October 2016
From 2011 until November 2015 I was Poet Laureate of Vermont, during which time I visited 116 Vermont community libraries, not so much to read but to talk about what poetry can do that other modes of discourse can't. I loved the Q&A the most, because those within the academy often ask things that show how much they think they know, whereas library patrons are inclined to ask the important things: Who's talking here? To whom? Why? Where? I hope my poems can answer those questions, that no one needs some special knowledge or language to penetrate them. My twelfth collection of poems, NO DOUBT THE NAMELESS, is just out, as is my fourth collection of personal essays, WHAT'S THE STORY? REFLECTIONS ON A LIFE GROWN LONG. www.sydneylea.net
A Tide Like Grace
I’ve soaked up my portion of sorrow.
But then who hasn’t? Mine can’t compare
with some, I know. Take Molly, not even a grownup,
driving her dad’s ragtop Olds,
reduced lifelong to muteness and wheelchairs
when that truck ran a light. We all could name such loss.
Foolhardy, I kayaked across
wide water today, and out on that bay,
I found welter, confusion– endless salt waves racing
from both north and south and elsewhere
because of two big ferry boats’ wakes.
It was hard to imagine where I’d do best to steer.
No matter. I’m still here.
For some reason, I dwelt on my melancholy
over absences as I paddled — brother, parents,
schoolmates, friends and mentors —
though I knew my pain paled next to a Molly’s.
I even thought of a long-gone horse I yet grieve for:
her four hooves thrust toward the rafters,
my pony mare Miss Prim, all bloated
from deadly nightshade. My thoughts ran from grand to petty,
you see, as I rode those swells.
I should have been focused on where I floated,
though my course for the most part seemed beyond my control,
as it always has. Truth to tell,
it was tide, like grace, that brought me to shore,
where I spoke aloud, in wonderment: I’m here.
I’ve soaked up my portion of sorrow.
But then who hasn’t? Mine can’t compare
with some, I know. Take Molly, not even a grownup,
driving her dad’s ragtop Olds,
reduced lifelong to muteness and wheelchairs
when that truck ran a light. We all could name such loss.
Foolhardy, I kayaked across
wide water today, and out on that bay,
I found welter, confusion– endless salt waves racing
from both north and south and elsewhere
because of two big ferry boats’ wakes.
It was hard to imagine where I’d do best to steer.
No matter. I’m still here.
For some reason, I dwelt on my melancholy
over absences as I paddled — brother, parents,
schoolmates, friends and mentors —
though I knew my pain paled next to a Molly’s.
I even thought of a long-gone horse I yet grieve for:
her four hooves thrust toward the rafters,
my pony mare Miss Prim, all bloated
from deadly nightshade. My thoughts ran from grand to petty,
you see, as I rode those swells.
I should have been focused on where I floated,
though my course for the most part seemed beyond my control,
as it always has. Truth to tell,
it was tide, like grace, that brought me to shore,
where I spoke aloud, in wonderment: I’m here.
©2016 Sydney Lea
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