December 2020
Bio Note: When James posted “Gratitude” as an optional theme, I immediately thought of the swallows
that nest each summer in the tiny shed tucked away under our deck. What joy in spring when the first pair of
swallows begins wheeling in and out of the shed, working tirelessly on a nest for the summer’s brood. These
poems are from my new book, Feathers and Bones, a loosely constructed “call and response” book, with the
call poems being garlands and the response poems ghazals. They tell the story of last summer’s fledglings.
Swallows
When we moved here thirty years ago there
was an old swallow’s nest pressed up into
a corner of the darkened shed, looking
like a small volcano or a tiny
lava-clump squeezed into that private place.
This summer it seemed that everywhere there
were swallows filling the air with their grace.
I saw one swallow glide into the shed,
which is tucked away underneath the deck,
just as another swallow coasted out.
This went on for weeks; one flew in, one out,
each carrying sticks or beaks full of mud.
First time in decades they’ve gone in the shed,
whose only light is a single bare bulb,
and that is where they chose to build their nest.
The socket into which you screw the bulb
is perfectly round and flat, and that is
where they crafted their nest of sticks and mud.
I snuck up for a peek inside the nest,
and sure enough I counted four small eggs.
I looked in everyday until one day
four little pairs of eyes were looking back.
And then—too soon—the inevitable.
They left, having shown me trust and the kind
of grace that, if you’re blessed, you may feel once.
When we moved here thirty years ago there
were swallows that filled the air with their grace.
First time in decades they’ve gone in the shed.
I snuck up for a peek inside the nest
of grace where, if you’re blessed, you may feel once.
Swallows Perch on the Rim of the Nest
They built their nest in the shed’s shadowy half-light.
All day they carried mud out of the draught of light.
The socket for the bare bulb is round and metal.
They construct their nest on top of that riff-raff light.
All day long they fly in and out carrying mud.
After a week I step into a shaft of light.
There atop the light socket is their little nest.
I walk into the sepia and staffs of light.
This slow adventure is temporal and worldly
and iridescent as when the sun chaffs the light.
The nest is never alone. One bird always stays.
One day I peeked and saw four eggs, the waifs in light.
And all day, every day, the flying in and out.
Then one day, a tail feather, flagstaff of light.
I was among the first things they would ever see.
I’d stand beside their nest and watch them, stiff in light.
Their smoothest brown heads, their black eyes, their thin white mouths,
the trust that shone through those black eyes in the safe light.
Then the day came when they all perched on the nest’s edge;
The time had come to step onto the raft of light.
And then they were departed and the nest empty,
John standing there in awe of the grace of self-light.
©2020 John Stanizzi
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