I wrote a word and let it go,
A seed it was, I did not know;
It fell to earth in secret ground,
And there a living tree was found.

I gave a word to one long dead,
It rose to life and gave them bread;
I whispered low, the branches grew,
And clothed the land in morning dew.

I read a word that made them glow,
I took a word and watched it grow;
It bore a fruit I could not see,
Yet filled the world with mystery.

I spoke a word I can’t take back,
It darkened sky and turned it black;
The fruit was sweet, the poison whole,
It sowed a storm that stole a soul.

They ask which magic I’d choose-
not flight, not vanishing into air.
I want the old power,
the one Grandmother spoke of:
to call back all that’s gone,
to open the cedar door
into the room of lost things.

I’d find the turtle
I lost in the summer grass,
its shell etched with desert wind.
The story my best friend tore apart,
still trembling in her fists.
And my mother’s Pucci dress
green as cactus pads,
pale as celery,
wild as Kokopelli’s laughter.
Mommy, wear your dipsy-doodle dress,
begging, small hands tugging at her wrist.

I see the red-carpet stairs,
her laughing- Look, I’m on the red carpet
before the mountain swallowed the house whole.
Adult voices dropped into whispers:
trials, blood, ****** braided into coffee steam.
I breathed it in,
the way children once breathed poison
from arsenic wallpaper.
And then the house was gone.

But in the room of lost things,
the house stands again.
My mother waits at the piano,
head tilted in a model’s pose,
her green dress shining like emerald glass,
knee-high boots braced on red carpet.
From the shadowed corner steps the man
she kept in photographs.
Slowly, haltingly,
she takes my hand,
leads me not to him
but to my father-
the one who still sings in my blood,
the one who never forgets me.

I was brilig in my slothy
days,
My combs dangled in the
fullness of ⁷time.

No particular fell but
were crushed.

I murmured to the sky's
yellow parts, home
of the slippery
curved words.

I walked the gel of
yesterday until &
therefore the ,,,,

Last lost number
was my age

A ziggy
On our

Love's shipped

trembling tune.

We

Kissed in the
fullness
and in the
ripeness

Of God's

Embrace.


Caroline Shank
MARCH 18, 20÷

In June of 1989, 14 poets, all alumni of Columbia University, took a trip to Moscow. I was one of them. We flew from New York City to Moscow via Helsinki, Finland. We met with the editors of NOVY MIR (NEW WORLD), the most famous literary magazine in the Soviet Union, which broke up in 1991.We all gathered around a large oak table mixing Americans with Russians. We began reading only one poem each. When each Russian recited his poem, he stood up. I was impressed. Each Russian poet spoke perfect English. Eventually, it became my turn. I recited I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN. When I had finished reading, I went around the long oak table and handed each Russian poet a copy of my poem. I had made many copies of my poem in Topeka, KS, my hometown. Copy machines were illegal in the Soviet Union for fear that dissident, underground revolutionaries might wish to spread their fervent hopes of democratizing their nation to millions of their fellow citizens.

The next day, we 14 Americans were going to attend a meeting of the Moscow Chapter of the Soviet Writers Union. As I was getting out of our bus and stepping on the sidewalk, I heard a voice crying, "Mr. Hawks, Mr. Hawks! Please stop. I have something for you." As I looked to my left, I recognized a Russian gentleman from the day before. When he reached me, he said "I am Evgeny Chramov. You gave all of us a copy of your beautiful poem. I was so taken by it, I stayed up all night translating it into Russian. I had to type it again, so if I saw you today, I would be able to give you my translated copy." He put his briefcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and pulled out his Russian translation, and handed it to me. I was stunned. I said "Mr. Chramov, how thoughtful and generous of you to stay up all night translating my poem into Russian! Bless you, Mr. Chramov." As we were walking together into the building, I stopped and spoke to my new friend. "Mr. Chramov, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be willing to read your translation of my poem in this meeting?

"Of course! I'd be honored to do that," said Mr. Chramov. When it came time for him to read, Mr. Chramov, standing up,  read his translation of my poem. I was elated. The meeting soon came to a close. A woman who had chaired the meeting walked by me without stopping and said to me, again in perfect English, "You really are a poet, aren't you?"

Her comment, and Mr. Chramov's responses,, I have never forgotten.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS