Ellen Porter
1/24/08
Anatomy of a Poem

After reading the great poets—
Ryoken, Oliver, the Haiku Masters—
I search for something to
roll around in my mouth
like two-toned marbles.

The poets pull lines out of
nothing—sandpipers
running with the tide
or a longed-for lover
alive in the memory of damp thighs,
yet gone.

How do I find a thing
so mundane that I can
fashion it with words
and in early morning darkness
make it gleam?


Ellen Porter
2/5/08
February Rain

While it should shower snow,
the black skies of three a.m.
loose drops of winter rain
and are split by arrowy roots of lightning.

The birds huddle on power lines
breathing breath by breath of the cold months.

Nowhere can I see green in this midnight light
nor could I see it again in daytime.
It is a season of darkness
split open, moment to moment
by untamed electric spark
and overwhelmed by
drums of incipient thunder.


Ellen Porter
2/1/08
Ice Deity

February freeze.
A few days ago, in another month,
warmth enough to push
sprouts of crocus through the dirt.

And today it freezes.
I cannot see the one
who brings the cold,
the zero weather,

but I know she is there
carrying ice in her woolen bag
dropping icicles like spears
planting cubes in the weary earth.

With rain and ice:
winter’s cocktail,
she will relish her drink
like nourishment.

But I cannot see her;
I will not bid her welcome.


Ellen Porter
1/19/08
My Questioning Heart

They arrived late last night
reaching the far span of bridge
from Oregon to Erie.
An air-bridge
holding them aloft
incredibly
not loosing them from cloud and vapor.

I was home alone
waiting in sleep as they landed
with stomach lurching
heart trembling strength
and then the baggage and the rented car.

I waited, sleeping, as they drove
through the city
familiar from former times
and then they parked and
lifted their bags by ancient
elevator—
a metallic inner gate,
a green or kumquat door.

And they came to my hospice bed
and called my name.
I half rose in welcome
and accepted them both,
niece and great niece,
into the loving circle of my questioning heart.


Ellen Porter
1/30/08
She Listens

She listens softly
gathering my pain
like sandy starfish in a bucket.

I poke at an arm
that falls off
brittle and torn.

It will grow back.
It was injured before;
but new pain leaves room
for new growth.

I tell her of my impending death.
She sits stunned by my clarity.
A therapist, stunned.

She sits very still
a long-necked heron
waiting for the silver fish.

And when it comes
she ignores the flash
and drops her eyes.

There is no therapy for moments like this.


Ellen Porter
2/18/08
The Dry Season

The rose bush
with shoots of thorns
no blossoms

The morning bird
eyes closed with sleep
lying in its nest of grasses
no song

The river
water flowing reluctantly
threading its way around stones
no fish

The poet
stomach empty
head devoid of lovely thoughts
no words.

I wait
looking for the Beloved face
when roses blossom
fish roast over an open fire
and accompanied by birdsong
the words flow nectar sweet.


Ellen Porter
2/16/08
Uprooted

My father, the farmer,
moved from Nebraska
and lost his roots.

He was brave and simple
and sank new roots
in California:
strawberries and oranges, apricots
the army and
a wedded wife.

He thrived and from
his tendrils, he raised a family,
sprouted two daughters
who were nourished and loved and grew.

He seemed happy here
out West.
But I wonder, still,
ninety-one years later,
if he didn’t dream of
wheat fields in Nebraska.