by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I look for places where deer could hide in dense thickets or in wetlands with tall reeds-- too hard for hunters to enter. I remember you telling me that you would see deer lying down in the swamps, water up to their faces, hiding from approaching hunters. You, who went out each day during hunting season to hunt deer, then came back at night to tell us you saw nothing that day— walking your land but never raising the gun to your chest.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Sometimes I want to go to you but remember that I have put you in a special room far from here, a room, nonetheless, with an open door, so that I can enter anytime. So, I can see your smile when you were running with Shiva, the golden lab, through autumn leaves in a special forest long ago. So, I can walk through that door anytime.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
At our granddaughter Sophia's wedding, Ethel wrote one poem for the wedding that she read out loud during the ceremony. A friend of our daughter Mary read another poem by Ethel that was written 55 years ago during our courtship. Then, at the reception I sat down and wrote a poem commemorating the event as the mariachi band played and people people danced as sunlight streamed out of the clouds for the first time all day. The poem Ethel read: Hope Dear Grandmother, today your great, great granddaughter is getting married to a fine, young man, and they promise their love is greater than their parents’ love and their grandparents’ love. They promise they will be happier than their parents were or their grandparents. And they promise their children will be loved more than all the ancestors put together. Dear Grandmother, this is their promise, and this is our hope. The poem from 55 years ago: How Could I Know? It looks to me as though you’ve been around, perhaps, since time began— and I have lived at least as long. Oh? Only that much time? I’m sure there was no life before for you or me. How could I know your face so well? As well as some old rock I’ve seen hang, clinging to a mountain wall, and I know what wave of brightness, or of darkness, to expect there waiting for me. You step and make some rounded move. I know beforehand which way to go. How could I know? Unless. . . You’ve been around, perhaps, since time began. I know I’ve lived at least as long. The poem I wrote: At My Granddaughter’s Wedding First the bald eagle above the bay, water dancing light on lines of waves, then cranes in the greening field, Babies and parents communicating with legs, moving necks, and wings in the sun, and then the rumor of storms brewing black clouds in the north, stirring with big winds. But then, after a night of worry, the ceremony was to be outside, the wedding day came, cloudy, a fifty percent chance of rain. But then the rain didn’t come. Wedding roses lined paths to the small wooden church. Then, the words as ancient as human spirits, were spoken by the bride and groom, and then the sun came out as the mariachi celebration began, as clouds thinned, and my granddaughter and her love danced as music rose into an evening sky— and love was everywhere. Everywhere.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Thomas Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Fannie Lou Hamer was beaten by a policeman until he couldn’t beat her any longer, so he had his partner continue the beating. That day, Fannie Lou left part of her brain there on the ground, but she didn’t leave her courage. She came back for more. Because she only wanted her people to be free, free from fear, free from beatings, free from death just free to enjoy life, to be wholly human.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’m sure night was made when man invented war so that darkness would put her arms around him, slowing him down so that he could think things over. And then at dawn start new again. I’m sure night was made when war came to this family, breath knocked out of the man, the woman and child languishing in the street. Darkness would give them a few moments of relief. I’m sure darkness was made when man invented war.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Now, they want to clip the ears of the Gray Wolf, clip them back until the wolves are almost decimated, weakening their packs to almost extinction. The native tribes of Wisconsin and Montana have stood up for the wolf. They see themselves parallel to the wolf. They too were killed back to almost extinction, starved and hounded, brothers to the wolf in life and suffering. The hunters carry away the great, large bodies of wolves in their arms, laughing as they go. I remember the Gray Wolf that morning as he rolled down a steep embankment, looking like a great ball of white and gray fur, laughing as he went.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a classical musician and poet, sent Ethel a poem about one of her drawings:
Sherry Grant’s poem:
To Your Melody
By Sherry Grant (Op.2786)
2021-11-22
Utter magic! Webs of colours you freely spin,
Bittersweet young passion, time left beguiled,
Hesitant tears rush, sensation penetrates skin,
Hopelessly tangled knot, hearts racing wild.
At the edge of a dream two unicorns meet,
Sigh after sigh, clearer the shape of ecstasy,
Each ascension a fresh fountain so sweet,
This heaven built for you and me, our intimacy.
©️ Sherry Grant, Auckland, 2021-11-22, Op.2786
Inspired by ‘To Music’ by Franz Adolf Friedrich von Schober (Germany, 1796 – 1882) and
Alexander Scriabin‘s ‘The Poem of Ecstasy’ (Le Poème de l’extase), Op. 54
©️ ‘Song of Ecstasy’ (pastel) by Ethel Mortenson Davis (USA)
https://fourwindowspress.com/2012/01/14/song-of-ecstacy
Ethel Mortenson Davis’s drawing that inspired the poem:
By Ethel Mortenson Davis
Last night two men slept close to an elephant trail, hoping to see the herd. In the morning they discovered an elephant track between their two sleeping bags. We are the same. We are part of them, they, part of us. This morning we ran to catch a glimpse of the last of October’s light as she lit the tops of trees on fire, and heard the voices of cranes, high above our heads, that we have heard a thousand times before. But still, we were lifted. A great river drifts through us. She glimpses us to see if we have caught the ripples she throws out.
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by Ethel Mortenson Davis
But there is still a sunrise this morning, red for rain. We can still count the stars in Orion and see the night sky. There is still a dog at the end of the bed. He is a guardian of our souls. There is time to reach beyond smallness that resides in our hearts.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Your spotted back fits well in the dappled light of the wood as you wait utterly still for the night and her returning.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
fourwindowspress 