Christine Wolfe
Christine Wolfe
let the little poem
Take a scalpel to the story
but let the little poem flow
go back and check your duplications
she sat and sobbed,
or babbled
danced or pranced or meditated
what can be elucidated
but let the little poem go –
Take a scalpel to the story
but let the little poem dance
let it weave effects upon our hearts
let it chart our weakness, spot us swinging
open the page and start us singing
let the little poem speak – (or prance)
The world’s sense isn’t in us
unless we stop to listen
stop to breathe
what is it that we fear, my dear
let’s hold hands and sheathe our scalpels
tuck them in our belts
pause, to feel our feelings
let the little poem seethe –
And when the dance is done
the song is sung
the hunter home from the hill
we can read the story 'oer
discuss it, let it lull us, add some more –
Time to recite
put down the book
let the little poem spill.
* * * * * * * * * *
Clocks, the Tree, Tagore and Me
The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. – Rabindranath Tagore
Waking, confused by night, I hear the grandfather clock bong twice
and the poet speaks in my mind,
Dawn plays her lute before the gates of darkness
and is content to vanish when the sun rises.
I ponder the Reaper who may claim me whenever he likes
and wish that I could live in love, not in mere time.
My mind starts up with a flash, its flow of thought
like the unrepeated liquid notes of a brook –
The digital clock-radio is insistent at 6:02
it begins to spout the news, but I hear the poet in my mind’s ear,
My heart today smiles at its past night of tears
like a wet tree glistening in the sun after the rain is over.
My watch repeats each number twice a day, as does our stately grandfather clock
Contained, predictable – clocks. Not like the tree, a winged spirit
freed from the bondage of seed and pursuing adventure across the unknown.
Ah, I remember me as a child, dwelling in ageless time –
I’ll close my cell phone, refuse the time printed on its face
the burden of self is lightened when I laugh at me
I’ll take off my watch, recapture my child, climb the tree
the tree bears its hundred years as one majestic moment –
“Aroint you clocks!” I’ll shout,
“Off with your hands, off with your faces!”
My light laughter from the branches will carry clearly,
swiftly across time.
** * * * * * * * *
*
Of Milkweed Pods and Agents
Hazy evening
as I open the door of my red Honda
to find a fuzzy white seed-pod
one of those make-a-wish fluff balls –
which floats in, and hovers
I reach out
the seed pod hangs in air, and this time
not like most times when I can’t catch the damned things
even if I chase them …
I simply open my palm
and it lands ....
I fold my fingers over the seed pod
whisper the name of my agent,
Oh to be a published writer!
just two words, first name and last
like a mantra
or maybe a magic focus word …
I open up my palm
jump into my chariot
slam the door, rev the engine
and back out of my parking space,
the seed pod flutters to the passenger seat
immobile for the moment.
I careen out of the parking lot –
luckily the light is green
speed down Craft Avenue
pass the Playhouse
and spin left onto the Boulevard.
Suddenly my feather-light passenger
floats up.
I grab it and stuff it into my bra
it escapes like breath
plummets up
and I laugh.
I roll down one window
(on my side)
letting go is an act of faith
as always;
the little fluff zigzags
on its own air currents
it finds a crevice somewhere
and – invisible now –
continues to ride home with me.
* * * * * * * * *
Dance Partner
nervous, wild
“No,” I whisper to him, “I can’t follow,”
let me dance myself
like the squirrel
tail wrapped around the frozen railing
then tail unwraps
she shakes her silver-furred splendor
leaps, solo
into the tree
rattling the icy branches so that our eyes dazzle
as she streams away…
when the music calls, I answer
who, you? lost, lost
no, I’m beyond speaking
scattering notes as Jimi Hendrix warbles
I leap
the hot blare of a clarinet
or the electric lady guitar
melds my energy
melts my edges
and I am lost now
where I really know how.
Christine Aikens Wolfe, a 1992 WPWP Fellow, is a Reading Specialist, who teaches for Pittsburgh Public Schools, Avonworth Schools (and other districts), the WPWP, the Cultural Trust) and Carlow University. Christine's teacher reflections have been published in Parachute, the WPWP Bulletin, Virginia English Bulletin and the Handbook of Electronic Collaboration and Organizational Synergy. She is a member of the WPWP and the Pittsburgh Poetry Society. Her poems have been published in Sonnetto Poesia, Riverspeak, Woman Becoming, Poetry Magazine, The Potter's Wheel and Threads. Most recently, she was honored be published in an artist-poet collaboration: Fission of Form.
Poems by Christine