I was a whole day ahead of myself. So it goes.
So here are two poems I wrote about Merton:
( I wrote this when I lived in Charleston SC in 1985)
Thomas Merton checks on his trees.
I sit on the bed above the chimneys.
Palmetto trees,
willows, live oaks,
disappear into the candlelight
blue in the solstice light,
air still warm,
red camellias blooming in the garden below.
I sit on the bed,
thinking sunset
over the mountain in
deer leaping in the
empty battlefield,
grey deer with tree
bark
in snow scattered grey grass.
I sit on the bed,
thinking Thomas Merton
walking
in blue December
light
twenty years ago,
checking on trees he planted
in anguish,
loblolly pines grown
tall and graceful,
bending in the sharp December wind,
taller still
twenty years later,
trees he planted in
anguish.
I sit on the bed,
checking on trees I planted:
Pink crab apple trees twenty years ago,
palmettos tonight.
Thomas Merton Walks Around Shining
His hermitage stands sturdy in the sun.
The front porch longs to feel his heavy tread.
The windows wonder what it is he’s done
In Thailand in the room where he lies dead.
The little house would long to see him write
In hours when the winter sky was bleak
He found within himself the world’s delight
Where only on the pages he could speak.
The living conscious Christ engulfed him there,
The well of seeing, splashing into sound.
He found himself beneath the eye of God,
The God of Seeing, tearing up the ground.
He tells his novices it’s something rare—
A love that only poets can compare.
On a
Superhighway in
after Allen Ginsburg
Sometimes I
think of you, Emily Dickinson, when I am standing in the pouring rain,
feeling my
blouse cling to my back, my hair drip into my eyes.
Sometimes I
think of you while eating potato chips, and your starvation.
Sometimes I
think of you when I see the oven bird make her unobtrusive rounds
on the ground
outside my kitchen window.
I am so
excited to see her there that she would never understand.
In my hungry
numbness, and searching for answers, I drove onto the Beltway, dreaming of your
spare words.
What flashing
lights! What cutting in! Tractor trailers sliding by me on the left!
Lanes full of
vehicles built for snow! Business women talking on cell phones in their black
sedans... and you, May Sarton, what were you doing in the moving van?
O Emily
Dickinson, I am on my way to the Carmelite cloister
where I feel
your spirit,
where I
glimpse your thin shoulders heaving
at the towhee
in the birch,
where I hear
you imitate the love song of the house wren,
so lush
compared to your spare human nouns.
I brave the
Beltway to go there
and you are
with me in the passenger seat,
listening with
me to the radio, to the songs of my youth.
Come on baby
light my fire.
Why do fools
fall in love?
I see you
there in the passenger seat, gripping the dashboard,
surrounded by
a fiery mist.
On the way to
your grave in the meadow,
Sue spoke of
your treasures of fruit and flower.
She said you
sat in the light of your own fire.
She said, so
well you knew your chemistries, that
your swift
poetic rapture was like the long glistening
note of a bird
one hears in
the June woods at high noon but can never see.
Sit beside me
here in the traffic, Emily Dickinson,
and tell me
about your selections.
Who did you
watch as they carried your small body out to the hill
in May covered
with flowers?
It is October
as we ride the Beltway in the glaring morning sun.
Emily
Dickinson, what do you say about the angry red cars,
the roaring
black four wheel drives that loom behind me?
What do you
say about this walled city of streaming metal
and gas fired
speed?
Will the
flickering brake lights
make you sink
to the floor of the car, sick with vertigo?
Will the
hissing of rubber on asphalt, the tumult of a thousand engines
make you want
to disappear behind the tan concrete walls?
Will we drive
all day in this exhausted maze?
We’ll both be
burned.
Will we reach
Oh, Emily,
frail and sherry-eyed, lonely scribbler,
what relief
did you have when the carriage stopped for you?
Surprised
me
So
sure it would be cramped, neat
As
her bedroom must have been
Though
why my supposings leaned
That
way,
I
ask myself.
No,
It’s
loose limbed penmanship
Penwomanoceanliner
free
And
unpredictable
As
waves.
Capital
A’s as large as omelets,
Loops
of lowercase h’s and f’s
Longing
as trebles,
Wild
as clefs.
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