While there are more people writing haiku than any other form of poetry in today's world, the Japanese have the most information to share.  Millions write haiku in Japan alone, but many English-language poets have been not only greatly influenced by haiku, but also often publish haiku themselves. The obvious example is Gary Snyder who won the Pulitzer Prize in 1975.  He more or less introduced haiku to the Beats, as described in Kerouac's "Dharma Bums".  Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Richard Wright, Robert Hass, and Cid Corman are a few of the people who have books of or about haiku. 

There seems to be a split between people who write poems they call haiku because they fit the 5-7-5 pattern and people who write haiku based on a fuller definition and better understanding of the form.  I believe some who seriously study haiku try to make those differences a bit larger than they need to be. 

One way they do that is by discounting quite a bit of traditional haiku, and relegating humor to "senryu" or "zappai."  As with the relatively recent push for the traditional use of kigo (keywords that involve nature), I feel the traditional role of humor needs to be emphasized. 

This leads to haiku such as: 

winter night 
finding my pajama bottoms 
on my wife 

(First published in "temps libre/free times" and in the second issue of "haijinx.") 

While spamku are a form of zappai, and there is plenty of destructive humor in senryu, too, humor is also found in the best haiku. It's just a different sort of humor. 

People know more now.  In the 1960s, there were only a few, often idiosyncratic, translations of haiku. Now we have access to better materials, including some viable word-for-word translations in English. We recently started to receive good translations of haiku theory as written by Bashô and others.  Haruo Shirane's "Traces of Dream," quotes from Bashô extensively. 

The question I give to people is:  How can we say we really know what haiku should be in English when the works (creative and critical) of the greatest haiku poets are not available in English?  Bashô wrote less than 1000 haiku in his life, yet fewer than 300 of those are readily available in English. There's been only one full translation, but it was privately printed in Japan and is hard to come by.  What's worse is, most of Bashô's "teaching" comes from anthologies produced by his group. Only one has been completely translated into English, but that edition is out-of-print. 

I read widely, but work within haiku and related forms.  I do not think in haiku, but am very happy when a haiku comes out without much effort or need to revise. Something like this one: 

first honeysuckle-- 
the gas edger's blade 
kicks up sparks 

"South by Southeast," Volume VIII, Number 1 (2001) 

Haiku is a way to find peace each and every day. I take time to relax and enjoy my life and my surroundings. 

NOTES: 

Senryu: haiku-like verse, not necessarily about nature, not necessarily in haiku pattern. 

Zappai: all types of seventeen-syllable poems that do not have the 
proper formal or technical characteristics of haiku. 

Spamku: tranquil reflections on luncheon loaf made by Hormel, Inc. 

BIOGRAPHY 

Mark Brooks is the editor of haijinx, an international, web-based journal that examines haiku with humor.  He is a member of the Haiku Society of America, the British Haiku Society, the Nick Virgilio Haiku Association, the World Haiku Association, and the World Haiku Club.  Publication credits include: haijinx, Acorn, Asahi Haikuist Network, Frogpond, Haiku Headlines, The Heron's Nest, In Buddha¹s Temple, Mainichi Daily News, Midwest Poetry Review, Modern Haiku, Paper Wasp, Poetry In The Light, Presence, RAW NerVZ, Snapshots, South by Southeast, temps libre/free times, The Writer, tinywords, Tundra, World Haiku Review, and others. 

A native Texan, Mark Brooks was born on January 6, 1971. He lives with his wife Karen and sons Dylan and Casey, in Temple, Texas, a small town north of Austin and south of Waco on the IH-35 corridor.  Mark  recently "retired" from a telecommuting job in the software industry, and intends to (for the next several years) be a stay-at-home dad for his boys. 

