Notice by Steve Kowit

This evening, the sturdy Levis
I wore every day for over a year
& which seemed to the end in perfect condition,
suddenly tore.
How or why I don’t know,
but there it was—a big rip at the crotch.
A month ago my friend Nick
walked off a racquetball court,
showered,
got into his street clothes,
& half-way home collapsed & died.
Take heed you who read this
& drop to your knees now & again
like the poet Christopher Smart
& kiss the earth & be joyful
& make much of your time
& be kindly to everyone,
even to those who do not deserve it.
For although you may not believe it will happen,
you too will one day be gone.
I, whose Levis ripped at the crotch
for no reason,
assure you that such is the case.
Pass it on.

Notice

I first thought of the title Notice as a notification, the type you might see pinned on a bulletin board or telephone pole, but then it struck me that this could be an imperative to pay attention, to notice this moment in your life. I expect most people have owned, if not brand-name Levis, at least well worn jeans that soften with age and washings. And though they seem in perfect condition, there comes a point when How or why I don’t know, there is a sudden irrevocable rip.

Then we hear the story of the poet’s friend Nick after a racquetball game, who showered, changed, & half-way home collapsed & died. These things do happen and we shake our heads, and feel perhaps a guilty gratitude that it was not our turn. Take heed he demands, take notice & drop to your knees now & again, be humble and grateful to be alive. This is a reminder that the time of death is uncertain, so kiss the earth & be joyful / & make much of your time / & be kindly to everyone.

It is clear that the poet was woken up to his life by the sudden death of his friend, and wants others to get the message too. For although you may not believe it will happen, / you too will one day be gone. Just like those jeans that seemed to the end in perfect condition, our bodies too will wear out, so we must be joyful and kindly and use our time well. As the poet says, Pass it on.

Apple Blossoms by Susan Kelly-DeWitt

One evening in winter
when nothing has been enough,
when the days are too short,

the nights too long
and cheerless, the secret
and docile buds of the apple

blossoms begin their quick
ascent to light. Night
after interminable night

the sugars pucker and swell
into green slips, green
silks. And just as you find

yourself at the end
of winter’s long, cold
rope, the blossoms open

like pink thimbles
and that black dollop 
of shine called

bumblebee stumbles in.

Apple Blossoms

I know, technically this is the first day of spring, and though the sun peeks out periodically, the temperature still has the chill of winter in it. So even if I am premature, I go looking for poems celebrating the arrival of spring and find this gem. One evening in winter / when nothing has been enough – sometimes in late winter, this is how it feels, cheerless as she tells us. And yet, one of those evenings, the secret / and docile buds of the apple // blossoms begin their quick / ascent to the light. What a gorgeous image of these unseen buds as they rise inexorably toward the sun’s light.

During these seemingly endless nights, the sugars pucker and swell / into green slips, green / silks. Can’t you just picture these viridescent jewels unfolding? She captures that sense of weariness, of wanting the season to change, of being at the end / of winter’s long, cold /rope. But just then, she rewards us with the promise that the blossoms will open like pink thimbles, tiny delicate flowering cups. And as if that were not enough, that black dollop / of shine called / bumblebee stumbles in. Sigh of contentment. Can’t you just imagine this, even if it’s not happening yet where you are – but it will, a poet told me so.

Here by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Even as the snow was falling,
the birds in the branches
kept singing into morning,
easing their bright notes
into the thin gray spaces
between snowflakes.

There are days, imagine,
when the birds go unheard.
And it isn’t for lack of song—
the single note chirp
of sparrow, the bass of raven,
the chickadee’s hey swee-tee.

Some gifts come only
when we stay in one place,
come only when we are alone,
come only when we stop praying
to be somewhere else and instead
pray to be here.

Here

The snow is still falling in this part of the world, albeit more like rain at times, but the birds are beginning to make themselves heard in the mornings easing their bright notes / into the thin gray spaces / between snowflakes. This image delights me, combining both the visual and the auditory, the bright and the gray. The poet asks us to imagine that some days, the birds go unheard. / And it isn’t for lack of song. How often do we go about our day oblivious to the beauty of bird chirps, caws and the chickadee’s hey swee-tee?

