Ellen Porter
8/14/07
Brother Thomas, Potter II.

Brother Thomas is dying
in this house today,
trading fired porcelain
for groaning breath,
still the artist
always the potter.

I reach out to frame a poem
to capture the elusive word,
while he, with fine-sketched bone
and wasting skin,
ever in solitude,
brings forth
his ultimate firing.


Ellen Porter
6/10/07
For His Daughter, Anne

Will’s resurrection came early.
He planned to be with us at Easter,
his family gathered round,
Eucharist and alleluias
the center of the day.

But grinning he rose
no brace or cane
his back as straight
as a forger’s iron.
He rose two weeks early.

His daughters and sons
twined themselves around each other—
orphans now—
their mother dead only a year.

They planned the psalms and scripture
for the holy day of remembrance.
But all held reluctance
in their souls.
He rose two weeks early,
jubilant,
leaving Easter alleluias
silent in their throats.


Ellen Porter
7/16/07
I Remember Only One Thing

Fifty years ago I was seven
not precocious
but freshly shining with a child’s
pure and gracious wisdom.

From California to Nebraska
we drove
through elk and buffalo herds,
through a migration of desert terrapin
stretching the golden range
to the sweet unending boundaries east and west.

We reached my father’s home, his parents,
his closely guarded history.
I opened my eyes and saw.

I remember only one thing
about my grandpa.
It is a genuine memory and
not a tale told in retrospect.
There is no story here to tell
but only a still life, black and white.

I am standing on the sidewalk at dusk
looking back at the white-washed boards
of my grandparents’ house.
Grandpa opens the door and steps into
the wind of the front porch.
I see a strong gust snatch his hat,
round and brown with curving brim.
And it sailed through the dusty air
and he ran after it,
catching up to it
on the green and brittle grass.
That is all I remember of grandpa alive.

Two years later I saw him dead,
laid out in the gladiola-sweetened air
of the front parlor.
My mother has told me the story
so it is not my own memory
save the fragrance of funeral flowers.
My grandma snatched me from my mother’s side
Lifted me coffin high and ordered me to see my grandpa--
No hat, no pipe, no cribbage deck--
I did not recognize him.
And my mother never forgave my
brief abduction.

After the burial
before the dawn
we climbed into the car
and went in search of new life
stretching across the prairies,
death absorbed until it was invisible
until I remembered only the herds
and the hat careening in the wind.


Ellen Porter
5/3/07
Oblation

She has graced our office
two years
and I do not know her title.
But I know the
shape of her spirit.

The phone insists
and she answers
pleasant, hospitable
speaking to monk and nun, solicitor
in the same easy breath:
a true Benedictine.

Day after day
she frowns at her computer
works simplicity on the keys.
(I have tried and failed
to access that machine
leaving frustration lingering on the screen
a prismed, oily cloud.)

But it is the other things,
smaller, perhaps, loving
that douse me in surprise.

She brings coffee
when she sees my need
not as servile feminine or maid
but as quiet, gracious friend.

She speaks of her lover,
a woman, unafraid,
with no apology
offering freedom
to like-hearted friends.

And in miraculous spring
there is the wonder of violets,
clutched in loose fist,
moist towels
awaiting water
from the tiny vase.

Caught by her efficiency
and touched by her grace,
I acknowledge my utter gratitude.


Ellen Porter
6/22/07
She is Electric

She touches fingers with ambassadors
speaks to the women of the nations.
Her time is metered.
Jerusalem finds her weeping,
weeping with Palestinians and Israelis alike.
She blankets the sparks of hate.
There is no world shadow
she dares not bring to light.

Her body knows the toll
of political exposure.
Illness is the premium--
this time painful, invasive, surgical--
and recovering
she is only the sister next door.
She entertains her well-intentioned visitors
with stories, jokes and the absurd.
She pirates the attention.

And there is a third persona
tempered by tears
energized by laughter.
She is mediator, counselor, friend.
When she listens
she is electric
each cell focusing in absolute concentration
on the words, the intimations of the other.
The energy builds
as she sinks her feet
deeply into God.

Political weathervane
casual trickster
deep-seated friend.
How long can she balance
the burden of division?


Ellen Porter
6/29/07
Tendrils of a Poem

An hour before dawn
too dark to trace the outlines
of the room
or the lost words of a poem, unwritten
I sit rocking
awaiting the epiphany of first light.

Outside my window
open wide before
the treasures of summer—
to release them or
to let them in
I am not certain—
tendrils of a poem
caught loosely in its beak
the morning bird sings.


Ellen Porter
7/21/07
Yesterday the maple tree

Yesterday the maple tree
watched and welcomed the potter
strolling to his studio and back.
It knew his shuffling steps
his hat pulled earward against
heat or cold.
It knew his company.

Today the maple tree
stands waiting for his glimpse—
its leaves summer soft, turned
inward with the promise of rain.
It will go on living,
its leaves, great branches,
great old hollow where the
breath of raccoon lingers.

But it will wait long,
not realizing this August evening
that, pushed and pulled
upon a gurney, blanketed in his final coolness,
he will not pass this way again.