Ellen Porter
11/10/07
Breath and the Moon
It all started when I couldn’t breathe.
When I couldn’t bear to stand still
and watch the moon
shining like a silver coin
outside my window
lofting from branch to branch
through the sycamore tree.
I couldn’t purchase air enough
to fill my lungs
and the doctors came
and the doctors spoke
and frowned their sympathetic
smiles while they told me
tonight would come before tomorrow’s
noon and I would likely see it.
Cancer, they say, cannot be outwitted.
But dangling from their fingers
like a cat’s catnip mouse
they offer one more hope, one more small hope,
and desperate, I grasp at it
in utter fear and trembling shame.
Ellen Porter
9/18/07
Inner City
Three little boys
brown and golden as forgotten waffles
swing together in my hammock
knees and legs entwined
heads knocking lightly together.
They are laughing as I approach
my pillow and water and book, my oxygen
balanced against aching elbows.
Is this your back yard? they ask.
No, I say, but it is my hammock.
Is this a church? They point to the house.
No, I say, it is a house where my friends live.
It looks like a church.
Where do you live?
Next door in the big building.
Could I have my hammock now?
They laugh and tumble out.
You can have the cat if you can
catch her, I shout after them.
The cat comes running to the bush fence
and escapes the six nimble hands.
The boys slow to a walk and
as they leave I hear one whisper
She even has shade here!
Ellen Porter
10/21/07
Nowhere near the union
of perfect love
I hide my face in shame
from the Beloved.
God loves me.
It is the only thing
left to say.
When I argue with
my friend
we sparkle in anger
but we are not ashamed.
Practicing love
practicing, practicing.
One day I will
pull the shameful
veil from my face
and let myself
be seen
by the Beloved.
Ellen Porter
11/0407
She Is There
I have not forgotten
that the Beloved
holds an angry charge.
Some sweet orange blossom days
She reclines in smiles and
sun-dappled silliness.
But I have known Her
to fling the burning sphere
from the heavens
and to roar,
initiating the unsuspecting
with a dangerous wrath.
We dirty the waters of ocean, lake and stream
and She is there.
We clang and tangle noise through city parks
and She is there.
We reap sterility from mine, rain forest, grainy field
and She is there.
And then we fall in tearful remorse for our sins and those of our kin
and She is there.
I tell you beware:
the Beloved is no play thing.
She offers a serendipitous joy
with Her beckoning arm
but with the other hand
She prepares a sound slap
for all the whirling world.
Ellen Porter
10/13/07
The Speaker
She is polishing herself
like granite.
Before the audience,
she is polishing herself.
Her hand brushes up against her eyes
pushes back her hair
fisting like an uphill stream.
She hides her face from us,
polishing.
Her words glisten.
She mirrors intensity, forgiveness from her sheen
and bitterness:
love of turtles and muskrat
otters, red-winged blackbirds
and fish
swimming the mother water,
polluted.
She shines clean
a river, surface slow,
and undertow of flame.
She burns redemption as she comes.
Thrusting my hand toward her eager soul
I do not wish it for myself—
I am nearly spent—
but plunder for the body politic,
the children
for the sprouting children.
Ellen Porter
12/08/07
Valerie
Today she celebrates
The beginning of her life on earth.
For the larger part, there has been joy:
sled rides on her first snow,
I held her close between my legs and
we squealed together, passing pines and
stones and squirrels.
At eleven, a backpack trip—
her first week
away from home, snuggled up against
this adoring aunt, naming the
“miss your mommy day,” and singing
“She’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes”
in thunder, echoing off granite craters.
And much later, her wedding day.
the rings missing, she announced it loudly and firmly.
And when they were found
she sobbed against her lover’s chest.
I knew she had passed from exuberant child
To able adult.
And together the two set out on a journey:
the fifty states, surfing, rock climbing, camping again.
Then one day she called with new life in her belly
and we all cried with the joy of anticipation.
Now a mother—a wise and careful mother,
raising a child named Grace.
And with Mark, she continues to grow and to create,
to deal with crises, and to find joy
in this life on earth—the only life she owns.
Many more years to be celebrated,
and in my presence or in my absence
I love you Val, and I will forever.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Ellen Porter
11/27/07
Begonia
True friendship is not
based on fidelity of heart.
The garden blooms, not
because the gardener stands
in open-mouthed awe
but because someone has
taken the muddy hose
and left water in its wake.
So, too, our friendship.
Last evening my begonia
sagged, its leaves soft
and wilted as week-old lettuce.
I was too tired to tend it.
In the night, you offered it water
and this morning its leaves are
crisp, straining toward light.
That, my dear one,
is
utter friendship!
Ellen Porter
10/18/07
expedition to covington
we pack loosely and leave the priory.
we aim the headlamps south;
the road to home narrows behind us.
we are going visiting
like old aunts
to a familiar motherhouse.
the sisters will receive us
as kin (and some of them are)
and we will settle
our rooms, our underwear, our souls.
four days for secret thoughts
the familiarity of matins and vespers
laced with whispering, keeping
tradition, a skeleton
bracing up our windward spirits.
gratitude for daily office and novels
for baseball scores and beer
for wandering the zoo.
But we cannot roam too far.
A few days and we will
pack loosely and travel the widening road home
to matins and vespers
and whispering.
Ellen Porter
10/17/07
inner city fatigue
to trade pot holes
and concrete
for the heron
flying
legs a jet trail
behind the splendid form
of tufted head and
sleek, knowing feathers
do not tell of this
secret trade
i hold it close
behind my eyes
and fear that
with the telling
the bird, the pregnant sky
will vanish
in the knowing.
Ellen Porter
11/07/07
November Snow
No more cobs of corn
the season quietly unfolds;
yesterday wind and snow
decorated the dying sky.
Ellen Porter
9/26/07
September 26
Past the autumnal equinox
my blood pounds through my veins
toward winter.
My sweet summer memories lag
as early morning pulls its chill
up around my crackling window,
the cold barely kept at bay by
lintel and latch.
I close my eyes,
blind to the cold
and remember days ago
running out the door
barefoot,
delighting in the summer softness
of warm air against my skin.
I remember the lime green leaves
of early spring,
the wildflowers,
and the clover grass crouching,
waiting to be mown.
I will be different in autumn
and utterly different in winter.
I will lose my subtle memory
of gentler seasons.
I will blow cold steam
from my fingers
and, hunkered down against
perpetual gray,
I will reach out in vain remembrance
trying to touch the magnificent
petals of spring.
Ellen Porter
10/07/07
The Soul Withers
I have known the ecstasy of love
my life a tapestry
rich as silk, strong woven.
