Güd wrtr

I was hoping that the 26-second video that goes with today’s poem, “Water in conversation with other water,” would appear at the bottom of the email you received with the poem. Apparently it did not.

To see the video at the bottom of the poem on my website, you can click here. Or you can look at the previous email and click on the title of the poem, “Water in conversation with other water” or the GüdWrtr logo at the top. Either will take you to the website where you can read the poem and see the video underneath the poem.

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Jan Haag

We stop to watch from the bluff-top trail
as down on the rain-soaked sand

two children work to carve a channel
to convince water falling over nearby

rocks to snake gracefully into
rising surf. They work so hard

at what nature does all by itself—
water seeking itself, water in

conversation with other water,
which we hear walking by creekside

arteries that whisper in some places,
gurgle in others, prodded by gravity,

unimpeded by debris, hurrying
down its self-prescribed channels.

All water has a single destination—
it all becomes ocean eventually—

as do we, rushing at times,
burbling, meandering at others.

Even on a chilly, rainy day, drops
leaching from clouds onto beach,

two children delight in runoff
working its way to the sea,

water seeking water, all of it
so naturally becoming one.

Because stories are spells; they change things. When they hook us and reel us into their magic, they change us. It’s stories that will save us, in the end. Not just the stories we read or tell, or the stories we want to be in, but the ones that live inside us and the ones we live inside.

— Sharon Blackie, Hagitude

•••

You ask what I do in the comfy chair,
laptop in lap, for so long, deep into
tonight-becomes-early-tomorrow.

In the dark they arrive without
distraction, the ones who people
this story written in fits and starts

for more than a decade, who’ve
never really left my mind, who
seem as deeply embedded

in my soul as any dead loved one,
though these beings have never
breathed, except in my imagination

where I see them walking, hear
them talking like old friends. This
is a novel still trying to be born,

and I’m in the last trimester, the
ready-to-push stage, putting the
finishing touches on their lives,

revising for the third time,
which feels like doing math
(and I don’t math), checking

ages and hair colors and details
on a wonky timeline back and forth
from the 1950s to the 1970s.

And when they are delivered
unto the world, they’ll no
longer belong to me, as any

parent can tell you. With luck,
they’ll make friends who’ll read
about them, decide how to

feel about them, and some of
those people will tell me how
they feel about these fictional

characters, who, with luck,
will become real to others,
not just me.

•••

(for Caro and El and Lil and Ma and all those in “Three Sisters Antiques,” whom I thank for coming)

The capsized ones float on the incoming tide,
moving them toward sand and air,

where, had they not already died,
they would soon out of their element.

And as I walk the tideline, the cobalt
sailboats of the by-the-wind sailors

tilt starboard and port, cast ashore with
so flattened spines of beached purple

urchins—the worst hair day ever.
Yet the air sparkles blue as the wind

rises into the sun high overhead at
twelve o’clock. And on the beach

two young mothers with four toddlers
between them chat as their offspring

dig in soft sand, chirping like birds,
calling to each other like the gulls

and crows overhead. Come see
what I found! What else might

we find? Their sails flush with
breeze, they set off into waters

that will, with luck, carry these
young sailors into the rest

of their forevers. May they
encounter only fair winds

and following seas; may they
be welcomed home by their

beloveds every time they
come ashore whether or not

they arrive laden with
treasure.

(Iris douglasiana)
•••
(for all the Dougs)

Now that we know their name,
we can address them properly as
we walk by the fan-shaped flowers

on the bluff-top trail: Hiya, Doug,
which calls to mind so many
Dougs we have known—

the college newspaper editor
who, decades later, on his final
day, golfed a bucket of balls

at the driving range,
talked with his brother,
and ate a steak dinner.

There’s the former student
who now deans at a college
that one of us attended

and where the other one
taught for a time, as well as
other memorable Dougs:

a wire service editor,
a slack key guitarist,
a top-notch news reporter.

All of them spring
to mind as we pass a host
of purple irises

blooming their violet
brilliance into a meadow
near the sea,

the indelible Douglases
here and gone too quickly,
but no less admired

and deeply loved.

(Pieris marginalis)

The small white winged thing
whose name I did not yet know
was the third insect I relocated
today from inside to out.

