by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This last, fading light is enough to carry us across the field, across the world, enough to lift us from ourselves, our mitered lives in this small changeling of a disappearing evening.
Category Archives: poems
Enough
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Places We Recognize
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When we are desperate and can’t recognize the world, we climb into words, grasp letters, covet paragraphs to find smallness. When we are desperate we go to this small garden to gather ourselves in the act of cleaning away dying plants — to repeat our worth — in places we recognize, like the wounded fox that crawls into the small culvert.
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Four Windows Press Publishes Door County Poets Collective Anthology
The Door County Poets Collective has released its newest book, Halfway to the North Pole! A unique poetry anthology, it’s available at Sturgeon Bay’s bookstores and through either Write On Door County or fourwindowspress1.com. It is published by Four Windows Press, the small publishing company Ethel and I own.
There are a lot of Door County’s most important poets represented in the book as well as other poets that have been loyal visitors over the years. Estella Lauter, the instigator of the Collective, in her “Preface” describes the theme of the anthology: “We hope these poems, while providing some anchors in parts of the County you know, will introduce you to places, people, and issues you haven’t noticed and might want to know better on your own: places like Mud Lake, Three Springs, Bjorklunden, Mojo Rosa’s; people like Increase Claflin or Norbert Blei; efforts to bring back the Monarch Butterflies, preserve the night sky, cut or treat infected ash trees, keep the Boreal forest. Door County is not only a beautiful place where culture and nature support each other; it is also a complex community of people and other creatures who come together to care for the land and water that sustain our lives in all seasons. Halfway between the hottest and coldest places on earth, we like to think we have the best of both.”
One More Time
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A baby wren came to sit in the burning bush to show me she has grown into a strong bird. With graceful gratitude she came to show me light in my dark world — just as a matched pair of horses pulled John Lewis across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, so he can be a light in our black world just one more time.
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The Framing
In Memoriam Kevin Michael Davis
Doors at Chaco Canyon photograph by Kevin Davis (2/16/1982 – 7/21/2010)
“The Framing” a poem by Richard Brenneman
This is the anniversary of our son’s death in Poughkeepsie, New York from cancer ten years ago. This is always a sad day for Ethel, I, and our daughters, Sonja Bingen and Mary Wood, every year. This blog was started in honor of Kevin, who was a wonderful web designer, photographer, artist, and poet. This year we are publishing one of Kevin’s most iconic photographs, a doorway found at the Chaco Canyon ruins in New Mexico, and Richard Brenneman’s wonderful poem about the photograph, remembering someone who was deeply, deeply loved.
THE FRAMING
by Richard Brenneman
Ekaphrastic poem celebrating the Kevin Davis photograph, “Doors at Chaco Canyon”
I Picture this -- seen through the lens of a camera; eye sighting perfectly this line of sight, image remaining after. The photographer has entered into this, his picture. A framing frames the ancient remains, frame within frame like stone ghosts from the living to the not living. II During the day, the doors, like sideways viewed Chinese boxes, point the way to the sky, or a blank wall where the lords of death (or alternatively, the lords of life) are lodged beyond, whether in kiva, hogan, teepee, pyramid -- the mountain of gods. III At night invisible, you can barely see the framed gates. Above, the moonlight, a few stars shine bright: Polaris, Sirius, Aldebaran. The gods of old-time have come for you -- you who framed this image. Time into framing, gate, window, doorway -- starlight seeps out light from unseen life in sunrise or twilight, you who sighted this in your view finder. IV If we look at this image askew, we can almost see you as shadow, invisible among the dust motes, the whirling dervishes slipping through the frame of time, the ancient gateways to join the lords of life, of death to ascend timeless, bodiless to the stars, to become framed as infinite starshine.
Filed under Art, Photography, poems, Poetry
Flicker
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At dawn a loud crash sounded against the house. A flicker lay struggling on the ground, his life ending. A beautiful bird with speckled chest, yellow tail, and red feathers on his head looked as though his spine was broken. I put him in a quiet part of the garden. His weak cries were fearful. Later that day, when I checked, he seemed closer to death. The next morning when I went to collect him, he was gone. I want to think he got up and flew up to the top of my tree, but probably a cat or fox found him on their trek across the country.
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I Name the Crises
by Thomas Davis The virus raging as so many elders die and young people party, drinking into laugher, risking brains that swell with fevers, mini-strokes, hallucinations that skew apart their world; The economy collapsing into unemployment as bread lines form like they did in the Great Depression, hollow eyes looking at the world with despair even as social distancing, safety is an impossibility as you stand in line, hungry and afraid; The video of a black man saying, “I can’t breathe” twenty times as a white policeman kneels on his neck, hearing him calling for his mother out of his terror, exploding into a nation’s consciousness the history of white robes and hoods, the spasm of confederate statues trying desperately to rewrite the history of military and social loss, the Trail of Tears, a President throwing paper towels as Puerto Rico mourns destroyed homes, flooded lives, spirits concentrated by a hurricane to rows of graves; The teetering of democracy as black, brown, Asian, Native people stand in lines for hours to vote in rain storms, intense heat, cold as sanctimonious voices praise the Lord and American exceptionalism and celebrate cages on the border where children, separated forcibly from their parents, cry, and a flush-faced leader claims he is the One, the only one who can solve the problems he has helped intensify; Then the ecosystems’ warnings as Antarctica glaciers melt, song birds cease to sing, the Amazon Forest burns and shrinks from year to year, migrations from wars, starvation, ethnic rage, dictatorial triumph put words in politician’s mouths that celebrate how great their country, party is; and then the greed that celebrates the rich selling snake oil: Come, give us tax breaks, roads, communication networks, robots that feed our wealth-making machines — rescue us when our venality threatens our prosperity as the virus rages, the middle class collapses, small business people fail, poor families lose their homes, the homeless starve, mental health deteriorates, people march for justice, the great extinctions of insects, plants, fish, all living things grows ever more deadly to the long-term health of the world and humankind, and greed demands the glorification of greed as the solution to the problems greed creates. I name the crises. The question is, what do we, as human beings, do now?
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To Phil Hanisota, My Friend
I received news that Phil Hanisota had passed away a few days ago. I mostly knew Phil as a poet, but his gentleness and intellect as a brilliant medical researcher and a man who was always helping others around the world, had an enormous impact on my life. I miss him fiercely.
by Thomas Davis
Some souls walk through this life, their eyes so bright with all the good inside humanity that gentleness is who they are, their light a breath, a song that pulses ceaselessly into the restlessness of humankind, the anger, rage, hate, glory, love, and hope that layers through our relatives and winds into eternity’s kaleidoscope, and though we smile and joke and gently laugh to see them as they age into our days, we never sense the coming choreograph that lets us know that time is just a phase that passes as we contemplate a soul that touched our lives and helped to make us whole.
Filed under poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
George Floyd
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We saw how bad the killing is in this country. But the many more we did not see — children, women, and men in far away, hidden places, unknown towns, and mud-filled swamps. No one recorded their cries for help. Their blood has filled our land — up to the withers of our horses, touching the white wings of angels.
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Unfurrowing
by Ethel Mortenson Davis The unfurrowing of new leaves is like a carefully synchronized orchestra with each musician in exact harmony. But we do not stand and applaud. Only Oriole gets up and sings his splendid song, dressed in brightly colored vestments.
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