April 15, 2020 (Poem “Opossum”)

 


Opossum
     a true tale
 
 
In the last days of a long-ago marriage
money was tight.
It was high summer in Louisiana,
a swelter, a sauna.
My then-husband had found work with a beekeeper,
traveling with a crew
to check hives. It didn’t pay much but was honest,
worked as a metaphor,
better than his old job welding deep inside oil tankers,
he said, coming home stung,
his sinuses swollen by all the wind-blown pollens.
 
I was academically employed, a grad student on summer
break, fiddling with Latin,
the declensions of irregular verbs, the moody subjunctive,
and trying to keep the kitchen
in that rented house free of shiny black tree roaches,
but closing my eyes
before I turned on the lights, giving them time
to scuttle back into cracks.
One evening—I’d fixed jambalaya—his boots dropped
on the back porch and he
came in with news: there was work for me in the honey house.
 
I showed up at the low concrete building, a warren
of ill-lit rooms, built
for something else. The beekeeper showed me how
to set wax patterns
on the wire sheets, slide the ready frames into wooden hives,
portable as document boxes.
I got the hang of it in half an hour, fell into a light trance
alone in the honey house,
some far-off door open, its frame filled with sunlit greens
and soft, lulling breeze.
I recited scraps of old poems I’d learned by heart:
   
Let me not to the marriage
of true minds admit impediment/Love is not love…
I liked the rhythm,
the hum and slide and rattling thunk of old wood.
It reminded me, I guess,
of the shuddering return of my typewriter carriage.
Love is not love,
Love is not love….After great pain, a formal feeling
comes…then something stirred
in my peripheral vision. Something ghostly crawled
toward me, red-eyed,
 
balding, dragging a long pink tail. I stood and screamed!
It hissed and ran
and it was a long time before my heart stopped thumping
but I did catch hold
of myself. Taking deep breaths, I saw the funny side—
me, jumping on the chair,
like a cartoon housewife startled by a mouse.
I only recognized,
weeks later, that turning point, fear-born gift
of clear sight, despite long
hiding: a fierce intent to claim my own power.
 
 
Leslie Schultz


Image by Roy Guisinger from Pixabay 

Today’s poem was a collision with current events (my review this week of the Latin verbs “sum” and “possum” or “I am” and “I can” and a rich and deep conversation yesterday) and an old memory surfacing. (It was in Lake Charles, Louisiana, as a graduate student of poetry, that for fun I began my peregrinations through the Latin language. When I left Lake Charles, I also left my first marriage.)

Leslie

April 14, 2020 Poem “Nests”

 


Nests
 
 
One spring morning, under the trembling
white blooms of our kiwi vine—
supported by an old ladder, just in line
with the seen-better-days porch railing—
 
I glimpsed, as though deep into a cave,
the woven edges of a wren’s nest.
No doubt you guess the rest.
For the rest of the season, we gave
 
those tiny, vociferous birds
a very wide berth,
moved our chairs, well knowing the worth
of a space without words,
 
of resonant emptiness, hidden
under a fragrant curtain
while the outcome is uncertain,
in intent endeavors, bidden and unbidden.
 
 
Leslie Schultz


April 13, 2020 (Poem “Masks”)

 


Masks
  for my sister
 
 
Monday now, and your birthday.
We talked yesterday, bright joy
for me in an April snowstorm.
 
Your package arrived weeks ago,
you told me. Worried about lockdowns,
I mailed it a month early.
 
All over our small city,
those who venture out now
cover their faces with masks.
 
I used to think of masked balls,
or Halloween. Now, highway men
and worse, The Masque of the Red Death,
 
my early assiduous reading
of Poe, horror of plague,
woe, the colors of crow.
 
Yet joy is ascendant, leaps
like that spritely spotted cow
who jumps over the moon.
 
I’m here, you’re here.
We’ll talk again soon.
Meanwhile, for you,
 
who always meets me
where I am, never asks
that I put on a false face,
 
I am making a mask
of the softest cloth
to send to you, just
 
a bright, little scrap
of current ingenuity
and hope. Just in case.
 