POETRY 

spring rain 
the bicycle thief 
tracks mud 

tokusen, Hoshino Takashi's Corner 
"World Haiku Review," -- Volume I, Number 1 (2001) 

shadows shift 
on her sun dress 
midsummer's eve 

"Modern Haiku," -- Volume XXXII, Number 1 (Winter-Spring, 2001) 

moonset 
before the funeral 
a cup of twig tea 

"Acorn," -- Number 6 (Spring, 2001) 

heat lightning 
an armadillo skitters 
into a ditch 

"The Heron¹s Nest," -- Volume III, Number 3 (March, 2001) 

withering wind 
the fence-builder pulls a nail 
from his lips 

First Prize, 5th Mainichi Haiku Content, International Section (2001) 

Maryann Hazen-Stearns

I read dozens of poems every day and there are some very intense "unknown" poets whose work has inspired me to write something which I consider to be a good piece of poetry.  My style of writing is eclectic; I make every effort not to become trapped in one particular style.  Writing is something I'm compelled to do and I do it daily, in one form or another. 

Since the publication of my book "Under The Limbo Stick," I've temporarily put aside writing poetry in order to concentrate on another project, an historical dialogue between my grandmother and myself.  Her name is Elsie Mae Duddleston Winters; she is 96 years old this June and has graciously consented to the documentation of her lifetime through the 20th Century. I work to present her recollections exactly as she's voiced them, making this work authentic in dialect, as well as charming. 

The poet must love the craft of poetry enough to ignore obstacles and write, write, write, simply for the pleasure of writing. When the work is finally accepted, the joy and satisfaction are well worth the effort. 
 

To learn more about "Under the Limbo Stick," and see a poem from its pages, visit the Books & Chapbooks portion of our webpage.

Pre - Occupation 

Because words don't always arrive 
unbidden as if the answer were hidden 
among stars which glitter - pick me, 
pick me. Eyes glide upward to search 
the inner recess of skulls, 
grope over Braille under lids. 

Hoping for a tincture of light, 
of awareness, perhaps an epic epiphany 
which might grapple, at least, 
with this paper, flash rapidly 
through this pen. 

Because words wear masks, 
float on the surface face down, 
keep their linguistic secrets 
under wraps. As if that were all 
this poem should be about, 
setting the right words 
into the right order, 
into the right line. As if. 

Because a word can never be 
the thing you wish it to. 
But, that is what I do. 

(C) 2001 Maryann Hazen-Stearns 

---

The Invalid 

     Voices float down the hall 
collect on the rim of her ear 
Sometimes the story is mine 

Sometimes the ear
isn't large enough or hasn't 
taken notice of our words 
on the way to whispering over 
     They hang on 
until they've grown weaker 
and weaker still 
     useless then fade away 

as if the lips that gave them form 
had never moved at all 
or the throat that wrangled the thoughts 
     into meaning meant nothing really 

As if the words were wind 
blown out 
or fire burnt 
against its own orange tongue 

     As if the words once spoken 
were earth or dirt 
and having found they had been unbidden 
     have buried themselves 

or perhaps the words were fluid 
like plasma or more descriptively 
a color for the sightless 

which has fallen 
     on the edge of a deaf ear 
or a swollen heart 
on the wild verge 
of spontaneous internal combustion. 

(C) 2001 Maryann Hazen-Stearns

Writing is only part of who we really are.   For while we are free to experience the joy of creating and the self-awareness it brings, poetry remains an inadequate representation, for while it captures parts of our essence, it does not fully capture who we are. 

My style is both personal and universal. As I relate my experience of nature and everyday reality, and how it is connected with a greater  reality, I strive for personal honesty.  One key to honesty is to suspend the inner judge and extend compassion for whatever I reflect of myself in my work.  As I do so, my work becomes more honest. 

As a poet and visual artist, I've found the importance of letting go of my creation.  Whether a poem or a painting, if I finish and it only sits on a metaphorical shelf for my viewing, it loses its usefulness and remains a "child."  Only when I release my poem or painting or energy into the world does it grow. My goal is to encourage this new life, so I may move on to the next moment or creative act.  Experience and interaction with art bring inner transformation, and another creative act. 

The object of art is not as important as the process of creating it or interacting with it. Creativity is ultimately about being who we really are. 

Lynette Bowen was the First Runner-Up in Sol Magazine's Poet Laureate 2001 Competition.  She lives in Webster, Texas, and works at the Johnson Space Center. 

