April is National Poetry Month!

When it comes to writing, poetry has always been my first love. In honor of National Poetry Month, I thought I'd share some of my favorite poets and poems with you, including a few of my own.

Several years ago, I read an article about "Taking Flight" in which the phrase "rare bird" was mentioned. It reminded me of an English professor I had in college. No matter how badly we stumbled when reading aloud, or how poorly we answered his questions, he always found a way to encourage us and make us feel we had potential. "Jonesy" flew the bonds of earth many years ago, but through this poem, I can see him once again flitting about our classroom, trying to teach a young nest full of English majors how to fly. I wrote this poem in March, 2005, based on an incident from a class in the late 1960s. The name "Miss White" is fictitious.

Geoffrey Chaucer was a 14th century poet and author, and is referred to as the Father of English Literature. He is perhaps best known for The Canterbury Tales, a collection of short stories told by travelers to entertain one another while on their journey.

              "A Rare Bird"

Anon. 17th c.  portrait G. Chaucer
(Wikipedia public domain)

A rare bird, lanky, toothless, gaunt,

he perched before his callow clutch,

and from one scrawny, gray-tipped
    wing,

dangled Chaucer, like a juicy worm,

before our unfledged eyes and ears.



"How old is Absalom...Miss White?"

I've never been much good at this
so to his, "Come on, take a guess,"
"From thirty-five to sixty-eight?"
I lamely peep, embarrassed, now.

Canadian Geese
photo by Donna B. Russell

He cocks his head, all smiles, and coos,
"Can you narrow that a little? No?"
He bobs across the room and nods.
Another nestling quickly chirps
a more precise, correct response.



Then turning, he commends us both,
and I am left perplexed, that he
would remove the sting of my distress.
But wisdom knows that confidence
is the lift on which young wings will soar.



                   * * *


How about you? Did you have a special teacher or professor who made an impact on your life? Please share your comments.

The Longest Night

Today is the anniversary of my father's death forty-eight years ago. He died the day before my oldest brother's birthday, and just two and a half weeks before mine. My father had rarely been sick, and had never missed work due to illness. He always said that the day he couldn't go to work was the day he would die.

That morning, I remember my mother calling to me, worry and urgency in her voice. When I emerged from my bedroom, my father was sitting on the bathroom floor, my mother steadying him so he wouldn't fall over. She told me to take her place while she ran to the phone to call for an ambulance. He had vomited blood, then collapsed from weakness. Two weeks earlier, he had been diagnosed with what the doctor thought was the flu and told to stay home from work and go to bed. Today, it was clear that something much more than the flu was wrong with him, and what he'd said about not being able to go to work went through my mind.

For years, my father had been plagued by heartburn. Today, he most likely would have been given medication to treat his symptoms and protect his esophagus, but back then he was told to take an antacid, such as Tums, and cut out spicy foods. He was rushed to the hospital, tests were done, and we received the diagnosis--cancer of the esophagus. Surgery was the only thing that might save his life, and the odds were 80/20 against him. But when the doctors opened him up, the odds dropped to zero--every organ in his body, except his heart, had been invaded by cancer. The doctors said they were amazed he had kept going as long as he did, and that there was nothing they could do. They closed him up, returned him to his room, and the family took up vigil at the foot of his bed, waiting for him to wake up. He never did.

I remember sitting in his darkened room with my mother, my three brothers, and my aunt. I remember the nurse speaking to my father, trying to wake him from the anesthesia. I remember the sound of his breathing, the sounds of monitors to which he was connected, and the sound of the clock on the wall. When he stopped breathing, all of the other sounds stopped, too...except for the ticking of that clock. In addition to losing my father, I felt I had lost my sense of security, as well as my childhood.

The Longest Night

When I was thirteen,

I sat beside my mother

at the foot of his bed,

listening to the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall,

to the steady

drip - drip - drip of the IV,

the s t e a d y

R I S E and f a l l

as the lungs

F I L L, e m p t y, F I L L

as the nurse takes his pulse,

as the light outside grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

as the steady

t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock on the wall

counts out my father's life

second by second,

as the drip - drip - drip - of the IV goes on,

the breathing becomes labored

the chest RISES . . . p a u s e s . . . fa l l s,

and the lungs begin shutting down

as the nurse takes his pulse again

and shakes her head,

and the steady t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k, t-i-c-k

of the clock goes on,

the chest R I S E S . . . f a l l s . . . stops,

as the nurse removes the IV,

and shakes her head,

the light of my childhood

grays to dusk,

blackens to night,

and he's gone.

--Donna B. Russell

© March 30, 2005

Happy Birthday, Miss Emily!

Unlike many modern-day celebrities, Emily Dickinson fervently avoided the spotlight. Born in Amherst, Ma, in 1830, she lived a reclusive life, rarely seeing anyone face-to-face once she had left school and returned home to care for her mother, who suffered from chronic illness.

Her shyness extended to the point that she would listen, out of sight, after inviting a friend over to play music for her. Although she appears to have fallen in love several times during her life, she never married. Her eccentricities included dressing all in white, using unconventional punctuation and phrasing in her poems and letters, and writing letters even to those who lived nearby, such as her sister-in-law who lived just next door, rather than engaging in conversation in person.

During her lifetime, less than a dozen of her poems were pubished. Fortunately, her sister Lavinia and a couple of friends edited the rest of her poems and published them posthumously.

To read more about her life and how her work was preserved, go to http://womenshistory.about.com/od/dickinsonemily/a/emily_dickinson.htm.

In honor of Emily Dickinson's birthday today, I thought I'd share with you one of my favorite poems by this American poet and fellow New Englander.

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody,

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

--Emily Dickinson

Some other writers and poets born in December:

Joyce Kilmer - poet Dec. 6, 1886

James Thurber - humorist - Dec. 8, 1894

John Milton - poet - Dec. 9, 1608

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn - novelist - Dec. 11, 1918

Harriet Monroe - poet - Dec. 23, 1860

Robert Bly - author - Dec. 23, 1926

Mary Higgins Clark - author - Dec. 24, 1931

Rudyard Kipling - writer - Dec. 30, 1865

If you have a favorite Dickinson poem, please share it in the comments section.