I have lost my heart’s center
longing for the beloved—
rarely mine but always beckoning.
O, I have loved loving
there is no regret,
but never have I lost
one precious;
death has never stolen away
the anchor of my soul.
And so my life is half full.
Without the devastation of grief
the soul withers in delight.
Ellen Porter
10/2/07
Two Days Tired
(after Hafiz)
I am two days tired
and Hafiz lies in bed
counting his toes
and waiting.
I have lost the
gentle stroke of the Beloved’s hand.
She has turned Her
huge and love-soft body away.
I pout and send Her
accusing glances.
Hafiz calls to me;
he is still reclining, unconcerned.
Listen!
The backside of God
is far better than
your bitter arrogance.
So go vomit, clean your lips
and
falling on your knees
kiss her tender thigh.
Then the three of us
will whirl like dervishes.
11/27/07
Begonia
True friendship is not
based on fidelity of heart.
The garden blooms, not
because the gardener stands
in open-mouthed awe
but because someone has
taken the muddy hose
and left water in its wake.
So, too, our friendship.
Last evening my begonia
sagged, its leaves soft
and wilted as week-old lettuce.
I was too tired to tend it.
In the night, you offered it water
and this morning its leaves are
crisp, straining toward light.
That, my dear one,
is
utter friendship!
Ellen Porter
10/18/07
expedition to covington
we pack loosely and leave the priory.
we aim the headlamps south;
the road to home narrows behind us.
we are going visiting
like old aunts
to a familiar motherhouse.
the sisters will receive us
as kin (and some of them are)
and we will settle
our rooms, our underwear, our souls.
four days for secret thoughts
the familiarity of matins and vespers
laced with whispering, keeping
tradition, a skeleton
bracing up our windward spirits.
gratitude for daily office and novels
for baseball scores and beer
for wandering the zoo.
But we cannot roam too far.
A few days and we will
pack loosely and travel the widening road home
to matins and vespers
and whispering.
Ellen Porter
10/17/07
inner city fatigue
to trade pot holes
and concrete
for the heron
flying
legs a jet trail
behind the splendid form
of tufted head and
sleek, knowing feathers
do not tell of this
secret trade
i hold it close
behind my eyes
and fear that
with the telling
the bird, the pregnant sky
will vanish
in the knowing.
Ellen Porter
11/07/07
November Snow
No more cobs of corn
the season quietly unfolds;
yesterday wind and snow
decorated the dying sky.
Ellen Porter
9/26/07
September 26
Past the autumnal equinox
my blood pounds through my veins
toward winter.
My sweet summer memories lag
as early morning pulls its chill
up around my crackling window,
the cold barely kept at bay by
lintel and latch.
I close my eyes,
blind to the cold
and remember days ago
running out the door
barefoot,
delighting in the summer softness
of warm air against my skin.
I remember the lime green leaves
of early spring,
the wildflowers,
and the clover grass crouching,
waiting to be mown.
I will be different in autumn
and utterly different in winter.
I will lose my subtle memory
of gentler seasons.
I will blow cold steam
from my fingers
and, hunkered down against
perpetual gray,
I will reach out in vain remembrance
trying to touch the magnificent
petals of spring.
Ellen Porter
10/07/07
The Soul Withers
I have known the ecstasy of love
my life a tapestry
rich as silk, strong woven.
I have lost my heart’s center
longing for the beloved—
rarely mine but always beckoning.
O, I have loved loving
there is no regret,
but never have I lost
one precious;
death has never stolen away
the anchor of my soul.
And so my life is half full.
Without the devastation of grief
the soul withers in delight.
Ellen Porter
10/2/07
Two Days Tired
(after Hafiz)
I am two days tired
and Hafiz lies in bed
counting his toes
and waiting.
I have lost the
gentle stroke of the Beloved’s hand.
She has turned Her
huge and love-soft body away.
I pout and send Her
accusing glances.
Hafiz calls to me;
he is still reclining, unconcerned.
Listen!
The backside of God
is far better than
your bitter arrogance.
So go vomit, clean your lips
and
falling on your knees
kiss her tender thigh.
Then the three of us
will whirl like dervishes.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Ellen Porter
12/15/07
Bar Fly
Hafiz is long gone
I must pick up his book again
to hear of his raucous brawls
and sarcastic taunts.
Oh Beloved
never known till now
and now so early lost.
Oh Beloved
greatest lover of us all
warm and welcoming
soft and mellowing belly.
I yearn for your mother laugh
my deep desire to crackle grey terrain
into windblown greening.
Hafiz
I will pull your book
once again from the shelf
if you promise to lead me tavern close
to our miraculous Friend.
Ellen Porter
12/18/07
Every Greening Tree
Every creature
every greening tree
every painted, gaudy bloom
and so, perhaps,
each chunk of gray and star-strewn granite
each and every one must die.
Days of nonchalance pass by
when I think of death lightly
disease given respite from suffering.
And there are spans of time
pulled tightly into darkness
when I dream of final breath
and darkening hole.
I tremble twice
in gratitude and grief
and some days they co-mingle
leaving me wondering
and weeping
beside the final door.
Ellen Porter
12/10/07
Imagination in Winter
Another December day.
Used snow a dirty scarf
of white and brown
some eight days fallen.
I, biding time till summer,
have not opened the weary screen
kicked in by children,
have not ventured out
into soul-searing cold.
No rivers or pines
no blackbirds, skunks or city cats
within these self imposed confines.
But the imagination is bright
and ink flows evenly from this pen:
a blissful opportunity to carry
a bundle of winter
through these feral halls.
Ellen Porter
10/1/07
Not Two, But One
The two can draw each other
like the sun holds earth in its gravity.
Or the two can lose their grip
and repel each other:
mercury at the repellent end of a magnet.
Either way fatigue eventually subdues
the vital energies.
So drop the focus of two.
Wander off after the Beloved.
Play Her intricate games, refresh your weariness,
gambol in Her delight
And bind yourself to Her
with cords stronger than
the push and pull of two.
Fling your energy away to God
in exchange for
Her lively, exuberant, endless
Passion.
Ellen Porter
12/05/07
Saying Good-Bye
My week unfolds with
the visit of a friend.
After ten years we see into
each others’ eyes
older, with the familiarity
of a dream lost at dawn
touching a vague image
but unable to resurrect the story whole.
I would rather be alone
but, in this final stage of illness
I let them in to say good-bye—
these friends of another era.
Soon I will no longer care
whether or not we say “so long.”
I will refuse each visitor
face by worried face.
I will curl up in my chair,
or lie practicing, on my bed
the still position of death.