The first an oblong black bug
crawling on the tan tile,
easy to see, step on, but,
as is my habit, if I can catch

it without damaging it,
I give it the old college try,
scooping it into cupped hands
and carrying it to the sliding

glass door. Emerging into
bright sun and leaning
over the deck, I set it into
tall grass. The second

crawly, a bit harder to catch,
also went into grass.
But the white butterfly
resting against the kitchen

window required more
assistance than my hands
could offer. So, summoning
you, I wondered aloud

if we might momentarily
remove the screen, prompting
your oh, Janis sigh. You who
always assess situations more

carefully than I, surveyed
the screen from inside
and out before climbing
a two-step ladder outside

and gently released the
screen. Pieris marginalis
stayed put, though I’d have
thought that an inflow

of fresh air might lure it
back into the wild. Nope.
“Nudge it with a wooden
spoon,” you suggested

from your perch. And, on
tiptoe, I did, so quickly, that
what I later learned was
a margined white butterfly

flitted into the day, aiming
into the blue, as two humans
grinned at the wee visitor
winging off into the wider

world, alone.

I start the day in my hometown
circling a labyrinth as eight seekers
wind around its twists and turns
as the sun climbs and warms us.

I end the day by the sea at low
tide, so low that rocks I’ve rarely
seen here lollygag above the waves
like lazy seals, winter storms
having swept away dump trucks’
worth of sand, tossing huge logs
like matchsticks dropped from heaven
at the high water mark.

And in between you discover,
curled in the bathroom sink
in the little casa by the sea,
an expired mouse so tiny
it looks embryonic.

I’ll take care of it, you say,
knowing that I don’t like to
dispose of dead rodentia.

How? I ask.

Aerial burial, you say,
as though you’ve given
this some thought or
done so before.

And I follow you—little
dead thing in a paper towel
in your hand—as you head
outside to the deck where
a vast meadow gleams golden
in late afternoon light.

You windmill your pitching
arm backward and, at
twelve o’clock, catapult
what was into the hereafter.

We have no idea where
it has gone. Which seems
about right—like this sweet
day, like this tiny life,
like the sand taken back
into the heart of the sea.

noun:
1. The condition or quality of being complete or whole.

•••

On my knees on the soft garden mat,
bare hands telescoping into cold earth—
because it’s spring, allegedly—

I think about the total solar eclipse that
I will not see, far as I am from the path
of totality. What a wondrous coincidence,

I read, that a 2,100-mile-wide ball of rock
240,000 miles away appears to cover
an 870,000-mile-wide ball of gas

over 90 million miles away. If the sun
were a bit bigger or closer, or if the moon
were a bit smaller or farther,

totality would not occur. Up to
my knuckles in freshly turned soil,
it strikes me that I’m as

complete and whole—a humble bit
of terrestrial humanity—as I’ll ever
be, whether or not I stand in awe

and watch the heavens as an
obscuring rocky body briefly
blocks the ball of gas that

is our nearest star, haloing
the shadow of moon, then
moving on in its reliable

trajectory—looking up,
as we earthlings love to do,
at what we think of as sky.

•••

Quotation in italics and statistics from an opinion piece in the Washington Post by Sabine Stanley, professor of earth science at Johns Hopkins University and author of “What’s Hidden Inside Planets?”

After a couple days
with April showers,
springshine is back
in Northern CA,

his email says with
three sweet photos
of the pink dogwood
he sees when he steps
out his front door—

one showing the new
sprites at a distance,
sprouting from the tree
that struts its stuff
this time of year,

one a bit closer showing
the wood of dog petals
uplifted to blue sky,

and a closeup of
creamy pink blossoms
backlit by generous sun,
delicate veins running
vertically down each
petal,

not unlike ones that rise
now from the backs of my
hands—my mother’s hands,
my grandmother’s hands—

that carry our lifeblood
for all the seasons we’re
given.

•••

(with thanks to Dick Schmidt for the photos and inspiration)

Spring is the cruelest time
to die, I used to think—
just as winter rolls up its
gray quilt and lifts off,

as the skeletons of trees
hold the hope of green,
some even budding into
early pink laughter
under warm sun.

The departed miss all this—
the earth unfurling her
best self just when we
need to see it.

Stepping outside this morning
to see over the driveway
the tiniest bits of purple
cascade off the trellis
reminds me that spring arrives
on time for those left behind,

those who look up,
who notice color again
where only yesterday
there was none.