Lynette has been published in Sol Magazine, The Arts Alliance Center at Clear Lake (TAACCL) and in University of Houston Clear Lake's Bayousphere.  Originally from Michigan, Lynette grew up in Southern California, graduated from Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, Ok, with a degree in English Literature.  For ten years, she lived in the shadow of the Cascades in Washington State.  When Lynette finally came to Houston, Texas, she found she enjoyed the steamy, sultry southern beauty of the area.  When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her two daughters, working in various artistic mediums, singing, participating in an ecumenical nature-based spiritual community.  She works as a technical writer/administrator at the Johnson Space Center for a safety panel. 

In her words, "One reason I write poetry is because it is one of the ways my soul manifests within form."

I am intrigued by the concept of dimensional living, or living life beyond the five senses. I see a realm of spirituality in all things, where intention is the foundation of function, and a benevolent universe and master creator, or God, opens many doors, offers a variety of experiences, encouraging growth through pure love and a higher level of living through spiritual awareness. Choice is ours; we can acknowledge or deny opportunity. What we do with opportunity is a decision each must make. 

I am most influenced by the emotions of passion and empathy. To follow an honest passion is the most direct way to find joy. It may shout or whisper, but passion touches each of our lives. Empathy, our ability to understand and relate to the emotions and experiences of others, pulls us closer to our higher self. 

In my work, using color and simple imagery, I explore the core of basic emotion and its relationship to love, loss, growth, hope, expectation, personal reality, individual perception and the spiritual dynamics of nature and universal commonality. I describe the heart of one woman as she comes to terms with conflict, personal truths, ghosts of the past, and finds unexpected love. 

My publisher, Daphna R. Moore (Hughes Henshaw Publications) and I are still discussing possible titles for my upcoming book. I like "Fade to Color" or "Fresh Paint and Pastel Buds," but she will make the final decision. The book, a collection of personal letters, prose and poetry, is a mural of possibility and self-awareness. It is pretty much my soul in poetry. 

[Note: Ms. Daphna Moore is a publishing consultant. Generally she works for authors interested in self-publication; from time to time she personally publishes work in which she is particularly interested. Her website, www.hugheshenshaw.com , is currently under re-construction, but visitors are welcome.] 

Beverly Sweet Forbes, born in Corpus Christi, Texas in 1949, is the mother of two daughters and has four grandchildren. Beverly lives on the waterfront in Kemah, Texas, and works nearby as a registered nurse in a psychiatric facility for disturbed adolescents. 

In her words: "I love my work, my home, family and friends. I am a very lucky woman. I have beaten death twice, and at 51 I have only begun to live." 
 

thunder rolls across the flat land
wide open
to echoes of past lives   past dreams   and
a potential   for
everything
    my mind is garden fresh and
giddy
this seven year itch over stays its welcome
    time to hit the road
pack a lunch
    ride a rail   get outa town
      there ain't room for both of us
no more
   where does it all go
does
any one know
    I hate being a romantic
in corporate time
       I am trailer park nights
under the big black tent lit high with
white silver shells popping here and there
trailing fantastic tales of queens and gods and
    dogs and bulls and
so much more heavenly
rubbish
as to shake me free
from long days spent scratching for coin

brief firefly
hear my
whisper
I set you
free
    oh
foolish dream
    time to claim your place
among legends
in the sky

Turtle green floats
across depths of
emerald

greeting pure blue
rushing home in
agitated

foaming white
chaos dissipating
into

nothingness along
sweet bitter sands
Creatures

dressed in hollow
citrine crusts
scurry

in drunken dance
beneath dipping
yellow

orange promise  Weary
maize fades to piercing
tiger

eye till scarlet ruby
flames angry
giving

way to dying
ember embracing
cold

hard lapis lazuli
quietly folding in
night

If I could sing, or paint, or play a musical instrument, I would.  Alas, I'm doomed to words. I love words, I love the intimacy, the self-revelation, the nakedness and the truth that this art form demands. Spiritually, poets can ride the wave of aesthetics through words, rhythm, message, emotional impact. At its best, a poem is a hint of immortality. 