Ellen Porter
11/21/07
The Sick Room
My sick room
cluttered by machines and
cotton balls, syringes, alcohol swabs,
there is the oxygen condenser
humidifier, nebulizer.
But across the room
in its comfortable corner
uncluttered, my blue quilt
waits the cool of evening
beckoning, its billows soft,
beckoning, the tenderness of colors,
ever pulling me, insistent, toward a final, uncluttered sleep.
Ellen Porter
10/30/07
Twice Blessed
Twice blessed
the cottonwoods golden
and the sun
shimmering across the
cloud stained morning.
It is so much finer
to look
to look and see the leaves,
the goldfinch, the spot of air
left by the wind.
So much finer than cottages
or chimneys or garden gates.
Though, speaking truly
these, too, add much pleasure
to my soul.
12/15/07
Bar Fly
Hafiz is long gone
I must pick up his book again
to hear of his raucous brawls
and sarcastic taunts.
Oh Beloved
never known till now
and now so early lost.
Oh Beloved
greatest lover of us all
warm and welcoming
soft and mellowing belly.
I yearn for your mother laugh
my deep desire to crackle grey terrain
into windblown greening.
Hafiz
I will pull your book
once again from the shelf
if you promise to lead me tavern close
to our miraculous Friend.
Ellen Porter
12/18/07
Every Greening Tree
Every creature
every greening tree
every painted, gaudy bloom
and so, perhaps,
each chunk of gray and star-strewn granite
each and every one must die.
Days of nonchalance pass by
when I think of death lightly
disease given respite from suffering.
And there are spans of time
pulled tightly into darkness
when I dream of final breath
and darkening hole.
I tremble twice
in gratitude and grief
and some days they co-mingle
leaving me wondering
and weeping
beside the final door.
Ellen Porter
12/10/07
Imagination in Winter
Another December day.
Used snow a dirty scarf
of white and brown
some eight days fallen.
I, biding time till summer,
have not opened the weary screen
kicked in by children,
have not ventured out
into soul-searing cold.
No rivers or pines
no blackbirds, skunks or city cats
within these self imposed confines.
But the imagination is bright
and ink flows evenly from this pen:
a blissful opportunity to carry
a bundle of winter
through these feral halls.
Ellen Porter
10/1/07
Not Two, But One
The two can draw each other
like the sun holds earth in its gravity.
Or the two can lose their grip
and repel each other:
mercury at the repellent end of a magnet.
Either way fatigue eventually subdues
the vital energies.
So drop the focus of two.
Wander off after the Beloved.
Play Her intricate games, refresh your weariness,
gambol in Her delight
And bind yourself to Her
with cords stronger than
the push and pull of two.
Fling your energy away to God
in exchange for
Her lively, exuberant, endless
Passion.
Ellen Porter
12/05/07
Saying Good-Bye
My week unfolds with
the visit of a friend.
After ten years we see into
each others’ eyes
older, with the familiarity
of a dream lost at dawn
touching a vague image
but unable to resurrect the story whole.
I would rather be alone
but, in this final stage of illness
I let them in to say good-bye—
these friends of another era.
Soon I will no longer care
whether or not we say “so long.”
I will refuse each visitor
face by worried face.
I will curl up in my chair,
or lie practicing, on my bed
the still position of death.
Ellen Porter
11/21/07
The Sick Room
My sick room
cluttered by machines and
cotton balls, syringes, alcohol swabs,
there is the oxygen condenser
humidifier, nebulizer.
But across the room
in its comfortable corner
uncluttered, my blue quilt
waits the cool of evening
beckoning, its billows soft,
beckoning, the tenderness of colors,
ever pulling me, insistent, toward a final, uncluttered sleep.
Ellen Porter
10/30/07
Twice Blessed
Twice blessed
the cottonwoods golden
and the sun
shimmering across the
cloud stained morning.
It is so much finer
to look
to look and see the leaves,
the goldfinch, the spot of air
left by the wind.
So much finer than cottages
or chimneys or garden gates.
Though, speaking truly
these, too, add much pleasure
to my soul.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Ellen Porter
10/23/07
Autumn Once Again
Autumn once again
morning hiding the color of leaves
in weathered darkness.
I have seen the golds and reds
in passing
a daylight’s gift
catching breath where awe is found.
It isn’t that I don’t love color
but that this brilliant display
foretells winter white.
I would just as well
stay with green
stop the procession of the seasons
and roll eternally in summer’s grass
Ellen Porter
11/02/07
Erie Sky
At dawn the clouds
bloomed carnation red
tearing the sky into
ribbons of flame.
No sailors to warn.
Ellen Porter
11/16/07
I Dream of Safe Haven
I wander in the mountains
my eyes blessed with
columbine, shooting stars
and glaciers. Bowls carved
by ice, granite smooth.
I am without companion
and my heart beats like
the woodpecker’s
knocking; my breath comes,
fashioning my nose and throat
for high windy struggle.
My spirit is ready to make
these mountains home.
Here I do not search for God:
the Beloved is with me.
How I long for Her even as She
walks by my side.
My Friend and I,
(I am fully consumed),
trek these mountains
bride and bride
laughing in the alpine sheen
of unbegotten light.
Ellen Porter
11/14/07
No Moon
Out my closed window
no moon.
Dying draws near
and without my Beloved
around my shoulders
I tremble.
I do not ask to
keep death waiting,
I merely beg
my gracious Friend
to stay with me
to stray with me on the mountain
these moonless nights.
Ellen Porter
12/09/07
Sacred Days
Eight sacred days
I have not jangled the outside door.
I watch the school children
donning their snow suits
bouncing with exuberance
slinking up and down the stairs.
I remember that winter exhilaration
starting with fingers turned blue
ending with tears of defrosting pain
and then hot chocolate.
Fifty years in flight
barely recognizing the
metamorphosis of one season to the next.
The struggle of school work, or professional prestige,
even the rapid scattering of play.
And now, confined by disease
I can only watch and remember.
Memories stored within my
trembling muscles.
Winter inside and out.
Ellen Porter
12/04/07
The Possibility of Prostitution
Early morning hours
keep magic of words
hovering from my pen
onto precious blue-lined paper.
I must be careful,
soulfully careful,
not to tarnish that time
with hopes of published glory.
Not by a person
promising success;
she will become owner of my
silent time.
Not by packets of poems
given as gift to friends.
Not by slips, rejecting
my verse for ink, printed
in elite journals.
I must withdraw my attention
from the sweetness of the world.
Four o’clock comes early
and must own my soul
for safe-keeping.
Ellen Porter
12/12/07
Twenty Years and Love is Left
Twenty years I’ve lived with cancer
I’ve lived, sometimes forgetting,
sometimes fighting it with all I’m worth—
which isn’t much at times.
