November 2015
I am a retired business-to-business PR and publishing professional residing in northern New Jersey with my wife and son and a shrinking menagerie of merry pets. I began writing poetry (not very well) 100 years ago as an undergraduate at Georgetown University, where I earned bachelor's and master's degrees in English Literature. My poems have appeared recently in Contemporary American Voices (I was the Featured Poet in the January 2015 issue), the Wilderness House Literary Review, Blue Monday Review, and Atavic Poetry. In 2013, I celebrated (mostly by smiling a lot) the publication of my first poetry chapbook, What Comes Next, by Finishing Line Press. A lifelong Giants fan (New York and San Francisco), I still can't believe I lived long enough to see them win three World Series in five years. If you'd like to see more of my work, please click on http://www.whlreview.com/no-9.4/poetry/JamesKeane.pdf.
Editor's Note: In an email to me, James explained the origin of these poignant poems: [Here] are two contrasting poems for November. Both deal with my father's suicide - one indirectly ("Buoys") and one most directly ("Who Speaks To You Now").
Buoys
When I was very young and smaller,
my father stood taller
in the ocean water. Pulling me forward
relentlessly, my puppy legs flailing
needlessly, my blind cheek pushing back
salty flicking, when the licking
we were taking abruptly
halted in the wake and swell
of his simple command, “OK . . .
now stand.” . . . Stand? “Just . . . stand.” Timid
and guppy small, my feet
slithered down an invisible
slippery wall to dryness?
Dryness . . . a cooling cushion
of dryness. Nothing else waiting
beneath the flicking, licking
and slapping.
Later, anchored
together, we bobbed
and stood, agreeing in solemn tones,
“The weather this week for the most part
has been very good,” until quietly
probed a gentle wave
to implore, to suggest
a silent interlude, perhaps,
though swelling to prod
my father, grinning, a bit
closer to the shore, as if it, not he,
knew best.
When,
beyond the pulling
and imploring
of all human caring, he grinned
no longer, ever so
smaller, and rose again only to smile
somehow, and dip
to his final shore, I understood
in the end, without even
a simple command, there was
nothing more left to him
to understand. Yet, even as
my memories of him
grow ever so young
and smaller, and even though
I stand alone, I know
I will never stand taller.
Originally published in Autumn Leaves.
Who Speaks To You Now
Turning
to listen, her eyes
glistening, discovering
all human truths in the distance
darkening what you never
told me you were leaving,
I wonder:
Who speaks to you now,
if not the living?
When do you turn, so deliberate
your turning, you
listen, hear the quiet
whisper, The end of your living
is near — your eyes were steady,
ready to settle on anyone
who knew the eternal
truth, when it comes, comes
bare. But did I hear
nothing of eternity
from you? When grimly
settling to work
your final morning and afternoon,
brushing off any shy insistence still
breathing You live
in a few quiet rooms, listening
no longer, you suffered no more
wife, no sons, no daughter, humming
you knew no frenzy.
And I wonder:
In the smothering agony of your dying
blunder, did No One breathe
forgiveness eternal of a lifelong
loving friend, cup your suffering face
from all suffering, ease
your sullen eyes away
from all glistening, from
all listening, from
living once again? Whimpering,
you gripped and locked all doors
to the rooms and sounds of living.
And the final truth enveloping,
lulling, shielding you and
you alone from your steady
lies, turns me forever
quietly
to listen for the eternal
silence
I did not see
in your eyes.
Originally published in the anthology Poems Written Whilst Staring Death In The Face.
Buoys
When I was very young and smaller,
my father stood taller
in the ocean water. Pulling me forward
relentlessly, my puppy legs flailing
needlessly, my blind cheek pushing back
salty flicking, when the licking
we were taking abruptly
halted in the wake and swell
of his simple command, “OK . . .
now stand.” . . . Stand? “Just . . . stand.” Timid
and guppy small, my feet
slithered down an invisible
slippery wall to dryness?
Dryness . . . a cooling cushion
of dryness. Nothing else waiting
beneath the flicking, licking
and slapping.
Later, anchored
together, we bobbed
and stood, agreeing in solemn tones,
“The weather this week for the most part
has been very good,” until quietly
probed a gentle wave
to implore, to suggest
a silent interlude, perhaps,
though swelling to prod
my father, grinning, a bit
closer to the shore, as if it, not he,
knew best.
When,
beyond the pulling
and imploring
of all human caring, he grinned
no longer, ever so
smaller, and rose again only to smile
somehow, and dip
to his final shore, I understood
in the end, without even
a simple command, there was
nothing more left to him
to understand. Yet, even as
my memories of him
grow ever so young
and smaller, and even though
I stand alone, I know
I will never stand taller.
Originally published in Autumn Leaves.
Who Speaks To You Now
Turning
to listen, her eyes
glistening, discovering
all human truths in the distance
darkening what you never
told me you were leaving,
I wonder:
Who speaks to you now,
if not the living?
When do you turn, so deliberate
your turning, you
listen, hear the quiet
whisper, The end of your living
is near — your eyes were steady,
ready to settle on anyone
who knew the eternal
truth, when it comes, comes
bare. But did I hear
nothing of eternity
from you? When grimly
settling to work
your final morning and afternoon,
brushing off any shy insistence still
breathing You live
in a few quiet rooms, listening
no longer, you suffered no more
wife, no sons, no daughter, humming
you knew no frenzy.
And I wonder:
In the smothering agony of your dying
blunder, did No One breathe
forgiveness eternal of a lifelong
loving friend, cup your suffering face
from all suffering, ease
your sullen eyes away
from all glistening, from
all listening, from
living once again? Whimpering,
you gripped and locked all doors
to the rooms and sounds of living.
And the final truth enveloping,
lulling, shielding you and
you alone from your steady
lies, turns me forever
quietly
to listen for the eternal
silence
I did not see
in your eyes.
Originally published in the anthology Poems Written Whilst Staring Death In The Face.
©2015 James Keane