How can one be, other than as oneself? Imitation is said to be the highest form of flattery, so please, poets, if you have not found your own poetic voice, at least choose to imitate someone with imagination and originality.  Never be so in love with your words that you cannot hear how they will sound to an audience. 

You, the poet, are historian, soothsayer, mender of pain, herald of spring, devil's advocate opposing the status quo, chronicler of passions, enemy to injustice, spokesperson for the mute of spirit, three feet behind the head of the world as it is, the only person who sees what you see through your eyes. You are life's sponge, absorbing everything around you. Poetry is life, sieved through the senses of the poet. Write what life makes you feel.  Write your truth. Write like your words are lie detectors. 

This quote by William James, the 19th century psychologist:   "The great use of a life is to spend it for something that outlasts it," is what compels my poetry. 

In 1997, A.D. Manion was drumming at a jazz club in Austin, the Elephant Room. He had played with such greats as Mingus, he was dying of cancer, he possessed a depth that I could sense but not entirely fathom. After hearing some of my poetry, he told me it was shallow. I understood what he meant.  Still, it sent me into a blue funk, I cried for days. At that point, my writing changed, I hope for the better. 

Poetry is the aesthetic of language. My dream for poetry is parallel to my dream for my fellow man: quality communication given and received. 

Stazja McFadyen is editor/publisher of Map of Austin Poetry  e-newsletter, distributed weekly. She serves on the Board of Directors of Austin International Poetry Festival, and is a member of the Austin Poetry Society. She has been featured at festivals and poetry venues from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C.  Her poetry has appeared in various print and electronic poetry publications, most recently in Texas Poetry Calendar 2001, Spiraeas Literary and Arts Journal, Son of Words, Austin Downtown Arts Magazine, Austin Poetry Society Golden Jubilee Anthology, Di-Verse-City 2000, Will Work for Peace, and One Drop. 

The Map of Austin Poetry newsletter is accessible online: 

Poets Porch www.poetsporch.com 
Dream Forge www.pcisys.net/~drmforge/poems.htm 
Austin Metro: www.austinmetro.com/poetpage.html 

Although there was no gate to pass through, 
those who knew the place would always say "The Gate" 
when mentioning the entrance to 
my beach of childhood summers, 
safe and winsome on the Chesapeake. 

Worlds away from Washington, 
western shores of Maryland, 
hour's drive by country miles. 
Motorists must pass between a pair of pillars 
flanking narrow gravel road to summer havens; 
Met by warning sign, 
could have read "beware of narrow minds". 
Long before I learned to read or know the meanings, 
I knew dewy summer morning glory 
city-anchored children never dreamed of, 
knowingness of being loved.

Family cottage, mother's side. 
Old Glory flagpoled in a yard of arbored roses, 
dogwood trees and powder puff mimosas. 
Inside, the summer house alive 
with laughter and canasta games, 
baseball afternoons with Pop Pop, 
rooting for the Senators 
slugging out the innings 
against the likes of Pee Wee Reese and Campanella. 
Learned my Pop Pop's red-faced navy jargon 
spiced with foreign phrases; 
would have made those "Boys of Summer" 
blush if they spoke Polish. 

Summer mornings I'd awake to chase the dawn 
and later join my friend, the bay. 
Gritty sands of August always found their way 
inside my bathing suit and rode me home 
splashed with salty bay cologne 
of decomposing crab and mollusk shells along the beach. 
Summer smells still cling to blistered shoulder memories 
caked in cool noxzema. 

Winter of my chicken pox and measles, 
between the bouts of childhood illness, 
bundled up in winter woolens, 
off to visit father's parents, Max and Goldye, 
(never seemed to see them in the summer).

Something always older world about them 
Something happened always holier 
than synagogues or tabernacles -- 
knowingness of being loved. 
Why else was I allowed to clear 
the leaded crystal candy dish
of sugar sprinkled lemon slices? 
Long before I knew my history 
I learned a universal language 
spoken in their smiling eyes. 