And now, this year, the battle subsides
I relax into dying.
Love is left:
for the four I live with,
for my struggling community.
Love is left
for the day care children
for the electrician speaking pain,
searching for prayers.
Love is left
painfully
for my dearest friend.
And with the elders
who have one foot passed already to the
brilliant, great unknown
I wonder what will happen next
what will happen when I plant
both feet and my soul across to heaven.
And so each day, morning and evening
I pray for Margaret and Joanne
the eldest of our old ones.
I do not worry for them,
I tag along where they lead.
And love is all.
10/23/07
Autumn Once Again
Autumn once again
morning hiding the color of leaves
in weathered darkness.
I have seen the golds and reds
in passing
a daylight’s gift
catching breath where awe is found.
It isn’t that I don’t love color
but that this brilliant display
foretells winter white.
I would just as well
stay with green
stop the procession of the seasons
and roll eternally in summer’s grass
Ellen Porter
11/02/07
Erie Sky
At dawn the clouds
bloomed carnation red
tearing the sky into
ribbons of flame.
No sailors to warn.
Ellen Porter
11/16/07
I Dream of Safe Haven
I wander in the mountains
my eyes blessed with
columbine, shooting stars
and glaciers. Bowls carved
by ice, granite smooth.
I am without companion
and my heart beats like
the woodpecker’s
knocking; my breath comes,
fashioning my nose and throat
for high windy struggle.
My spirit is ready to make
these mountains home.
Here I do not search for God:
the Beloved is with me.
How I long for Her even as She
walks by my side.
My Friend and I,
(I am fully consumed),
trek these mountains
bride and bride
laughing in the alpine sheen
of unbegotten light.
Ellen Porter
11/14/07
No Moon
Out my closed window
no moon.
Dying draws near
and without my Beloved
around my shoulders
I tremble.
I do not ask to
keep death waiting,
I merely beg
my gracious Friend
to stay with me
to stray with me on the mountain
these moonless nights.
Ellen Porter
12/09/07
Sacred Days
Eight sacred days
I have not jangled the outside door.
I watch the school children
donning their snow suits
bouncing with exuberance
slinking up and down the stairs.
I remember that winter exhilaration
starting with fingers turned blue
ending with tears of defrosting pain
and then hot chocolate.
Fifty years in flight
barely recognizing the
metamorphosis of one season to the next.
The struggle of school work, or professional prestige,
even the rapid scattering of play.
And now, confined by disease
I can only watch and remember.
Memories stored within my
trembling muscles.
Winter inside and out.
Ellen Porter
12/04/07
The Possibility of Prostitution
Early morning hours
keep magic of words
hovering from my pen
onto precious blue-lined paper.
I must be careful,
soulfully careful,
not to tarnish that time
with hopes of published glory.
Not by a person
promising success;
she will become owner of my
silent time.
Not by packets of poems
given as gift to friends.
Not by slips, rejecting
my verse for ink, printed
in elite journals.
I must withdraw my attention
from the sweetness of the world.
Four o’clock comes early
and must own my soul
for safe-keeping.
Ellen Porter
12/12/07
Twenty Years and Love is Left
Twenty years I’ve lived with cancer
I’ve lived, sometimes forgetting,
sometimes fighting it with all I’m worth—
which isn’t much at times.
And now, this year, the battle subsides
I relax into dying.
Love is left:
for the four I live with,
for my struggling community.
Love is left
for the day care children
for the electrician speaking pain,
searching for prayers.
Love is left
painfully
for my dearest friend.
And with the elders
who have one foot passed already to the
brilliant, great unknown
I wonder what will happen next
what will happen when I plant
both feet and my soul across to heaven.
And so each day, morning and evening
I pray for Margaret and Joanne
the eldest of our old ones.
I do not worry for them,
I tag along where they lead.
And love is all.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Ellen Porter
11/07/07
As I Wait For the Beloved
As I wait for the Beloved
sitting in tepid autumn’s sun
my back leaning
leaning against the maple tree
my mind is calm
my soul content to wait
for the inevitable one.
Ellen Porter
11/18/07
Elements
In earth I am ready
to trade daffodils
for blackened soil,
a new and permanent cradle.
Water finds me waiting,
lapping in cupped hands
from the arid lakeward stream.
The rain holds its breath; draught threatens.
Wind takes air for a jubilant ride
bypassing my troubled breath.
Spinning, twirling, gliding on sunlight,
it no longer requires my respiration.
Fire, lightning borne,
draws ragged maps against the greening sky.
My forehead, torso shimmer with heat
and soon my body, my spirit cast off,
will burn clean away to bones and ashes
Ellen Porter
10/27/07
I Drag Cancer Along
I drag cancer along
like a hermit crab
greedy for
a larger shell.
I sometimes lurch
sideways
not sure of my footing
on tide pool edges.
When I stand
my breath deserts me
and I panic like a child
who loses sight of home.
When I kneel down
to catch a bit of litter
off the floor
my legs can find no pull
to bring me back
to steady ground.
And so I flounder.
The crab can disappear
for hours hidden, invulnerable
inside its whorled shell.
But I must remain seen,
my shell emotion deep.
The softness of this body,
the swollen face,
mothwing fragile skin
and the fatigue, the fatigue
sketch evidence of this
grotesque, unbidden malady.
I would like to scuttle home.
Ellen Porter
12/07/07
My Guest
The first
snow of the year,
branches showing white shoulders
and benches deserted till spring, wet and weeping cold.
I stay indoors
swaddled in dry, soft clothes
a shirt to ward off the cold breeze
sneaking through cracks of window panes.
My guest, new from the Pacific,
pulls on layers of warmth
and goes dancing
into the December chill.
She returns exhilarated an hour later,
sliding to the boot room door
like a child on new skis,
smiling, her nose bright red.
She has come to see me dying
but reappears full of autumn joy,
hardly able to sustain her grief,
handed over by the Beloved to
the exuberance of nature gone wild.
Ellen Porter
10/16/07
Rumi says, “Be kind and honest,
and harmful poisons will turn sweet inside you.”
My heart flails in anger
at the one whom I
have never befriended.
Before I snip away
his balls
he asks for a jug of water.
I stare at his
impervious eyes,
fetch the water
and fall in homage
at his gracious feet.
Ellen Porter
12/16/07
The Poem, Lost or Stolen
You approach me in chapel.
Your reading, you say,
is either lost or stolen.
My poem.
You look beautiful in
your tunic, nighttime blue,
and in your panic.
I wait in Advent darkness
to see what will happen.
