Ellen Porter
2/2/08
Sleep

I.

At night
with all that freedom
to sleep without guilt
I lie awake
taking measure of the day.

At noon
so tired I cannot stir
my eyes close and
my heart is wrapped in quiet sorrow.

A soul, backwards
A backwards soul.

II.

My begging bowl empty
dinner at noon
I cannot stay awake.
But come the moon
I will be dancing
all night
with crickets and worms.


Ellen Porter
2/18/08
The Hills and Passes of Sequoia

Around the Sierra campfire
twenty miles out from other camps
or mountain stores or macadam roads,
we leaned in close to the warmth
and each other’s bravery.
In the morning, with sunrise,
we would climb the pass
twelve thousand feet high,
hovering over the trees and hills of Sequoia.

But early that evening
an angel came into our camp
asking to have some mosquito repellent.
I gave him my half-used bottle
and he glided away,
his feet never touching ground.
(This story is true.)

When morning rose
we strapped on our packs
like so many upright turtles
and struggled up the trail
toward rumors of a wide and dangerous
creek crossing at the top.

The angel approached me from behind, paused long enough
to offer his angel signature:
“Don’t be afraid; I’ll wait for you.”
And he went on ahead.

When I reached halfway
and could see the pass,
I saw the angel,
perched on a rock beyond the creek.

He raised his arm in reassurance and angelic salutation
and then was gone.
Later, at the pass’s summit
I stepped confidently over
the dreaded creek—one step.

From that day on
I have relied on winged voices
rather than the scuttlebutt of those
little less than angels.


Ellen Porter
1/21/08
What Was I Born For?

And what was I born for?
Certainly not, like Mary Oliver,
to look, to listen to the indescribable
treasures of nature; of rabbit
whiskers, the orange feet of birds
on black branches. Oh, I love
the things she loves, but my vision
is lacking.

My vision looks at inner things.
Through the eyes, hooded and glowing
I see fear and a dare.
My smile at this hoodlum
melts his eyebrows down
to crooked worms inching, ungainly
on his adolescent face.

My vision sees the grandmother’s
hope, sometimes her loving joy
poured over and giggling
at her granddaughter’s garbled speech.
Sometimes I see her guarded strain
looking for the perfect job, the
meeting of need and payment.

It is not that Oliver’s world is better,
but it is starker in its reality of death.
Somehow scavengers and carrion
blend together like a puzzle.
And this poet knows the frame.

If there is a god
(and the preponderance of rabbits, birds and grandmothers
lend credence to the hypothesis)
She has prismed vision—
sees the puzzle whole and
loves each pinpoint of
individual grace.


Ellen Porter
2/1/08
While I, Dying

I am dying.
I cannot hide it from myself
any longer.
The hospital bed stands boldly
in the corner
the beautiful light blue quilt
stained with bloody ooze.
I cannot hide it
but I do not like it.
Stay with me
while I die.
Stay with me
through a year of days
if need be, while I,
dying, tremble.


Ellen Porter
2/22/08
Windigo

Without a friend
just nine of us
strangers to each other
save the crew and they were
uncle, niece
and a wayward boy.

The boat was a yawl
seventy-two feet
double-masted
heading toward Glacier Bay.

I don’t know if it was my loneliness
or his countenance—
that of a Raphael angel—
working passion in my heart.
But whatever it was
kept my eyes tracking
his movement
each task memorized
by his hands and
booted heels.

The closest I came
to loving him was when we met, opposite ways
on the stairwell.
Face to face
he clowned and then he
grinned his most
seductive smile.
I flushed,
knowing what I wanted
but too young to make it mine.

These thirty years later
I regret that stubborn immaturity,
but it keeps the memories rich
having what I had
in deep Alaskan water.


Ellen Porter
1/22/08
Wise and Winsome Child

Five-year-old Grace
is a joyful, resilient
temporary resident
of this house.

She tumbles up stairs
runs circles around adults
eating the last of their
roast and ice cream dinners.

I chase with her to an ante-chamber
and she suddenly stops
gasps for air, and
as the great door closes,
asks fearfully
“Do you know how to get out of here?”

I am the adult
so of course I know—
no sharing of my own trepidation.
And then the doors burst open
and we are set free
tumbling into a wicked wind
through new snow.
And she asks,
“Do you know how to get us in from here?”

God’s weather is stronger
than my faith,
so I shake my head, no,
and open the car door.


Ellen Porter
3/02/08
With the Poets

This past forty years
I’ve drunk my coffee black,
wrapped my hands
about the mug for warmth
and let the morning come.

But this year,
coffee keeping company
with the great poets,
I lace the cup with cream
and let word tricks of my own
flow like whole milk
shot warm and rich from
a full udder.