Once, accepting Pop Pop's invitation, 
Max and Goldye came 
the country miles to summer cottage, 
turned away within a stone's throw, 
driven off by words of hatred -- 
"Gentiles Only" posted at "The Gate" 
fewer words than those it takes to say "I love you" 
drove away a pair of gentle souls. 

Children by their nature ask the questions: 
Where does sky begin? 
Why does Uncle Irvin smell of alcohol? 
What does "Gentiles Only" mean? 

There was a rumor later, never proven; 
I believe with knowingness 
of being loved the accusation 
Pop Pop stole the sign 
that barred my Max and Goldye at "The Gate." 

That afternoon in an otherwise 
hot and summer day when we 
were sharing a lazy moment 
on that old wooden porch 
I couldn't help but notice 
you in profile. 
Since I hardly know you, 
I refrained from asking at the time: 
"Is that your mother's smile you wear 
so artfully sculpted?" 
Her womb was a master's studio. 
Forgive my eyes for stealing a taste 
of your chocolate skin. 
I read the proud ancestral poem 
in your woven ebony crown 
and while you spoke, 
revealing a measure of music 
in your soul, 
a quiet chorus of shackled slaves 
from the tribe of humans 
whispered in the background 
beneath the wind chimes, 
giving thanks 
for human kindness. 

When all this toxic sorrow 
has been neutralized, 
the bad blood leeched 
from arteries and memories, 

transfused with perfect hemoglobin 
equal portions sunshine, 
rain forests, 
sheet music written for clarinets, 

I will be new 
with unfamiliar eyes 
incapable of cataract vocabulary, 
asking the embodiment of "you," 

who understands that tides 
obey the moon 
and loves them as they are, 
to see me now. 

He said he loves the sound of rain 
and so I listen raptly 
to a shower thrumming cadence 
on my windowsill, reminding me 
we met when spring and poetry 
were bursting from 
our glands and fingers. 

"I don't have totem-type rituals in writing, like using a specific pen.  However, I do have some superstitions.  When I am struck by an idea, I am afraid to put it on paper immediately."  He explains that "putting an idea on paper makes it stiffer, less likely to change.  I like to mull the idea for quite awhile to make sure that I have investigated all of the possibilities.  Once I am sure of the direction the poem will take, I can commit it to paper." 

What is the greatest writing offense?  "Pretension.  It is vital to express the idea of the poem as precisely as possible, to myself, without any thought to how the poem might affect anyone else.  If you define your style, isn't it possible that you will limit your writing?" 

He comments on a recent reading of his poetry, at "Mariposa" in College Park, Maryland,  "Though I believe poetry must be read aloud, I have never before taken the opportunity to read a number of my poems at a time.  I was thrilled to have the experience of feeling that my poems were appreciated." 

"It would be wonderful if the text on my tombstone said:  'Here lies Brian Davis.  He said, 'Life is short--pay attention'.  There is nothing more important than being here, now." 

"I don't remember the first poem I ever wrote.  I do remember the first poem that really made me feel like a poet.   It came to me, nearly whole, stoking an enormous feeling of exhilaration.  I ran home as fast as I could to write it down.  It was called 'Hymn'." 

The softest silver lightening glides 
along the crest of moonlit waves 
Night meets dark night; orange flashes glow, then fade 
Out to the tides lowest ebb 
where white seething foam surges 
Out to the land and sea's edge 
to the whispering winds soft urges 
my sulking moon-shadow follows 

There, where silence beats like thunder 
and the tides in simple canon breathe 
my essence freely sings 
to the light of the moon 
and the dark of the sea 

an ancient hymn 
before thoughts held words 
to the light of the faithful moon 
and the dark of the restless sea. 

