A Little of What I Learned From Jen

My friend Jen, a great poet and wonderful woman died this week. Here is a tribute to her. Hope you all like poetry.  I never wrote so many poems on one theme before. These came out from yesterday when we buried her, to a couple weeks ago, and even a summer memory. From the newest to the oldest developments in our relationship. I hope this all makes some kind of sense. Welcome the indwelling memory of those you love.

Jen #7 Poetry Teacher

I want all poetry banned

every bit of Dickinson, Patty Smith

Carl Sandburg, and all that Howls

rounded up and burned in public square

every Cat in the Hat and rhyme crucified

they all rub my nose in you-not-here,

You, the one who gently swung open the doors

who unraveled the mystery and explained it

who bared your soul on paper

and prodded until I bared mine.

So my bare stand shivering now

and there is no one

Receiving

I will never again be sure I have a good poem.

I would ban poets because they are like you

And they all should stop with you gone

But I can’t.

If I bought every laptop, notebook, pen

in every office store on the planet

Poets would still write on napkins

on receipts on box tops on tree bark

with charcoal their souls would lay open

So I guess I better just ready for

Poetry

in not your voice

I better find another teacher

When I decide to make poems again.

12/14/11  leslee clapp

 Jen # 6  Wedding

In the chapel,

we rose.

We turned toward the back

waiting

looking for you

to honor you.

Row by row we faced forward

as you passed by

instead of one groom

you had pall bearers.

Not a white gown

but a snowy white cloth

draped over your casket

No rejoicing

that you found Mr. Right

but weeping

as we hand you off to angels.

how wrong, how wrong,

us gathered at your funeral

and never your wedding.

12/14/11  leslee clapp

Jen # 5 Lives On

The priest says, “We bid our last farewell to our sister Jennifer,” but it will not be—our last farewell.

Every poem I ever write is a nod to her, every handicapped access where I still think,

“Oh, the I can take Jen here someday,”

 Every open mic where I expect her to walk meekly to the front then read a poem that blows

the tops of our heads off,

and all the faces and voices, all those creative souls still here,

each of them one more acknowledgement of her, no farewells at all.

12/14/11 leslee clapp

Jen #4 ICU

Touch someone who’s dying.

Find a spot with no needles

or tubes connected to no

monitor that hums or

clicks or beeps,

 in cruel parody

of back yard crickets or mockery of

a commuter train to carry us

to the Bowery Poetry Club to hear

the Wilkes graduates read.

Look into a face eased of worry

by strong medication or inner peace

a classical Madonna in a rumpled hospital gown

Connect your gaze with hazel eyes

see the battle, fear and pain

vs peace

Knowing she must go now

even though she still has so

much to say.

12/1/11  leslee clapp

  # 3  Sunny Saturday

My memories

seem to be only mine

since you are gone.

How I liberated

you from

the nursing home,

where you

lived decades too early,

as I pulled up

in the convertible

 and whisked you away.

The folded up

wheelchair

took all

the back seat,

and stuck up behind

 our heads.

I wore

a floppy straw hat

you wore

the silly red one,

while the sun

kissed us as we drove

the length of Green Ridge,

toward town

where the rest

 of the poets

waited.

Summer 2011 leslee clapp

Jen # 2   Cape Cod Her favorite Place   

The soft poetry of the December day,

afternoon, 4:30, teatime, light marks

sky, trees across the sound

like figures drawn in chalk pastels,

as I’m standing on a December beach,

a poet’s beach

how much you should be here instead

You live in words

this would stir you,

you could capture it

the light right now is poetry.

Then the new day, sunrise

Bright, brittle, bold,

as sun, certain of its right

to light the world, travels its  

east to west course,

as it has since assigned its route

my own assigned route

altered by a

few degrees at least forever

as you lay, not responding,

far away in hospice,

and I stand in your favorite place

the sand at Cape Cod.

.

12/10-11/11 leslee clapp

Jen # 1  A Prayer  

I know you from the outside,

Enemy, my own, my only.

and it’s only You I would beat

back with flashing words,

fiery lances of words,

feathered steel-tipped words.

they are all I have, small hard scatter-shot,

to get inside your targeted victims,

hoping one of my words will grow

on the battleground of a heart

to replace the mortal fear You’ve sown

with immortal peace

just this one time, Dear God let them work,

let my words be the right ones right now.    

12/4/11 leslee clapp