Ellen Porter
11/24/07
A Rented Canoe

A rented canoe
does not suggest efficiency
but rather a haphazard
attempt to stay above water.

Paddles dip close to turtles
lined up like school children
on a sunken tree, one last
plaything.

The lagoons stagger under
a new strangulation of reeds.
Soon there will be no corridor
of water to turn a boat.

But the beaver will remain,
the school-master heron
supervising no one with one hidden
one decorative leg.

The canoe floats in circles:
our ineffective rowing.
We are diminished by foolishness
to learning the deep kept secrets
of turtle, beaver and bird.


Ellen Porter
9/20/07
Crow

Late morning I lie
under the sentinel pine
my hair a wilderness

of green, brown, golden
needles, and my feet wrapped
around with tree dust.

A crow, black shadows for wings
opening, fluttering, pretending
to take flight, but

watching the ground, screaming
its displeasure with
my annoying presence

and secretly, seductively,
its heart as red and divided as a pomegranate,
studies, curled at my side,
the cat.


Ellen Porter
9/22/07
Hanging By Hand and Foot
(after Hafiz)

Ellen,
why are you hanging
by hand and foot
from the lower branches
of the walnut tree,
your bum exposed,
waiting to be smacked?

Why not get out of the tree and
make yourself invisible?
Then follow the laughter of the Beloved
while She tries to figure out
what in the world
you are doing.


Ellen Porter
11/15/07
listen to this

listen to this;
it is true.
i do not know the names of trees
this far east, lake erie,
except the sycamore.
i remember the sycamore in my neighbor’s
yard in California:
it traces the shape of leaves,
leaves the sound of whittling wind
in my ear.

but i do not know the other names.
i only know that some turn
glimmering red and gold
while others hang on to green
as though they might die from changing.

listen to this;
it is true.
if i were an eastern tree
i would be almost ready
to shed my leaves, burnished
with vivid color.
if only i were sure of spring
the black branches of winter would clack-clack,
but hold no terror.


Ellen Porter
10/25/07
Poem

The pen tumbles from my hand
as I consider the progression
of cancer in this
wild and willful body.

The dawning hours of inking
leave me
sterile with worry.

Is it not possible that
words might curtail
the indomitable growth,
that creation alone
might meet the hungering dark?

I take up pen
and squeeze the poem
perhaps to glean some phrase
some line
to convert this piercing destruction
into light.


Ellen Porter
10/07/07
The Cat
(after Hafiz)

I am tumbling around
in my chair
like the unobservable
cycle of wash and rinse.

Even Hafiz is troubled today.

The cat–the one we adopted from the streets
as our personal guardian–
was found stiff and dead
like a floundered fish
or a broken bough.

I see no reason for this death
except she hissed at
one too many friends.

Even Hafiz saw her sharp little teeth
bared for thunder.


Ellen Porter
11/20/07
These Embers Burning

These embers
burning in my knee
might brighten into flame again
the inner wicked pain is
no sweet agony.

My mind dabbles at the edges
I, no dilettante of pain
but a new-come visitor
eager to meander other rooms.

The drug begins to take effect
the ice digs deep into the swollen skin.
I do not know the cause of
this unwelcome guest, this ache
but I will not unbolt the door again.