You approach another and
she rumbles through her papers,
me watching, you waiting in anxiety.
The poem appears.
Your face calms;
your voice drops an octave.
You read like a nightingale.
Ellen Porter
11/17/07
Turning South
The golden brown leaves:
a pleated skirt around
the trunk of the sycamore.
Birds still call these branches home
but winter billows close behind
and the blackbirds, south,
will discover warmer ground.
I lie in the leaves
and feel that southward pull.
For a moment I can feel
the fluff and flitter of my
own downy wings.
11/07/07
As I Wait For the Beloved
As I wait for the Beloved
sitting in tepid autumn’s sun
my back leaning
leaning against the maple tree
my mind is calm
my soul content to wait
for the inevitable one.
Ellen Porter
11/18/07
Elements
In earth I am ready
to trade daffodils
for blackened soil,
a new and permanent cradle.
Water finds me waiting,
lapping in cupped hands
from the arid lakeward stream.
The rain holds its breath; draught threatens.
Wind takes air for a jubilant ride
bypassing my troubled breath.
Spinning, twirling, gliding on sunlight,
it no longer requires my respiration.
Fire, lightning borne,
draws ragged maps against the greening sky.
My forehead, torso shimmer with heat
and soon my body, my spirit cast off,
will burn clean away to bones and ashes
Ellen Porter
10/27/07
I Drag Cancer Along
I drag cancer along
like a hermit crab
greedy for
a larger shell.
I sometimes lurch
sideways
not sure of my footing
on tide pool edges.
When I stand
my breath deserts me
and I panic like a child
who loses sight of home.
When I kneel down
to catch a bit of litter
off the floor
my legs can find no pull
to bring me back
to steady ground.
And so I flounder.
The crab can disappear
for hours hidden, invulnerable
inside its whorled shell.
But I must remain seen,
my shell emotion deep.
The softness of this body,
the swollen face,
mothwing fragile skin
and the fatigue, the fatigue
sketch evidence of this
grotesque, unbidden malady.
I would like to scuttle home.
Ellen Porter
12/07/07
My Guest
The first
snow of the year,
branches showing white shoulders
and benches deserted till spring, wet and weeping cold.
I stay indoors
swaddled in dry, soft clothes
a shirt to ward off the cold breeze
sneaking through cracks of window panes.
My guest, new from the Pacific,
pulls on layers of warmth
and goes dancing
into the December chill.
She returns exhilarated an hour later,
sliding to the boot room door
like a child on new skis,
smiling, her nose bright red.
She has come to see me dying
but reappears full of autumn joy,
hardly able to sustain her grief,
handed over by the Beloved to
the exuberance of nature gone wild.
Ellen Porter
10/16/07
Rumi says, “Be kind and honest,
and harmful poisons will turn sweet inside you.”
My heart flails in anger
at the one whom I
have never befriended.
Before I snip away
his balls
he asks for a jug of water.
I stare at his
impervious eyes,
fetch the water
and fall in homage
at his gracious feet.
Ellen Porter
12/16/07
The Poem, Lost or Stolen
You approach me in chapel.
Your reading, you say,
is either lost or stolen.
My poem.
You look beautiful in
your tunic, nighttime blue,
and in your panic.
I wait in Advent darkness
to see what will happen.
You approach another and
she rumbles through her papers,
me watching, you waiting in anxiety.
The poem appears.
Your face calms;
your voice drops an octave.
You read like a nightingale.
Ellen Porter
11/17/07
Turning South
The golden brown leaves:
a pleated skirt around
the trunk of the sycamore.
Birds still call these branches home
but winter billows close behind
and the blackbirds, south,
will discover warmer ground.
I lie in the leaves
and feel that southward pull.
For a moment I can feel
the fluff and flitter of my
own downy wings.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Ellen Porter
9/29/07
An Inclination Toward God
If you have ever stood,
sandaled feet poised to follow
your first inclination toward God,
you may have stumbled
in the waiting
jolted against hard earth
and time-thickened air.
And if you have not given up
but resumed your eager pose
you may have been blessed
by the stately line of wild turkeys
crossing a wayward path
and the brilliant, joyful
field of grassy dandelions.
Ellen Porter
10/14/07
dry spell
time trying to
break my words
trying to wrest
syllables
from the waiting page
no refuge here
no turning
back around
the words
are gone
only the commas
and question marks
remain
Ellen Porter
9/24/07
I am Like a Kite
(after Hafiz)
I am like a kite
in the hands of God.
She runs with me
holding the string
and blowing
Her sweet breath
into my body
like bellows to a fire.
I soar in the
dappled sky blue
laughing my utter delight
and wonder
what will become of me
if the Beloved
gets tired and
runs out of breath.
Ellen Porter
10/21/07
My Parents, Away
Two hundred years old
that California oak
or so they say.
Two trunks lifting
from the hillside ivy
light brown trunks
like coffee too thickly stirred.
Two trunks, lifting and rising
and only one bent enough to climb.
My grandmother came to stay
while my parents traveled in the dark.
She saw me one morning
lying on the lower branches of the
wild and comforting oak.
She didn’t let me climb again
and though I loved her
I yearned and my heart yearned
for my parents’ return
up through the light,
home.
Ellen Porter
9/30/07
Royal Fireworks
Handel,
not the Messiah
but Royal Fireworks
usher in the autumn air.
Summer has slipped out
the back door
forgetting to take all its heat with it,
and so my fan still spins,
an electric beater, mixing
summer and autumn warmth
until thoroughly blended.
I hum along with Handel
and, too familiar, I consider
rousting him out
with Vivaldi in his stead.
But I look out the window
see the tips of cottonwood and sycamore
burning with autumn promise
and decide,
familiar as the changing seasons
these three hundred years,
only Handel
or perfect silence
will suffice.
Ellen Porter
11/25/07
The Next Generation
The old peacers gather at the site
to hold banners, raise signs
sing harmonies to peace.
But where are the young ones;
have their spirits failed?
What has happened to the children?
Who will raise their voices for
nonviolence, peace, the ragged art of diplomacy
to follow in our waning paths?
Are we alone in the middle?
Too young to forget
and too old to close our eyes against oblivion?
If we are alone
let us go out with explosions
of undying, irretrievable light.
Ellen Porter
7/22/07
Tree Surgeon
After the lightning storm
the sentinel pine
stands proud but fractured.
Today, the tree surgeon
gazes up through
tangled, wayward branches
to the lightning-black, pine-yellow trunk
and he groans a little to himself.
He does not speak to me.
He puts on climbing gear
and mounts the tree
like a granite wall,
rises from the ground
a spider scurrying up its silken thread.
