by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The universe
throws out poems
across the stars,
but only the poet
catches them.
Category Archives: Poetry
Poems
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Lover’s Song
by Thomas Davis
We strung along a priceless string of stars
And made the moon a pendant just to show.
I cut the night into a dress, the bars
Of moonlight setting stars and dress aglow.
You laughed with love deep in your doe-brown eyes.
You swirled the universe upon your hem.
As dizzy as a lover filled with love’s first lies,
I watched your eyes grow dazzled by your gems.
Then, with a shrug, your dress fell to the ground.
The night became a puddle at your feet.
Stars glistened in a heap, their skies cut down.
The moon gleamed silver-cold without your heat.
We swirled together deep into the night,
Our years illuminated, blazing light.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
The Cook
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
What is this chef, this cook
that comes to gather
strung out, grumbling
friends and relatives?
Is she not a mere merchant
of the kitchen?
An employee of a restaurant?
But no, I think.
A magician or alchemist,
one who binds up the disgruntled
by cooking magic.
Her creations stir in
the hearts of these people
a language of love
they had never felt before,
or ever will again.
Why, these two are speaking
when they haven’t for years.
I think it must have been
that rare French wine, or,
perhaps that unusual, roasted
animal from the forest.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Threads
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The threads
on the hem of the skirt
have been pulled out,
leaving the earth
jagged and uneven,
wounded
like the trapper
this morning
ripping the fox
from the trap
after crushing its skull,
leaving the lake’s edge
uneven.
Threads pulled out.
Threads
that bound us
that morning
as a gray fox
sprang in front of us,
a delightful look on his face
as he carried his prey in his mouth.
Threads that pulled us
to the earth’s bosom,
holding us to a cherished breast.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Winter Solstice
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She rolled
up the mat,
turned out
the lights,
and we are plunged
into darkness.
December is like
living in a cave,
but the earth
will not hear of it,
unfolds her fetal position
in her darkened room
and allows light to emerge
longer in the morning
and afternoon—
Sunlight able
to warm our deepest bones.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
In Search of Poetry
by Thomas Davis
Eyes scudded dark, a roiling rage of storm,
The poet stood upon gray rock, the roar
Of boiling waves the cruciform
Of time, the slates of history a lore
Long lost, but still inside the chanting names
That sang a weaving with the waves.
The poet waves his arms. His presence claims
The past. He reaches past the earth of graves
And strains to bring the fire of poetry
From campfires blazing in forgotten nights
Beside the ferment of a Celtic sea
Onto a wild Wisconsin shore, old rites
Engendering a music mad with winds
That spills through words, a storm that never ends.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Player
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When I awake
I will not go to the theater,
play parts, do different characters,
but will be who I am.
I will never go back
to that again,
but will go where
there is wilderness and wildlife,
running water, and laps of waves—
See snorting deer.
I am my raw self;
I have no rifle,
and my bent toward you
is harmony.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Letter to an American Poet
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I have waited for the prodigal son to arrive,
looking across the line of hills each day,
hoping to see his cherub-like face again—
but they say he is still in a distant land,
throwing away his inheritance,
living a debauched life.
For he has no real needs, they say.
Not like the Russians
Pasternak, Ginsburg, Yevtushenko,
Solzhenitsyn,
men of needs and wants
who cherish their inheritance
and are called sons.
I am waiting for you to come back to life again,
waiting to take the fattened young bull
out of his pen to celebrate your return.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Poet’s Becoming, Fionn’s Gift Across Time
by Thomas Davis
Fionn, son of Mairne, a Chief Druid’s daughter, was instructed by the Druid…to cook for him a salmon fished for a deep pool…and forbidden to taste it; but as Fionn was turning the fish over in the pan he burned his thumb, which he put into his mouth and so received the gift of inspiration. For the salmon was a salmon of knowledge, that had fed on nuts fallen from the nine hazels of poetic art. Robert Graves, The White Goddess. 1966 (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux), p. 75.
Upon the dark dolomite jutting
Shoreline out into lake waters,
Brooding, the poet pondered, rising
Vapors misting white where otters
Often twisted brown bodies in brightness
During days of lithesome lightness.
Longing to discover poetry’s essence,
Plunging into intensifying agony,
Its agitated angst and strange candescence,
Searching for wisps of hope, honey
Spirited into hazel nuts fallen
Into waters fused with wisdom’s pollen,
Praying, the poet chanted phrases
Empty of meaning, madness exploding
Dystopian dreams into glazes
Filming stratums in mist, imploding
Into a dance of time: Land distinct,
Shrouding tales of peoples long extinct.
Milky mist rose from the waters.
Paddling in a coracle, Fionn,
Singing softly as sleek otters,
Angled after salmon in an eon
Ever-ending, inspiration
Infusing words into desperation.
Dancing in the poet’s pounding
Heartbeat, language’s lilting incantation
Metamorphosed landscapes, people’s living,
Into a singing suffusion of creation:
Fionn spanning time and continents,
Salmon swimming past despair to resonance.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Night Ride
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Come with me,
down where the trees are,
for there is a line of sky
without clouds,
and soon the earth
will be the color of red honey.
Come with me,
for there is enough feed
for the horses,
and when we stop to sleep
we’ll keep the dogs close
to warm us.
Come with me,
for the songs of the Ancients
are calling.
Orion is straight above our heads,
and we must make
this night’s journey.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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