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Read a Friend’s Heart
April 25th, 2008
Birthdays: Today is Frederick Morgan’s
birthday. Tomorrow, Paula
Deitz, editor of The Hudson Review, celebrates her
birthday. The following day, April 27th, is the 21st
birthday of Dylan Randall Joseph McDowell, and the day
after that is the birthday of the poet Andrea Hollander
Budy. Auspicious days!
HAPPY NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!
The poem that follows is from Frederick Morgan’s
book,
Poems for Paula, which I was proud to publish at Story
Line Press
in 1995.
It’s a love poem, of course, but it is also a stalwart
expression
of spiritual perseverance. Every time I read this poem I’m
transported into the magic of that timeless, intimate moment
in
which the voices of Paula and the poet resonate and connect
amid
the humming sounds of a long ago Autumn New York day that
is
gone, but also with us (if we have it so) every day.
The capacity to live in the moment exists in every heart
and
soul. No exterior facilitator is required. It’s a challenge,
cultivating
the mindfulness that living in the moment requires, and it’s
a
deeper challenge to savor the moment without clinging to and
suffocating it.
So the poet gives thanks, and in doing so is better prepared
to be fully awake in the next moment, and the next.
Enjoy the poem, and if you feel like it, share your
communion with it!
The Breathing Space
I saw my dear one on the street
walking home with clothes in her arms—
clothes from the cleaners. She rippled along
Past where the school was being built
on the next block. I called out to her,
shouting “Paula!” from my window:
shouted twice, three times. A black
construction worker grinned at me
from the unfinished rooftop. Paula
halted, turned and glanced about—
then, as I called her name once more,
looked up and smiled and cried “I’m coming!”
Earlier that sharp Autumn day
we had phoned the small-town hospital
where an old brave friend lay slowly dying:
her voice slipped ghostlike down the wires…
It all gives way to death in the end—
this shifting show of shapes that pass:
that much comes clear as time moves on
and pains outmatch the early joy.
It all gives way in dreams that fade—
and what remains? A whiff, a trace,
some pale residuum of a life
changed now to dust and memory?
That’s why I’m grateful for those times
when time itself comes to a stop
on some quite ordinary day,
comes to a stop for a random moment
in which the self gains breathing space
to find itself outside of time—
as I’ve been found, who still hold fast
that pause made radiant by her smile.
Blessings, Light, and Love!
Robert
www.robertmcdowell.net
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