Anniversary

Written on the Judah trolley, San Francisco, 1965 after reading that Emily Bronte polished the bannister on the day she died as if still waiting, expecting a special guest.

~~~~~~~~~

I have been polishing, arranging, readying.
And I am tired, grateful to go on
but tired.
Today is the day, approximately
(I didn't think to mark it)
that I decided it would happen.
Ten years, and through all the changes,
chaos and disappointments
sifting around me,
I have kept polishing, arranging,
practising, my daily turns
heartily met,
never letting down,
for who can guess the moment?
Today, I am sad that you are late.
But recognizing that
at this very minute
I may hear you on the steps,
I run to cut fresh flowers.

Clipper Street

I watch the clouds like great tarnished chariots

rushing courses to the sea

and wonder if some grey-faced charioteer

might in grand swooping look, kidnap me

from my little room and, boldly,

charter tall bay ships, silent escorts

for a trip past sky and land, past wind and will.

No my room is all, my life without regret.

Abandoned voyages not mine, and yet--

December

December 1, 1961

A calendar of memories

in these few fragments--

patched and quickly-written

but full of thought and love,

a measure of how I spent

the swift November days.

Fame

This was written on Clipper Street in San Francisco, 1964. I wrote two versions, one with a Spanish tone and the other with a Scottish.

FAME

I ached for fame this morning, not for sake
of notoriety or wealth or way
of living sumptuous days, but just
so I could speak to you and say, quite softly,
"I like Ramon, do you?
How about some orange in your tea?"
And you would nod and move more brusquely on,
"Oh, yes, that's very nice, I must agree."
A little fame and I could call you back,
"I have zinnias fresh bloomed
and jam potato buns, a recipe from Potosi."
And you'd reply, distracted, "Thank you, no."
At least my fame would bring respectful ears.
And I have many thoughts to tell you now,
thoughts born in moon-rocked gardens,
silver-spooned, which, grown,
reflect the doom of wild field buds--
ungathered, they must wither with the rest.
I ached for fame this morning;
long summer's dawn
had brought scarce dew to clasp each mission bell.
I had no way to show you, nor ever will.

Angra do Heroismo; 1944

Published in The Christian Science Monitor

October 27, 1982

Angra do Heroismo; 1944

Autumn. Full moon night.

Barely visible on the horizon,

stars spell your name in the dark sky.

I can read all the letters.

They are like carving on a tree,

uneven, enduring, deeply etched

and only seen by one who looks

for such things.

The earth is patient in its turnings.

Quietly, I, too wait for a winter night

to show another set of stars.

The houses of heaven will advance;

the message, two names, will emerge.

The night sky will tell the tale

to those of us who look for such things.

Entreaty

ENTREATY

The time is at hand;

the hour is late.

Come, read with me

a little while

these psalms.

Tell me not of other things

to do,

of problems small and large,

chattering with

distracted eyes,

listening to the noise

and commotion

of urgent matters that are

diminished as you talk,

to be replaced by

other crises

beyond the hope

of your concern.

Store up your nervous

flights from here to there

and pour those energies

together in quiet wonder.

Be still in your wandering.

Imagine back to a time

of the beginnings

when the Earth's

great canopy gave shelter.

Think on the constellations,

the seas, the dim-lit land,

and loosen this moment

to all eternity.

Come,

just now,

for a little while.

Vilas, N.C. 1985

Across the Miles

ACROSS THE MILES

My dad used to say that the reason I had such remarkable ESP was because he couldn't afford the phone bill. And this explains to a degree my failure at a star-spangled career.

My dad would have liked me to be a photo journalist, an anthropologist, an indexer at Tell es-Sa'idyeh; anything to get me out of the house and preferably away from the phone. He didn't encourage marriage as he felt it was just asking for trouble and what he wanted from me was a little quiet and a few letters. I liked the idea of marriage much better but having tried it, I had to agree with my dad that Greenwich Village to Phoenix, Arizona collect for advice was not exactly what we all had in mind.

So it was that, after I suddenly turned up with all my earthling belongings, a few months family counseling commenced and it was decided that I should try my hand at a career. In other words, I was booted out.

To give me support and because she was fond of a lark, my mother accompanied me cross country on the Greyhound bus to Washington, D.C. She installed me in a small room at a quaint Victorian hotel on Connecticut Avenue and after tea, she left.

We were very optimistic and pleased with ourselves and that same afternoon, I went to see the awesome building of the Dept. of State where on Monday morning I was to being my career. On my way back, I walked past the White House. I went all the way around it and came back again past the White House guard. He looked at me questioningly and I couldn't help but say that it was just so beautiful, I was going around it again.

After that day on my way home in the autumn cold, I would walk all the way around the White House before going up Connecticut Avenue. The White House guard would smile and say a friendly hello, asking how things were in the typing pool.

Things were actually very bad in the typing pool. I was in the Cuban section. I had to read letter sent in by Cuban families pleading to come to the United States. I had to put their names on a card, translate their reasons for wanting to come to the States, and who would be responsible for them. The average by the other typists was 230 cards a day. I did 50, not because I couldn't type but because the letters were appallingly sad.

Mr. Warzovski came shaking his head. One could not be fired from the typing pool but on the other hand, one could not spend the day crying over letters. And then there was the business of my having made an error. One mistake in spelling the family's name and it wouldn't be able to come. Didn't I realize what I had done? I tried to explain to Mr. Warzovski that I thought the family had misspelled its own name, (as though spelling Smith with two m's.) and had patched it up so that they all could come. What was he going to do with me? He decided I should be promoted; I could be his assistant and not type cards. One day I could have his jog and all of Cuba would then be under my wing. I could go meet everybody on a big ship and bring ices for all the nieces and nephews.

I could not be transferred or promoted till I had been on the job 90 days so Mr. Warzovski and I did the best we could. During my lunch hour, I would take my can of Metracal and go sit by the planters to watch the elevators.

We were going along fine when one morning, Mr. Warzovski came in bewildered.

“Stop typing,” he said. “Nobody will be coming. The President says, 'Stop typing.'”

For two days, we all sat. When I watched the elevators, the doors would open to reveal ashen,shaken faces.

When I walked around the White House, the guard was busy. Everywhere there was a sense of activity and dead quiet. Crisis was a word that was said as one would say cancer and seemed equally terminal. The radio was unbearable and grocery stores opened with empty shelves.

I thought of all the times I had been in danger, of planes shot down, houses bombed, timed devices dismantled by my enterprising brother; and I started wondering what this career thing was all about. What was the point of it if what I was doing was just a way to grow into an old maid in a quaint Victorian townhouse. What was the necessity of being so far away from everyone who knew me just to have a title after my name? All those Cubans I had cried over; what had I done for any of them?

Two days after the Cuban crisis, I walked past the White House guard. He was very cheery.

“It's all right, now,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. I told him I was going home, back to Arizona.

“You just got there,” he objected.

Yes, and I might have taken twenty years to find out I was in the wrong place. I walked up Connecticut Avenue, gathered my few earthly belongings, and headed for the Greyhound bus.

When I arrived at my dad's house, he said, “I was sure hoping you'd turn up. Whose idea was this about a career, anyway? I was going to call you on the phone but decided to save myself some money. Just waited up instead.”