Poetry

BLUEBERRY HILL

Out of That Squalid City
Oh, we share that dream. You were a
young lady in a linen dress growing up
in light, white-washed days in Maine, a tom-
boy, probably; closer somehow to earth and sea,
left behind. And I, wanting to be out of this
squalid city, there; and seeing in your briny
gray hair, child frame bent with years of Northeaster,
one cocky, impulsive, hardy. Picking blueberries,  shopping
the oyster houses, walking the docks. Burnished
and bending, only, in that blustery weather,
a sea grass, plentiful, indestructible, there.
I’d like to go back to that place in mind, too.
I’d walk in the sea breeze.
I’d like you to come, too.
We’d pick blueberries together.

Leonard Eskowitz

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RIPENING

Nothing but time-when it is time-

can make the blueberries ripe, their skins

plush as lips, deeply filled with the colors

of bruise and breath and bliss:

Nothing can rush this, this slow swell 

of growth, this lush and lavish splash

of fruit, this bloom and blush and burst.

You can’t feed it anything to speed its time-

nothing generosity or economy, hope or desire, can do.

What softens them is all that, too, can soften you:

The length of days spun by the wheel of sun and moon

the same way one continuous thread becomes a cloth.

Like the reviving trees in spring, or astonished flowers

emerging from unfrozen ground, these blueberries

feed on light. Light is their cue and key, the same thing

that feeds me what I know and do not yet know but will.

Because I eat blueberries in midsummer, I like age,

the news it brings of things I’ve known well all along.

I like the questions it poses, and the slow

but sudden way it replies. All the while

I have been too busy to wait, I have been waiting

for this, and this, and this: Each successive,

deliberate day. Through the wild plenty of time,

nature’s pace is a walk, a mild ramble

over mountainsides and fields. Who remembers berries

in November? I want to forget nothing, miss nothing,

but then-the trees fall away in windblown, broken strokes

and let in newer light, and there is still more to behold.

Now, all summer we have been patient and excited,

almost a year since we climbed our home’s hills with our fingers

combing the green for its deep-sea blue. Here, the blueberries

will ripen the fourth week of July, no sooner-not even

if cities are built in a day, or swords are beaten

into plowshares. There’s no hurry, no hurrying them.

And when they come, after the equinox, after the fireworks,

after all. I will roll each one in my hands,

name them, and count them each like blessings.

Then with my tongue I will parse and split and swallow them

so they enter the bloodstream all red and blue because now

is the only time.

Alice B. Fogel, from I Love This Dark World (Zoland Books, 1996)

Reprinted with permission

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DINNER AT SIX, MONHEGAN HOUSE

It became a memorable first gathering.

Monhegan the meeting place,

the group of four, old friends

and new, together.

A toast to making acquaintances and

the good fortune of being on island.

The time honored ritual of breaking bread,

as conversation and wine flow through the evening.

With fond memories, and these words,

I salute you, and your counterparts,

Sisterhood of Seasoned Souls.

As you read, you will recognize yourselves,

those who were present for dinner at six,

and those who were not.

Those who have joined company on the island in times past,

and for all who journey toward a gathering,

for a warm welcome awaits your arrival.

You know who you are, dear ones.

Forged by the life experience,

having had your mettle tested,

you meet life head on.

No princesses here,

only Warhorses,

in the finest meaning of the word.

Strong of spirit, dependable, loyal and dedicated.

If your soul is in danger of drowning in the midst of disaster,

they will throw you a life line, and, by God,

they won’t let you sink!

They are your best companions during troubling times,

and in your most joyous moments.

Like this island where they meet,

their souls are rugged and fit, yet in many ways,

fragile and delicate.

They encourage and comfort.

They nurture and inspire,

with spoken word, and in their silence.

They recognize one another,

for a bonding existed before a physical meeting.

Time shared is filled with abundant laughter,

some tears, much meaningful conversation.

As though Gifts to one another,

they unwrap and untether themselves,

absorbing from one another new experiences

and familiar feelings.

An innocuous time, safe, profoundly innocent and life altering.

They are ever changing, open,

accepting of their lives as they play out,

on paths taken, some intentional, some not,

but all leading to a crossroad here, on this island.

A place of paths crossing, to share and be strengthened,

before once again,

now forsaking apprehension,

they venture off on their separate ways.

R.A. Szostek

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The View from Above: 

Monhegan House, 7 A.M.

Into the small frame, modest landscape

of yellow garden hose,

overturned red barrow,

the settled gray of shingled houses,

early lettuce bedded out,

lilacs at crescendo,  

here she comes, trotting at a pony’s pace,

a young girl in a striped knit cap,

pom-pom bobbing on a string,

not sure where it’s going

but, like a horseman on a runaway,

gamely holding on.

Look again and she is out of view,

too quick for a pencil sketch,

so quick even these few lines

can barely pin her to the page.

Marjorie Mir

_____

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