And then he is there
touching, eyeing, pruning
that great wound.
Later, he tells me
of the needed sculpture,
several feet from the crown.
The rest will likely survive.
And then he says no more.
As he leaves,
he glances back
with longing
to lend assurance to the pine.
Perhaps it is his love of climbing
that prevails,
and his fondness for
the silent trees.
9/29/07
An Inclination Toward God
If you have ever stood,
sandaled feet poised to follow
your first inclination toward God,
you may have stumbled
in the waiting
jolted against hard earth
and time-thickened air.
And if you have not given up
but resumed your eager pose
you may have been blessed
by the stately line of wild turkeys
crossing a wayward path
and the brilliant, joyful
field of grassy dandelions.
Ellen Porter
10/14/07
dry spell
time trying to
break my words
trying to wrest
syllables
from the waiting page
no refuge here
no turning
back around
the words
are gone
only the commas
and question marks
remain
Ellen Porter
9/24/07
I am Like a Kite
(after Hafiz)
I am like a kite
in the hands of God.
She runs with me
holding the string
and blowing
Her sweet breath
into my body
like bellows to a fire.
I soar in the
dappled sky blue
laughing my utter delight
and wonder
what will become of me
if the Beloved
gets tired and
runs out of breath.
Ellen Porter
10/21/07
My Parents, Away
Two hundred years old
that California oak
or so they say.
Two trunks lifting
from the hillside ivy
light brown trunks
like coffee too thickly stirred.
Two trunks, lifting and rising
and only one bent enough to climb.
My grandmother came to stay
while my parents traveled in the dark.
She saw me one morning
lying on the lower branches of the
wild and comforting oak.
She didn’t let me climb again
and though I loved her
I yearned and my heart yearned
for my parents’ return
up through the light,
home.
Ellen Porter
9/30/07
Royal Fireworks
Handel,
not the Messiah
but Royal Fireworks
usher in the autumn air.
Summer has slipped out
the back door
forgetting to take all its heat with it,
and so my fan still spins,
an electric beater, mixing
summer and autumn warmth
until thoroughly blended.
I hum along with Handel
and, too familiar, I consider
rousting him out
with Vivaldi in his stead.
But I look out the window
see the tips of cottonwood and sycamore
burning with autumn promise
and decide,
familiar as the changing seasons
these three hundred years,
only Handel
or perfect silence
will suffice.
Ellen Porter
11/25/07
The Next Generation
The old peacers gather at the site
to hold banners, raise signs
sing harmonies to peace.
But where are the young ones;
have their spirits failed?
What has happened to the children?
Who will raise their voices for
nonviolence, peace, the ragged art of diplomacy
to follow in our waning paths?
Are we alone in the middle?
Too young to forget
and too old to close our eyes against oblivion?
If we are alone
let us go out with explosions
of undying, irretrievable light.
Ellen Porter
7/22/07
Tree Surgeon
After the lightning storm
the sentinel pine
stands proud but fractured.
Today, the tree surgeon
gazes up through
tangled, wayward branches
to the lightning-black, pine-yellow trunk
and he groans a little to himself.
He does not speak to me.
He puts on climbing gear
and mounts the tree
like a granite wall,
rises from the ground
a spider scurrying up its silken thread.
And then he is there
touching, eyeing, pruning
that great wound.
Later, he tells me
of the needed sculpture,
several feet from the crown.
The rest will likely survive.
And then he says no more.
As he leaves,
he glances back
with longing
to lend assurance to the pine.
Perhaps it is his love of climbing
that prevails,
and his fondness for
the silent trees.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Ellen Porter
9/21/07
Almost the End
Almost the end of September
and the air is warm and soft
as a baby’s new skin.
I leave the hammock up
swinging in its prodigious garden
daring the weather to last,
to forego Autumn’s chill.
I climb in and it is
mid-summer again.
I read half a chapter
and then flirt with sleep.
Life is like this.
It seems warmer than it really is,
a sauna on a chilly evening,
the sun broken free of clouds
and the fickle shade of maples.
It plays at being tough
and then offers up a modicum of sleep.
I would be willing to stay forever
in these last September days,
learning their gentle lessons
again and again.
Ellen Porter
12/16/07
Driving To the Monastery
A year
maybe two
we have chosen this empty road
looking for deer.
The car, embarrassed by failure,
still slows a bit to stare
at shoulder high reeds
a tangled fence fashioned
to keep the does imprisoned
to keep the hunters out.
I suddenly see a movement:
a calf-colored brace of ears,
and cry pointing, a deer!
We press our faces to the windows
hardly breathing against
excitement and foggy glass.
In one miraculous leap
the deer denies its prison hold.
With a rustle like wings
it rises and disappears
into another welcoming
twilight field.
Ellen Porter
9/23/07
How Can One Be Lonely
(after Hafiz)
How can one be lonely
when the Beloved is so near?
Ellen,
Take Her name, Beloved,
on your lips and sing.
Sing of your tender
heart-breaking
loneliness
and She may draw nearer
humming a sweet harmony
to your painful, weeping
song.
Ellen Porter
12/17/07
My First Mentor
Twenty, thirty years ago
when we first met
we met with eyes
then warm and lively hands
and then our hearts
the confluence of two rivers
mingled through endless time.
You dispensed your wisdom
gleaned as mother of seven sons
and I gathered it ripe,
like golden apricots,
in increments I could bear.
Oh, I loved you.
But then, dragging behind me
a sin too heavy to share, I turned away.
Years later I heard you were visited by cancer
and you would not survive.
I came to your home once more
to beg my apologies
and to receive your grace.
Now you are gone from tender touch,
but I feel you guiding me, still
laughing, chuckling, weeping
from beyond this dusty earth
before creation, after death,
this eternity.
Ellen Porter
10/06/07
Roswell Cancer Institute
your walls
decorations in color and form
prove a desperate and welcoming blur
I walk your corridors
find your doors
and with each step
realize my illness
more and more
in your gardens
I walk
in autumn, enlivened
I walk
vivid colors of fall
the prototype
of pictures
echoing off your walls
Ellen Porter
12/3/07
The Long and the Short of It
Sitting alone
concentrating on my impending demise
I forget the comfort of a group
talking about other things.
We sit around the table,
we ten, and speak of
the perceived horrors of living
with the larger group—community—
the group of one hundred and twelve nuns.
It does not raise horror in me
but a sense of liveliness,
a desperation to address new issues
to delve into our souls for nascent mysteries.
I come away, not in despair
but with a softened spot in my soul
where the old ways become woven
with the new
and fertility erupts.
Ellen Porter
11/30/07
Toward Dying
I wander further along
the path of solitude.
