July 25, 2012: "Poets want to stop River Shannon 'plunder' with new collection" [Old River Shannon Research Group - Facebook]
Beyond All Measure
Threads dangling,
God's river hanging
on the words of a committee --
flimsy plans, such a pity!
If they'd only listen to the
men of the river --
algal blooms to make one shiver
will spread with Nature's cry suppressed
as city men of means, well-dressed,
seize water from the country folk,
around their necks place Dublin's yoke,
and watch the Shannon bleed her treasure
beyond all man-made, reckless measure.
Dedicated to all who are trying to save the River Shannon.
~ © Carolyn Marra (June, 2012)
Published in the booklet, Anthology for a River, edited by Teri Murray, 2012. See link above.
River in the Green
I can't see your river --
can't scoop its water into my hands,
can't sail on it,
can't fish in it,
can't look for my reflection in it,
can't stroll beside it,
or around it,
or above it on a footbridge . . .
But I can grasp its breadth
and depth
through its poetry,
its prose,
its art,
its personalities . . .
and through the green, blessed green,
that surrounds it,
softly.
~ © Carolyn Marra (title revised October, 2014)
The River's Cry
Why has the river seemed to call? What made me think I could be
a voice of assistance to her cause,
she of history legendary?
I had the will and I'd find a way,
I resolved as I rolled up my sleeves,
plunging into precedents
on those humid summer eves.
From dishes to computer
I moved nightly back and forth,
until said research was amassed
on westward mountain north.
"What now?" wondered I of sweaty brow,
leaning forward, squinty-eyed.
"Think hard," exhorted self, "how precedents
can be strategically applied.
A piece of this, a section of that,
disturbed here by some trend;
don't rattle the logs or the salmon's path --
on nature they depend."
~ © Carolyn Marra
Under Kilmer's Trees
Under Kilmer's trees
I grew,
loops and flourishes
springing from pen to paper
in my room beside the forest.
Beneath his trees
arose tulips, Spring-new,
each beaming upward vivid hue . . .
And the Lenni Lenape --
it was their land, too.
How I loved to walk
upon their soil --
though they left me no traces,
no legacy royal.
Had they and I paused
to contemplate
on the same forest ridge
in afternoon, late?
Had we cooled our brows
under the same sheltering trees?
Did the wind console them,
or did it bring them unease?
Were their footprints big
or were they small
on the ground near the rock
so blond and tall?
Did they know the same rock
that I knew then?
Did they climb on it, rest on it,
slide down again?
Kilmer's trees -- and mine --
beheld the sight,
rings of bark guarding the memory
of Lenape morn and Lenape night.
~ © Carolyn Marra
St. Kateri Tekakwitha ("Lily of the Mohawks") - Patron of the Environment and Ecology
St. Kateri's Mother (Algonquin) - "Fleur de la Prairie"
Eye to Eye
While grey fluffs of feathers trilled like finely tuned piccolos
and fire-red altos warbled, flutelike, from the treetops,
myself spied, across the trees and brush,
himself.
As our eyes met (click!),
he lowered his head
and turned away,
instantly deferential . . .
the gentleman.
I wondered if he'd really go.
When I proceeded on my way,
he turned back.
"Ah!" I thought.
"He never meant to leave."
Calculating, observant
was he.
Poised tall on some old wood now,
he watched me walk.
"Thank you, kind sir,"
thought I,
forgetting, for a split second,
who he was,
thinking dimly, faintly, that I must cross before him.
I did recall, however,
that the door to the house
was locked
and I -- keyless.
It was then that my mind was jarred awake
to the reality of this other.
Yet his cloak
(peculiar!)
had faded to light brown
on one side . . .
Evidence of a lost battle?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps simply a worn coat
received in just that condition.
A stealthy beggar was he,
this silent figure in black.
So patient was he,
so patient,
still waiting . . .
while I pondered and walked
this way, then that,
wondering when to cross,
and how, precisely,
to get inside.
In a flash, legs flew
(mine)
with invisible
wings.
He was behind me, somewhere,
and I could no longer see him
watching me.
Hands pounded
(mine)
on the door fiercely, desperately,
while lungs roared
(also mine)
as if to save my life.
But only "as if."
Pretending, was I,
(heart pounding nearly
out of my chest).
Pretending, was I . . .
only because
it "could have come to that."
But, of course, I will never know.
Only himself knows --
himself,
who heard others open the door for me
and who, undaunted,
lingered at length,
sniffing, double-checking,
before lumbering slowly
on all four feet
downhill.
~ © Carolyn Marra
(my near-encounter with a black bear in NJ)
Seized
To the basics
we clung
as rock bottom
rose,
trying its best
to meet us --
wind lashing
on top,
fury unrelenting.
Hands over head
while roof took the blows
and the blows
and the blows,
high-speed pitches
of branch-shaped
baseballs,
gutters flailing in the wind
like crazed ghosts.
Seized with wind's fever,
the skylight
burst out,
flying steady
on Aladdin's invisible carpet,
landing flat on grass.
Gazing up at the gaping hole,
I thought,
"It might get a bit chilly."
~ © Carolyn Marra
(written 11-6-12 re: our Hurricane Sandy experience)
© 2011-2014 Carolyn Marra [C.M.'63]. All rights reserved.
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