Ellen Porter
10/8/07
Caryn Departing
(after Hafiz)

Hafiz laughs.
He fingers the dark beads
of dew in his hair,
shakes his head,
spraying water like a dog
fresh from a puddle.

I watch from a distance
Caryn making ready to depart;
there is nothing I can do.
It is not a time for weeping.

Caryn and Hafiz
laughing quietly behind their hands:
they are in this together
remaining and taking leave.

Hafiz will not leave me alone.


Ellen Porter
9/22/07
For the Love of God
(after Hafiz)

The cat
eyes the company.
It doesn’t like parties.

But the Beloved
has sent it on an errand
to bring Her absolute, foolproof love
to all Her friends.

The cat
wanders the room
meanders the garden
and hisses boldly at
all it sees
save one.

That one is not a cat lover,
so it wraps its supple body
around her legs, leaving
brown and white and golden hairs.

Later,
the Beloved asks the cat
about its poor behavior
and the cat replies,

I certainly don’t know
how you pick
your
friends!


Ellen Porter
11/13/07
Into the Desert

I flee into the desert
the tip of Your shadow
my only guide.

Beloved, You are water to my thirst
bread to my hunger.
You are succor to my fear.
I need nothing else
but a glimpse of Your
scattering love.


Ellen Porter
12/02/07
On the Street

It is too bitter to lie
sun-warmed in the hammock.

Memory bids July come
but these aching muscles
this trembling skin
name December the culprit.

I take a blanket
and walk the streets
looking for I do not know what.

The street walkers
saunter to the corner, cold,
their hair splayed like a worried cat’s.

I walk the sidewalks
wrapped against winter.
They walk in a pack,
threatened by the tight fists
of the one who buys them pain.

All of us searching for I do not know what.
They do not allow for it,
but we are all sisters.


Ellen Porter
11/14/07
Some Dull Hope

The tumors,
two or more, not one
clutter my lung space
eat ferociously
the lingering air.

The doctor took
the pictures and the facts
and tried and tried
to help me understand
there is no hope
through radiating
away the alien flesh.

There are no other options left.
He slinks away from
pronouncing me hopeless
and so advises me to
humidify my room until
the window gleams wet,
sister to the sea.
Perhaps it will help my breathing.

He turns to leave,
smiling,
satisfied he has handed
me something: antidote to illness,
some dull hope.


Ellen Porter
9/15/07
The Studio

After three weeks of
dusty, heartbreaking toil
they are finished gleaning the potter’s studio.
The potter is dead.

There are glazed porcelain pots,
museum ready, left untouched
by dying hands.
There are boxes of papers, descriptions
of beauty, of glazes, of kiln mysteries.
The papers caught irreparably,
torn to confetti shreds,
the secrets lost to future generations.
There are tables and the kiln,
the petrified clay, tucked away and forgotten.
And, amid the art,
there are wok and toaster oven,
wine glasses and knives,
cases of wine and a collection of cork screws.
All is cleared out and offered
as open-handed
gifts of remembrance.

The potter’s ashes,
in an urn made for himself
by his own hand,
is carried, serendipitous to the lakeshore,
the pot to be buried with
broken shards of shattered failures,
in his final loam-rich dreaming place.

After three weeks of dusty toil
the friends are leaving,
their work completed.
I watch through the elevator window as
waist and torso and head disappear.
They have been calm blessing to our house,
blessing through death.
But they will come again and
together, we will gather round
a delectable meal
and laugh.


Ellen Porter
11/16/07
woman of color

you sat at a table
and we gathered round
sitting, our knees bumping
one another’s,
our smiles
calculated for comfort.

you sat at the table
in your elegant brown skin
and we envied ourselves
your presence.

the subject turned to poetry.
someone asked me who I read.
lucille clifton i offered as gift
and mary oliver, in balance.
The elegant woman said humpf
in surprise.
i did not dare to meet
the challenge of ownership
in her eyes.