 
Leslie Schultz

Recently, Tim asked me to make him a mask. We found instructions online, thanks to the tiny but incomparable shop on St. Paul’s Grand Avenue, Treadle Yard Goods. From their website, and inspired by their initiative to make masks for healthcare workers, as well as friends and family, we found a pattern at a site called Sew Good dedicated to making and donating quality handmade items. (I have included the link so the pattern is available to you.)

Usually, I sew by hand, but I knew that I couldn’t manuver a sliver-sharp quilting needle through denim in tiny stitches (too painful!). Some years ago, my friend, Corrine Heiberg, had given me her beloved Elna sewing machine. This past winter, by chance, I found a place to have it reconditioned, but given my timidity with machines and technology, I had not yet moved forward on my intention of becoming comfortable using it.

This past week, with Tim standing by for technical and moral support, I have now successfully wound bobbins, threaded top and bottom threads, and (yes! I see the metaphor!) adjusted tensions. I found some much-laundered cloth–a denim kitchen apron retired from service due to a frayed neck strap that I had always meant to replace, and some soft flannel from pajamas that had been put out to pasture. My only deficit in terms of materials was elastic. There, too, Corrine came to the rescue. I re-purposed the elastic from some Aeroflot eye shades she sent my way. This elastic is thin and soft and a discreet black, but it looks strong enough to hold.

Here is the prototype with a dashing model. Who? Perhaps Spiderman?

Encouraged by the first one, yesterday I made two more, one for Karla, one for me.

Effective? So they say, and I think they do signal reassuring safety to others.

Meanwhile, I am thinking, now that the trusty Elna and I have become friends, of other projects I might attempt this year. (Quilts! Quilts! Quilts!)

Wishing you a safe and lighthearted day, whatever you are doing on this Monday,

Leslie

April 12, 2020 Poem “Larches”

Autumnal Larches (Photo by Andreas Neumann and Pixabay)
 

Larches
 
 
Sentinel elders
of boreal forests,
they know how to spin
soft green into gold,
 
brew in their bodies
bright tannins to stain
that bitter tea
of their shining season,
 
then release themselves,
let everything drop
when arctic cold
drops in again.
 
Naked as spears,
larches lift our eyes
to the stark beauty
of winter skies.
 
From carpets of needles
and shadows, they pierce
the clouds each day.
All night they point the way
 
toward Arcturus,
our northern springtime
star, its yellow light heralding
renewed green.
 
 
Leslie Schultz

The anomalous beauty of the larch fascinates me. It is a conifer but not an evergreen. Its heart wood is salmon-pink. It is the hardest of the soft woods, and its small cones resemble roses or lilies. And the larch is very long-lived compared to our human span, often 600 years old, with documented trees standing a thousand years. Larches are most striking in October but I like to think of them now, in spring, spinning nutrients from the soil into fresh green needles, soft pink cones filled with seed.

Larch Cone (Photo by PixxlTeufel and Pixabay)

April 11, 2020 Poem “Kodak”

 


Kodak
 
 
Impossible to mispronounce,
its inventor hoped.
 
Everyone’s first camera.
Mine a plastic point and shoot—
 
just drop a film cartridge in,
wind to advance.
 
Later my first digital, too.
My husband worked for Kodak,
 
had an employee discount.
He told me of their whole
 
invented argot, KISL,
Kodak International Service Language,
 
devised to be devoid
of nuance. One word=
 
one meaning. Unintentionally comic
but impossible to use for art.
 
No stony silences. No cloudy thought.
No slippery patinas
 
of shimmer or rust. Everything
to scale (proportion only, no weight
 
or fish or climbing allowed).
Even “home” one mere syllable
 
denuded of detail, fixed in location
and in memory, unabraded;
 
nothing to develop or discuss.
No backward glances? Even for us
 
with mountains of photographs
attesting to changes?
   
No, that is not how I see it.
I cannot concur.
 
One flat little picture
forgotten for years
 
reappears quite changed
from what I recall,
 
with layers of proofs
and dazzling suggestions.
 
Beckoning insights
explode off the page,
 
more and more as I age.
The older I get
 
the more strata I see,
the more I embrace ambiguity.
 
 
Leslie Schultz