Ellen Porter
3/09/03
A Winter Chrysanthemum

You are a hermit,
ill at ease,
trying to live your wisdom.
Every day you are humble,
claiming your lowliness
your insignificance.

How I wish you could see
for yourself, your brilliance,
never changing a bit of your nature,
coming to full blossom:
a winter chrysanthemum.


Ellen Porter
2/17/08
does the poet—

the poem--
have an obligation to speak
literal truth?

or can it weave its
words poetic
to grasp the deeper meaning
out of simple, imagined
birdsong?

when you ask
“did this really happen?”
or “who is this dappling
your poem?”
i must answer
with staunch certainty
from the liquid world of dreams,
“it is true! it is all true!”


Ellen Porter
2/14/08
Her Mother Heard Her Singing

At five years old
Grace sat quietly in church
no wiggles or whines.

She liked the music best
and would sing along
to words and tunes
she didn’t know.

Later, at home,
her mother heard her singing:
the melody certain,
the words clear.

“What are you singing, Grace?”
her mother wondered.

“That song in church
when they handed
people crackers and juice.
“Blessed at this table:
Yum, yum, yum.”

I don’t remember the words we sang,
but this version seems
infinitely better.


Ellen Porter
2/26/08
Pushing Into March

This morning
before daybreak
the thermometer hovers
around eighteen degrees out doors.
White dust decorates the grass
the blackened trees.
And piles of snow
play hide and seek in
the corners of the playground.

February closing in on March
the first stalwart shoots
poke out and then nestle
in a pocket of protecting snow
dreaming of being crocus
daffodil and hyacinth.

I do not go out
but dream, too,
of blossoming,
healthy and full-grown
in warmer, softer days.


Ellen Porter
1/18/08
The Beloved Has a Wild Streak

The Beloved
has a wild streak.
She likes to kick up her heels
and dance circles
around the dervishes.

Sometimes she gets
so carried away
that dust scatters over
the cities, mountains and desert.

The cities are the worst.
Dust blots out sidewalks
and towers
until only merchandise is left.
Merchandise and credit cards.

Sometimes it blusters
around the mountains
leaving cliffs unnoticed
until the hearty hiker falls.

It shrouds the desert so that
cactus spines are invisible
and puncture those who are
unfortunate to be in that aridity.

She laughs, delighted with her antics.
You see, she is not only the god of love
but also the god of mischief and despair.
Our sinfulness is the result of
her dusty dancing
for with that whirling dust we cannot see.

It doesn’t matter.
Whether we are lovers or
mischief makers
or merely victims
we sit straddling her lap
her arms holding us tight.
We are her antics and her eternal delight.


Ellen Porter
2/10/08
Today the Pen Lies Awkward

Today the pen lies awkward in my hand.
If only I could hold conversation
with Robert Frost or Mary Oliver
perhaps the words would
run together, overflowing
with line after line of
orchestrated meaning.

They are here in poems
pointing the way
to be sure.
And that is good
but somehow less
than meeting one another
eye to eye and flesh to flesh.