Thinking of Grainne 
I step into nothingness 
losing all reference 

there is no time or space 
no meaning 
only a beautiful woman 
at the end of a quiet rope 

Eire to Eire 
ashes to ashes 
the mass is ended 
but I cannot go in peace 

as her students watched the second hand 
waiting to hear her lilt 
her lovely green eyes traced the noose 
(where did she learn to tie a noose?) 
as the sun climbed 
she stepped high on the chair 

Eire to ashes 
ashes to Eire 
the mass is ended 
but I cannot stop 

thinking of Grainne 
who stepped from a chair 
and fell from grace 

at the end of a quiet rope 

A pig is poised at the edge of a rushing river 
on an island in the center is a luscious peach 
ripened by the pig's desire 

The pig can think of nothing but the peach 
if he enters, he may never reach it 
or, having it, may never reach the shore again 

entering, he may lose his life 
not entering, he surrenders his self 

a fly curls by the pigs ear 

a pig is poised at the edge of a rushing river. 

"I realized I was a poet when I had my first poem, 'Magic,' published in 'Beyond Baroque,' their first issue, in 1969.  I was 29 and had been writing poetry for about eight years.  Robert Hayden was my most powerful single poetic influence.  He showed me what it means to be an independent thinker, dedicated poet, and truly compassionate person." 

Brown related to us the story of his college poetry teacher who said he was wasting his time.  Brown's comment? "He was right,  that was just what I wanted to do.  I write because it's the best  thing I can do well.  I always think that the poem I have just written is the best--until it lies around for a couple of days.  After that, there are just too many children to pick a favorite." 

"Poetry is the highest most artistic use of language.  It pushes the leading edges of what we can say.  It can illuminate experience with emotionally charged bursts of insight.  I'd like to see poets be the consciences of a society. There is nothing they cannot say." 

"My favorite writing memory is when I completed 'Collaboration,' a poem I had been working on for most of a summer.  It was about the "shadow" figures behind noteworthy achievers, discoverers. The poem also used a compass image, the magnetic compass, a bit the way Donne used the drafting compass.  The verse form was borrowed from George Herbert.  It was the first poem I had written that I felt worthy of showing to Robert Hayden.  Sending it to him was one of the greatest pleasures I have had as a poet." 

When not writing, Brown calls himself an "itinerant professor,"  teaching for over 35 years, including five years of high school and stints at Michigan, East Texas State, Central (Ohio) State, Western Michigan, Illinois-Chicago, the Uptown Chicago Center of Elmhurst and North Park, Roosevelt, Rhode Island, Suffolk, and Chicago State. 

Along with Finnish performance poet Erkki Lappalainen, President of the International Organization of Performance Poets, Michael Brown, the organization's General Secretary, produced the first Poetry Olympics held October 1998 in Stockholm.  Over the past 25 years, Brown's poems have been in "Amandla Ngewethu!," "Another Chicago Magazine," "Blue Cloud," "Defined Providence," "Galley Sail," "Greenfield Review," "Kudzu," "Oyez," "Pembroke," "Red Brick Review," "West Coast Poetry Review," and in "Since Feeling Is First" (Scott, Foresman, 1972), "The Vagaries of Invention" (Sidewinder, 1982) and "Stray Bullets: Chicago Saloon Poets 1991" (Tia Chucha, 1992) and others.  He has also written articles for "The Chicago Tribune," "Homage to Robert Hayden" in Commentary (1980), fiction in "Wormwood," feature articles in "The Chicago Reader," and occasional columns in "The Korea Times." 

He founded Slam! the International Performance Poetry Newsletter, official publication of the Poetry Olympics and the US national slam, and he is creator of http://www.slamnews.com -- a web site for international poetry news. 

Brown holds a Ph.D. in English and Education from the University of Michigan. He is currently Professor of Communications at Mount Ida College, where he teaches all writing except "creative."  Brown currently lives in Onset, Massachusetts. 

Geological remnant of old centeredness, 
   the magnetic pole 
guides the expedition to its peak, draws compass 
quivering on its post, a sliver in a bowl. 

Peary and Henson cooperate in twilight, 
   could not survive 
with any but the other this height, 
mating eye and gravity till photographers arrive. 

In the "Tribune" they look like Hilary and Tenzing, 
   the dark one framed 
by the arm of the shadow achiever, sensing 
above him the peak that neither named. 