In this November cold
I vow to stay indoors till spring.
Chilled air strains conversations
until, exhausted, I lean toward dying.
But there is one who tends my liveliness,
never staying too long.
She wraps me in tenderness,
and I am not alone.
9/21/07
Almost the End
Almost the end of September
and the air is warm and soft
as a baby’s new skin.
I leave the hammock up
swinging in its prodigious garden
daring the weather to last,
to forego Autumn’s chill.
I climb in and it is
mid-summer again.
I read half a chapter
and then flirt with sleep.
Life is like this.
It seems warmer than it really is,
a sauna on a chilly evening,
the sun broken free of clouds
and the fickle shade of maples.
It plays at being tough
and then offers up a modicum of sleep.
I would be willing to stay forever
in these last September days,
learning their gentle lessons
again and again.
Ellen Porter
12/16/07
Driving To the Monastery
A year
maybe two
we have chosen this empty road
looking for deer.
The car, embarrassed by failure,
still slows a bit to stare
at shoulder high reeds
a tangled fence fashioned
to keep the does imprisoned
to keep the hunters out.
I suddenly see a movement:
a calf-colored brace of ears,
and cry pointing, a deer!
We press our faces to the windows
hardly breathing against
excitement and foggy glass.
In one miraculous leap
the deer denies its prison hold.
With a rustle like wings
it rises and disappears
into another welcoming
twilight field.
Ellen Porter
9/23/07
How Can One Be Lonely
(after Hafiz)
How can one be lonely
when the Beloved is so near?
Ellen,
Take Her name, Beloved,
on your lips and sing.
Sing of your tender
heart-breaking
loneliness
and She may draw nearer
humming a sweet harmony
to your painful, weeping
song.
Ellen Porter
12/17/07
My First Mentor
Twenty, thirty years ago
when we first met
we met with eyes
then warm and lively hands
and then our hearts
the confluence of two rivers
mingled through endless time.
You dispensed your wisdom
gleaned as mother of seven sons
and I gathered it ripe,
like golden apricots,
in increments I could bear.
Oh, I loved you.
But then, dragging behind me
a sin too heavy to share, I turned away.
Years later I heard you were visited by cancer
and you would not survive.
I came to your home once more
to beg my apologies
and to receive your grace.
Now you are gone from tender touch,
but I feel you guiding me, still
laughing, chuckling, weeping
from beyond this dusty earth
before creation, after death,
this eternity.
Ellen Porter
10/06/07
Roswell Cancer Institute
your walls
decorations in color and form
prove a desperate and welcoming blur
I walk your corridors
find your doors
and with each step
realize my illness
more and more
in your gardens
I walk
in autumn, enlivened
I walk
vivid colors of fall
the prototype
of pictures
echoing off your walls
Ellen Porter
12/3/07
The Long and the Short of It
Sitting alone
concentrating on my impending demise
I forget the comfort of a group
talking about other things.
We sit around the table,
we ten, and speak of
the perceived horrors of living
with the larger group—community—
the group of one hundred and twelve nuns.
It does not raise horror in me
but a sense of liveliness,
a desperation to address new issues
to delve into our souls for nascent mysteries.
I come away, not in despair
but with a softened spot in my soul
where the old ways become woven
with the new
and fertility erupts.
Ellen Porter
11/30/07
Toward Dying
I wander further along
the path of solitude.
In this November cold
I vow to stay indoors till spring.
Chilled air strains conversations
until, exhausted, I lean toward dying.
But there is one who tends my liveliness,
never staying too long.
She wraps me in tenderness,
and I am not alone.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Ellen Porter
10/29/07
All I Remember of the Presentation
She speeds through her knowledge:
a train reeling crazily
down its wooden tracks.
rat-a-tat-tat
My mind disengages
sorry to be trapped
between stations.
I slip into fragile mortality
and focus on this desperate body
traveling a fly-away train.
She does not finish til sunset
pulls up to the station window
collects her messages like used tickets
and marches away.
Ellen Porter
10/06/07
Distraction
Birdsong
embellishes silence.
How dare it interrupt
my prayer?
My hands flutter
around my head
in shame.
Ellen Porter
11/28/07
my belly protrudes
i sit waiting for the
words of my Beloved.
my belly protrudes
like that of a donkey:
it holds the words to
my Beloved.
it contracts, pregnant
with anxious words of love.
my belly protrudes
like that of a pregnant donkey.
it belies a foolish body
making me the laughingstock.
but my heart scours
my belly’s gift
making my whole substance
ready for receiving Her words, for speaking my own,
tinkering with the elaborate intricacies
of a puzzle:
union made perfect.
Ellen Porter
10/1/07
Roses
October and the roses still bloom
not in summer profusion
but flower by single flower
white, pale gold and skin-pink,
lavender.
Save a holocaust,
November is inevitable
and will frost the blooms
with granulated snow.
I come to the hammock
and check it for rain
left over from the night before:
too damp to lie down and dream.
I push against the season
resentful
with bitter chill.
Ellen Porter
12/09/07
The Lift
The final days of this year
find me counting out
blessings, banes and breath.
The elevator dies and with that death.
Ellen Porter
12/18/07
Torture
Last night
after a metal gray day of depression,
I dreamed of
torturing
my beloved cat.
I tied her with a rubber strap into a tree, yowling.
I profess to seek the Beloved
but my cruelty is brought to the light
of a bright and swelling summer’s day.
I do not seek the Beloved.
I inflict pain and imprisonment
on this poor body.
I am the orange tabby.
There is no one to save me
but You and my howling self.
my ability to leave the house.
I cannot climb the stairs;
my lungs protest, refuse.
So, I am joyfully confined,
a happy prisoner to solitude.
While others drive off
to chant their prayers and praises,
I sit in my chair,
testing pen and paper,
eating peanuts from my tarnished blue bowl.
10/29/07
All I Remember of the Presentation
She speeds through her knowledge:
a train reeling crazily
down its wooden tracks.
rat-a-tat-tat
My mind disengages
sorry to be trapped
between stations.
I slip into fragile mortality
and focus on this desperate body
traveling a fly-away train.
She does not finish til sunset
pulls up to the station window
collects her messages like used tickets
and marches away.
Ellen Porter
10/06/07
Distraction
Birdsong
embellishes silence.
How dare it interrupt
my prayer?
My hands flutter
around my head
in shame.
