HPN

Click Page 1 of Featured Poet

Click Page 2 of Featured Poet

Poetry of Issue #7        Featured Poet Sherman: Page 1

FIRST AND LAST POEMS
             for Violeta Parra

there is nothing romantic 
about death    about pain 
tears falling like soft clouds 
like copper clouds    the color of rusted blood 
the texture of fire

the first enemy is fear 
the second power 
the third   old age

all my life    all those books    all those feelings 
words    thoughts    experiences 
to say such simple words   to feel 
such simple things

your mountains    like my own    like home 
rows of dust    of light brown soil 
as if a gentle wind could level them 
could blow them away

the sea    touching my nostrils 
filling them    a country of smell 
of sound    of wine    flowers    of salt air 
of early morning    opening and 
opening    through my mind 
my heart    the extremities 
of my hands    my feet

if I were a bird and could float 
dipping and weaving tapestries of air 
and light    if we could fly together 
like silver crows    birds of dream 
until everything stops    is silent and 
gentle    like your songs    your voice 

but the world allows us nothing 
the world is nerves    is fiber 
dust and sand    the world changes constantly 
nothing remains the same
 
I see you singing into the air 
as if your voice could fly    be free 
were there creatures above you 
listening    fishing your gifts 
from the breeze    was there a place 
that could hold you as you opened yourself 
to it    as you went where no one else 
could follow    where no one else 
could see

                each time I have loved 
                I have left part of myself behind 
                until now 1 am mostly memory
                mostly dream    what I have left 
                I give to you    my last love 
                my last song

                the total of all
                I have ever felt or known

we grow smaller as we grow 
as things empty themselves of us 
and we    of them

it is so deep    this thing between us 
no name can contain it 
even time trembles
at its touch

  Susan Sherman