A glossy from "The Defender" commands the grand- 
   children's forced gloom; 
his sons know only the shadow master stand- 
ing on the pole, a casket in the living room. 

No daughters run to peaks, but fly 
   alone a while 
and fall on foreign islands from the sky; 
while he was grim, they must forever smile. 

All beginnings are auspicious we say, 
   lying at dawn; 
like lines of magnetism through the arc of day, 
I point inside your circles and press on. 

I seek the simple, elegant, full resonance 
of a grand piano in a large room, 
high notes reverberating in my head, 
bass vibrations through my torso and gut, 
melodies that open and run, 
shaking thin frames and rolling somnambulant old folks, 
a stern construction solid,
supporting the taut strings and feelings hammered and stopped, 
their many cadenzas orchestral,
flying arpeggios and depth to stand on. 

I want the thing of sonatas and concertos, 
accompaniment and composition, 
sharing and satisfaction, 
jazz and entertainment, 
noodling and parts, 
cataclysmic crescendos 
and notes that fade beyond our hearing, 
the measured final chord or the major crash 
echoing past the limits of our lives. 

Meanwhile, I'll settle for tinkling ragtime 
on an old upright at the back of a smoky bar in Old Town 
by someone who cares how mellow the piano was, 
how alive the music used to be, 
how all the patrons sang in harmony,
and the beer tasted sweeter than California wine. 

My father's workbench sits in the basement 
like a slab of anthracite, tools and parts at hand, 
overhead lamps for micro-precision. 
Here I feel my mother's cancer operation most of all. 
Laid flat on a cold table, 
painfully invasive professionals picking out bad cells, 
machinery holds her in place and keeps her turning. 

On the first floor French doors open to her bedroom 
restored to the dining room it once was-- 
high federal windows showering sunlight on crystal and china, 
three or four generations at the lace-covered table, 
an uncle protective of the serving cart 
kids always want to play with. 
We forget what filled some spaces, 
things never used become important, 
and all of it is up for sale. 

She sits in the backyard shade before a hundred people, 
her silver hair a halo, 
her hawk-like eyes still bright. 
Everything in the house has been advertised in the paper 
and set in the open for anyone to examine. 
They raise their bidding numbers, 
take what they want, and leave the rest. 

Three grandsons hold aloft pieces of a productive life. 
Surgeons prepared her for this. 
When a piece of blue glass scatters a shaft of summer sun, 
the auctioneer gets his price, a grandson delivers it, 
and she is satisfied. 

On her final walk through the house, 
she stays on the first floor, 
nail holes ragged in smudged plaster, 
rubber soles echoing on hard wood, 
but no more indignation. 

She has begun her stooped shuffle toward the lighted doorway 
that won't open completely till she gets there. 
It's a solid door, hung straight on sturdy hinges, 
fitted perfectly to the frame. 
Someone spent a lot of time at a workbench getting it right. 
It will close tight. 

Driving to Maine with Marcel 
So it was an old pattern when he 
headed west, our destination north; 
the same when he missed the first exit 
for I-95. But to stop in the middle lane 
of I-93 at three pm on a Saturday afternoon, 
wait for the right lane to clear, creep 
to the right and backup in the breakdown 
lane, it put me on notice. 

He paid close attention to exit numbers 
and was easily confused by them. 
He wanted to read the map and turnpike ticket 
when they were in my hands. 
He judged every traffic hazard 
three miles after we passed it. 

In a calm voice I said,
"That line of cars is stopped. 
A toll booth is just ahead. 
This is an exit ramp." 

I died six times. In one vision 
our engine block passed through my middle 
followed by a Geo Prizm and a Camry, 
just before a truck tail clipped off my head 
and the top of our car. 

I screamed a couple of dozen times inside, 
profoundly, unleashing pure terror. 
This man older than myself has driven 
this car over 80,000 miles without demolition. 
If he can make it 150 miles more, 
I will get home exhausted but alive. 
This is how we come to faith. 

(C) 2000 Michael Brown