Ellen Porter
11/28/07
my belly protrudes
i sit waiting for the
words of my Beloved.
my belly protrudes
like that of a donkey:
it holds the words to
my Beloved.
it contracts, pregnant
with anxious words of love.
my belly protrudes
like that of a pregnant donkey.
it belies a foolish body
making me the laughingstock.
but my heart scours
my belly’s gift
making my whole substance
ready for receiving Her words, for speaking my own,
tinkering with the elaborate intricacies
of a puzzle:
union made perfect.
Ellen Porter
10/1/07
Roses
October and the roses still bloom
not in summer profusion
but flower by single flower
white, pale gold and skin-pink,
lavender.
Save a holocaust,
November is inevitable
and will frost the blooms
with granulated snow.
I come to the hammock
and check it for rain
left over from the night before:
too damp to lie down and dream.
I push against the season
resentful
with bitter chill.
Ellen Porter
12/09/07
The Lift
The final days of this year
find me counting out
blessings, banes and breath.
The elevator dies and with that death.
Ellen Porter
12/18/07
Torture
Last night
after a metal gray day of depression,
I dreamed of
torturing
my beloved cat.
I tied her with a rubber strap into a tree, yowling.
I profess to seek the Beloved
but my cruelty is brought to the light
of a bright and swelling summer’s day.
I do not seek the Beloved.
I inflict pain and imprisonment
on this poor body.
I am the orange tabby.
There is no one to save me
but You and my howling self.
my ability to leave the house.
I cannot climb the stairs;
my lungs protest, refuse.
So, I am joyfully confined,
a happy prisoner to solitude.
While others drive off
to chant their prayers and praises,
I sit in my chair,
testing pen and paper,
eating peanuts from my tarnished blue bowl.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Ellen Porter
11/11/07
Air
The beautiful, sufficient air
fills my little room
and I bow in gratitude
to my Beloved.
She offers me breath of Her breath
but I cannot receive enough
to fill my devastated lung.
Oh, Beloved
do not stop offering your gift, my air.
Stay close, Unbegotten One, stay near.
Ellen Porter
10/09/07
depression
i claim it is my life’s work
but who is it that loves a poet?
the words set down in habit—
like a hen laying eggs—
left behind in an old notebook
at my death
and like my mother’s verse before me
tossed, unread, into the flames.
what is there to do
with an old poem?
with a dying poet?
a life’s work
and nothing spoken
to save.
Ellen Porter
10/11/07
hours later i slept
last night the man
spoke to us with
honey in his mouth
made me believe—
for as long as a gnat
flutters over rotting fruit—
that life could change
if only one soul
by one soul
metanoia
and hours later i slept
i dreamt death would come soon
to the whole pitiful world
and then i awoke
in the blue-black hole
inside my eyes
i searched for this prophet
to ask him
and what then of your metanoia?
from some dark and grinning place
he whispered back
this is the real thing
alleluia
Ellen Porter
11/03/07
morro bay
there is a refuge on
morro rock
falcons i believe
the rock wired and barreled against
amateur tourists looking for
a challenging climb
we are pushed as far west
as land permits there is only
the wild sea
the last untamed chaos
barring space travel through
the planets and stars
and the sea taunts us
growing breakers tall as heaven
then banging tons of salty water
near our timid feet
we watch
captive to the maelstrom
and slip one foot forward
migration
daring back the sea
Ellen Porter
10/14/07
Resting Place
The friend of my Beloved
comes with his wrinkled face
pulled down to his feet
and lashes moist
with dribbling tears.
Why are you crying,
Hafiz?
In laughter
you have a place to play,
but without shadows
our Beloved has
no shade
in which
to rest.
Ellen Porter
9/21/07
The Lap of God
(after Hafiz)
You say you are tired
of seeking but never finding
the monastery chapel
when God is at home.
Listen!
The Beloved hangs around
the monastery whenever a
dear friend is there.
Why not
look in a mirror?
Stop all your exhaustive seeking
and rest,
laughing and singing
in the lap of God.
Ellen Porter
9/18/07
To the Guest in My House
(after Hafiz)
I begin to give
love away
to the guest in my house.
She smiles and laughs
not knowing it is God
she is receiving.
And God laughs
kissing me on the cheek
while I nearly faint with pleasure.
She is offering more and more
love to give away.
My pockets are filled
with Her presence.
11/11/07
Air
The beautiful, sufficient air
fills my little room
and I bow in gratitude
to my Beloved.
She offers me breath of Her breath
but I cannot receive enough
to fill my devastated lung.
Oh, Beloved
do not stop offering your gift, my air.
Stay close, Unbegotten One, stay near.
Ellen Porter
10/09/07
depression
i claim it is my life’s work
but who is it that loves a poet?
the words set down in habit—
like a hen laying eggs—
left behind in an old notebook
at my death
and like my mother’s verse before me
tossed, unread, into the flames.
what is there to do
with an old poem?
with a dying poet?
a life’s work
and nothing spoken
to save.
Ellen Porter
10/11/07
hours later i slept
last night the man
spoke to us with
honey in his mouth
made me believe—
for as long as a gnat
flutters over rotting fruit—
that life could change
if only one soul
by one soul
metanoia
and hours later i slept
i dreamt death would come soon
to the whole pitiful world
and then i awoke
in the blue-black hole
inside my eyes
i searched for this prophet
to ask him
and what then of your metanoia?
from some dark and grinning place
he whispered back
this is the real thing
alleluia
Ellen Porter
11/03/07
morro bay
there is a refuge on
morro rock
falcons i believe
the rock wired and barreled against
amateur tourists looking for
a challenging climb
we are pushed as far west
as land permits there is only
the wild sea
the last untamed chaos
barring space travel through
the planets and stars
and the sea taunts us
growing breakers tall as heaven
then banging tons of salty water
near our timid feet
we watch
captive to the maelstrom
and slip one foot forward
migration
daring back the sea
Ellen Porter
10/14/07
Resting Place
The friend of my Beloved
comes with his wrinkled face
pulled down to his feet
and lashes moist
with dribbling tears.
Why are you crying,
Hafiz?
In laughter
you have a place to play,
but without shadows
our Beloved has
no shade
in which
to rest.
Ellen Porter
9/21/07
The Lap of God
(after Hafiz)
You say you are tired
of seeking but never finding
the monastery chapel
when God is at home.
Listen!
The Beloved hangs around
the monastery whenever a
dear friend is there.
Why not
look in a mirror?
Stop all your exhaustive seeking
and rest,
laughing and singing
in the lap of God.
Ellen Porter
9/18/07
To the Guest in My House
(after Hafiz)
I begin to give
love away
to the guest in my house.
She smiles and laughs
not knowing it is God
she is receiving.
And God laughs
kissing me on the cheek
while I nearly faint with pleasure.
She is offering more and more
love to give away.
My pockets are filled
with Her presence.
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