Victorian Summer
Intimations of Immortality
If I did not have to be flesh
and bone, I would choose to be
made of wood, so I could lapse
into lazy afternoons as a verandah –
the kind that wraps around a Victorian
house like a cloak on a rich old dame.
I’d step out in grace, my turned
posts steady, my white railing
thick with a century of paint
and a thousand romantic nights.
I’d flaunt flowered prints, petunias,
purple and pink, with black-eyed
Susans and Queen Anne’s lace
in crystal vases, and pots of lazy
ferns. I’d stay comfortable,
calm and slow, like the blades
of the ceiling fan stirring
the humidity as if it were taffy,
and I’d be quiet, so the cicadas
could have their say. And after dark
I’d spread the glow of warm
bedrooms through the trees, even
to the stars, so the universe could
know what immortality is.
The Art of Going
In the quiet lavender of a winter
afternoon, when I think about losing
you when we are old, somehow you
disappear in a wash of pale light
on an empty canvas, cold and bleak.
I think only about my hair, like a glaze
of snow on the craggy bark of trees,
skin thin and yellow like old letters
boxed in the attic. And the palette
of my fear erupts into a spectrum
of selfish shades: the whiteness
of an empty bed; the red of your favorite
chair, uninterrupted, stark; the gray
and silent sweep of noons and nights.
Once, in the Musee D’Orsay, I saw
Monet's “Camille on her Deathbed”
and I knew how it would be – the surreal
web of light around the face, the blurring
of pink and violet vibrating into blue. I
knew why Monet could watch his wife
die and not begin to see the death itself,
for all the shades of life and love
across her face, the colors of holding
on, the art of letting go.
Beads of Light
I was smothered
in words today, buried
in black and white,
newspapers and billboards,
media and memos – like pythons
coiling around my breath,
silencing by squeeze
of script and scrawl.
I would rather string words
together like beads, sunlit glass
and earthy clays, and drape them
across the shoulders
of every man and woman,
then send us loping
through this cheerless jungle,
laughing, with reds and blues
bouncing on our silky
skin, the glint of light
on crystal saving us
from the suffocating dark.
Linda Holmes has won numerous awards for her poetry from organizations in the East Tennessee area. In addition to writing poetry, she has written a book about an ancestor who fought and died in the Civil War. The book was recently published by Heritage Press, Inc. She lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee with her husband and black cat.
Intimations of Immortality
If I did not have to be flesh
and bone, I would choose to be
made of wood, so I could lapse
into lazy afternoons as a verandah –
the kind that wraps around a Victorian
house like a cloak on a rich old dame.
I’d step out in grace, my turned
posts steady, my white railing
thick with a century of paint
and a thousand romantic nights.
I’d flaunt flowered prints, petunias,
purple and pink, with black-eyed
Susans and Queen Anne’s lace
in crystal vases, and pots of lazy
ferns. I’d stay comfortable,
calm and slow, like the blades
of the ceiling fan stirring
the humidity as if it were taffy,
and I’d be quiet, so the cicadas
could have their say. And after dark
I’d spread the glow of warm
bedrooms through the trees, even
to the stars, so the universe could
know what immortality is.
The Art of Going
In the quiet lavender of a winter
afternoon, when I think about losing
you when we are old, somehow you
disappear in a wash of pale light
on an empty canvas, cold and bleak.
I think only about my hair, like a glaze
of snow on the craggy bark of trees,
skin thin and yellow like old letters
boxed in the attic. And the palette
of my fear erupts into a spectrum
of selfish shades: the whiteness
of an empty bed; the red of your favorite
chair, uninterrupted, stark; the gray
and silent sweep of noons and nights.
Once, in the Musee D’Orsay, I saw
Monet's “Camille on her Deathbed”
and I knew how it would be – the surreal
web of light around the face, the blurring
of pink and violet vibrating into blue. I
knew why Monet could watch his wife
die and not begin to see the death itself,
for all the shades of life and love
across her face, the colors of holding
on, the art of letting go.
Beads of Light
I was smothered
in words today, buried
in black and white,
newspapers and billboards,
media and memos – like pythons
coiling around my breath,
silencing by squeeze
of script and scrawl.
I would rather string words
together like beads, sunlit glass
and earthy clays, and drape them
across the shoulders
of every man and woman,
then send us loping
through this cheerless jungle,
laughing, with reds and blues
bouncing on our silky
skin, the glint of light
on crystal saving us
from the suffocating dark.
Linda Holmes has won numerous awards for her poetry from organizations in the East Tennessee area. In addition to writing poetry, she has written a book about an ancestor who fought and died in the Civil War. The book was recently published by Heritage Press, Inc. She lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee with her husband and black cat.
