newspapers and magazines (from the Big Easy to the Florida Everglades) before creating a more poetic life. She now resides in Newberry, FL. Her second collection of poetry, Dangerous Women, won the 2021 Blue Light Press Book Award. Her first collection, Good Form, was published by Negative Capability Press (2017) and a tiny chapbook, Bronte Sisters and Beyond, through Zoetic Press (2018). Her chapbook Year of Convergence was included in Blue Lyra Press’ Delphi Series Vol. IX (2020). Visit her website: jenniferlynngrant.com
