A DREAM OF HEREDITY

from 22 from TOTU

I am walking around

with my son on my back

    and his son sitting

      on his son's back and

             I get angry

because they

  are getting

a free ride

and my

         feet are

        numb.

I look down at my feet and see

   they are not moving--

     I am sitting on my father's

        shoulders and he is

          sitting on his own

            father's--we are

              midway more or less

                  in a stack of men

                    that disappears way up

                      into clouds

                        like a tornado,

                     a tornado that spins

                        down to where

                      the stack rests

                    on the back of an ape who

                  is not too

                bright but

                   has more

                 good will

             and loyalty

               than I have

            ever felt

              toward

                him.

All around us, a mob of women locked arm in arm

shout and argue about the whole stack of us, but

they  can  come  face  to  face  only  with  the ape.

Now and then they try to push us over, but when-

ever  someone  pushes at the front,  someone else

pushes back from behind.    We are a tower, im-

pregnable and unyielding.    They are a fierce and

irresistible  savanna.      The  air  is  full  of  the

sound  of  explosions.    The smell  of  powder is

everywhere,  and  the  astringent  taste  of  stale-

mate.  The battle is over.   They  cannot  budge us

and  we cannot get off each other's backs.  We are

all paralyzed because the ape can't move.  I wake

up saying, "Ease off, let the ape breathe.  Let me

         down."

BLOOD SONNET

THE ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY EIGHTH

(addressed to a vampire lover, from One and

Twenty Poems by Grace Lord Stoke)

If you kiss me with blood on your chin,

I won’t mind, I’ll love the taste of salt

And red iron, and lick my lips again

And again invite thy lips’ new assault.

I fear not the stain of life’s precious draught,

Nor do I wish to ever wash it out.

My clothing bears its marks fore and aft,

And I wear them proudly out and about.

This spatter upon the bodice of this dress,

The crusted clot on this blouse’s lapel,

They do not cause me even a moment’s distress,

Though they crowd the drops of soup and bechamel.

Like thee I know that blood was meant to squander

Without concern how anything might launder.

from Keeping Caedmon’s Faith

In a way, my encounter with Caedmon’s life was as much a miracle as his encounter with that mysterious stranger, who never reappeared. What an enormous gift! What a vivid lesson in the enduring power of literature! The story of this monk’s experience had come down to me through the orders of a visionary abbess, the community of scribes and readers, the writings of an ancient church historian, the diligence of generations of scribes, scholars, and editors, and the insight of a teacher who had the sensitivity and generosity to point me in the direction of exactly what I needed to learn—that the speech-fettered could be freed by the juxtaposition of necessity, idea, faith, intelligence, and imagination. Some might call it inspiration answering need.

          .                    .                    .                    .

It made me see the importance of writing for the community, rather than for the erudite and elite. I learned that poetry is rooted in the world of work.

I learned that while the tongue-tied may be outwardly handicapped, we can be healed by respect for what is inside us, and by encouragement and opportunity to express it.

(drawing by Michelle Koppien)