December 2020
Bio Note: Years ago I was asked to publish a selection of my poems from several books, and to write an
introduction. Writing the introduction was as challenging as it was valuable. Looking over my poems from a quarter
century, I slowly realized that one of my most recurrent themes is what I called in the introduction “Counting My
Blessings.” I was thus delighted when Jim Lewis announced the optional theme of “Gratitude” for this issue, and
I selected two older poems and one new that seem to fit the theme. For those who don’t already know me, I’m a retired
college teacher and unretired poet and amateur photographer. More detail on my doings in poetry and photography available
on my website: www.davidgrahampoet.com.
What It Is Like
It is like entering a room to find
Duke Ellington snapping fingers with a grin.
It is like waking up to see an owl
watching you, perched on a bedpost.
No, it is not surprising, though it is
far from dull, like a dog wiggling with joy
to see you after an ordinary day.
It is like sunburn and like the soothing cream.
You hear it just before the first song begins
and in that moment when one cricket
gives up for the night, then another begins,
as though the whole universe were planned
and on schedule . . . .
Yes, it is like this
and that, but it is not miscellaneous.
Rather, it is like a refrigerator
so full the party could last a week.
You can find it alone, but it is better
with a friend, like watching a TV show
so bad it grows hilarious, and it is good
if you’re both playful with it and serious—
like the neighbor you find camped one morning
on your welcome mat, scanning the sports page
of your paper. It is like your welcome mat,
though the letters have worn off with use.
If you are lucky it is like a lightbulb
burning miraculously for at least fifty years.
Even if you are not lucky it makes you feel so.
Originally published in Magic Shows (Cleveland State University, 1986)
A Mind of Winter
I recognize the pose: casual cool, one arm spread along the top slat of the bench, legs wide in disdain, a gaze aiming at unreadable. For two days he's sprawled at ease near the student union, making it clear he's not moving come class or final. The season's second snowfall glazes his face and limbs. The fact that he's sculpted in snow explains much of his immobility but not all. For he's so much the ghost of the unlistener, that back-row child who passes through wisdom as through the weather, elemental and unaltered, that I know I've seen him sprawled over half my life. Not to mention that I've been that boy, chilling myself from inside out with the ice of unknowing. So I cannot pass without a kind thought tossed like a whiff of cool wind in his direction. His eyeless gaze cannot blink away new snow building, nor can my squint focus his form. By tomorrow both our heads will have been knocked off and reasserted more times than we can tell.
Originally published in Stutter Monk. (Flume Press, 2000)
Slap Free
The hell with shovel-cramp
or wind chill. Let us praise
the small pleasures of
winter. How the other
afternoon I hiked
a good hour in the
snow-muffled woods
without slapping a single
mosquito. Even better,
I didn’t once think of
not slapping. Just went
slap free. Last night
before bed I stood
a luxurious minute
in my sleep clothes
by the frost-fringed
window, and did not
ponder how poor
insulation wastes
money, nor did I reflect
on the myriad beauties
of frost, available
even to the poorest.
No, I just stood close
enough to the glass
to feel that cold touching
my face lightly, like a dog
that could hurt you
but who ends up gently
mouthing your hand.
©2020 David Graham
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the
author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual.
It is very important. -JL