She is sharing the easily forgotten wisdom that such gifts may only be noticed when we stay in one place, come only when we are alone, when we stop our constant moving, talking, doing, being so busy. These gifts of snowflakes and birdsong are only apparent when we stop praying / to be somewhere else and instead / pray to be here. Wherever ‘here’ is right now, not wishing for life to be other than it is, that is where some gifts come to us, if we can just be in the moment. Listen, can you hear the music the birds are singing to us?

Wondrous by Sarah Freligh

I’m driving home from school when the radio talk
turns to E.B. White, his birthday, and I exit
the here and now of the freeway at rush hour,

travel back into the past, where my mother is reading
to my sister and me the part about Charlotte laying her eggs
and dying, and though this is the fifth time Charlotte

has died, my mother is crying again, and we’re laughing
at her because we know nothing of loss and its sad math,
how every subtraction is exponential, how each grief

multiplies the one preceding it, how the author tried
seventeen times to record the words She died alone
without crying, seventeen takes and a short walk during

which he called himself ridiculous, a grown man crying
for a spider he’d spun out of the silk thread of invention —
wondrous how those words would come back and make

him cry, and, yes, wondrous to hear my mother’s voice
ten years after the day she died — the catch, the rasp,
the gathering up before she could say to us, I’m OK.

Wondrous

I feel I want to start by saying, if you have never read Charlotte’s Web, please make time for it in your lifetime. It is a story of such tenderness and loving that it is clearly not meant just for children. The poem begins with hearing on the radio about the birthday of the author, E.B.White, and she exits the here and now of the freeway at rush hour – already we know we are on the trail of a worthy story. Such stories are indeed wondrous.

The poet takes us directly to the key point, how the spider, Charlotte, bravely dies after laying her eggs, and how Freligh’s mother, reading to her and her sister, cries for the fifth time at this part. The girls are laughing because we know nothing of loss and its sad math, in that way that children haven’t yet learned how each grief / multiplies the one preceding it. In three short lines, she captures the essence of grieving in her ‘sad math’ equation.

She tells us that White, in recording his story, could not get out the words She died alone, feeling ridiculous about crying for a spider he’d spun out of the silk thread of invention. It becomes so clear that though the spider is an invention, the grief evoked is not. Freligh marvels that ten years after the day she died, her mother’s voice is still clear to her – the catch, the rasp, / the gathering up before she can go on. One senses that the grief for her own mother’s death is contained in this poem, a story within a story.

Days by Billy Collins

Each one is a gift, no doubt, 
mysteriously placed in your waking hand 
or set upon your forehead 
moments before you open your eyes. 

Today begins cold and bright, 
the ground heavy with snow 
and the thick masonry of ice, 
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds. 

Through the calm eye of the window 
everything is in its place 
but so precariously 
this day might be resting somehow 

on the one before it, 
all the days of the past stacked high 
like the impossible tower of dishes 
entertainers used to build on stage. 

No wonder you find yourself 
perched on the top of a tall ladder 
hoping to add one more. 
Just another Wednesday 

you whisper, 
then holding your breath, 
place this cup on yesterday’s saucer 
without the slightest clink.

Days

I’ve always appreciated Billy Collins for his gentle humour and easy accessibility, and as with some such as this, his deft wisdom that lingers after reading. The gift of each day mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead, a gift we tend to take for granted too often. A day much like this one, bright with snow and the thick masonry of ice, a phrase that brings to mind the solidity of stonework.

Gazing through the calm eye of the window, he introduces the idea that this day might be resting somehow // on the one before it, and is this not exactly how it is, each new day arranged in a neat or haphazard pile on the last? Then he creates a whimsical image of past days of your life stacked high / like the impossible tower of dishes, a tower you’ve surely seen in a slapstick cartoon.

He imagines us perched on the top of a tall ladder wanting to add another day to that unlikely structure. Just another Wednesday // you whisper, just one more day, one more gift of this amazing life, and with breath held, he shows us how we place this cup on yesterday’s saucer / without the slightest clink. Each day another layer, like the thickness of ice that may or may not hold fast as we place our days one upon another. Precarious, yes, but oh so exquisite to behold.