Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Poet and the Artist
by Thomas Davis
Inside the trailer sitting by a ditch,
the mixing bowl still clinging to the dough
that went into the oven hours before
to make the fresh-bread smell of early morning,
the poet, young, sat down to write a poem.
She pursed her lips and pledged a word to paper,
stopped, got up from the folding table, looked
as if a storm had started brewing thunderheads
behind her eyes, crossed out the word she’d written,
put down another word, and then another,
decided that the first line was not right,
crossed out the line, and searched for fire, for stone
grown out of ancient trees into a rainbow
of carbon, agate, life long gone remembered
in music swelled out of the lines she wrote.
She worked for hours, the crossed out words and lines
alive, then petrified into oblivion
across a half a dozen pages, images
half formed, then tossed away into the blaze
of other images born from the dance
of words dredged out of who she was inside
where light burned, thoughts danced, deep emotions swirled.
When, at long last, the poem was done, she shrugged,
picked up a stick of charcoal, stormed a portrait
of Pasternak, romantic, breathing, flaring
into his Russian world, onto a newsprint pad
and finished faster than the morning’s bread had cooled.
Pasternak, a Portrait
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“Pasternak” originally appeared in The Rimrock Poets Magazine, Thomas Davis, Richard Brenneman, and Art Downing, editors, December 1967, Vol. 1, No. 1.
Filed under Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry, Thomas Davis
Celestial Bird: The Poem
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
One
became caught
last night
in my net.
This morning
I untangled him—
eyes true and bright,
magnificent iridescent feathers,
and a warm beating heart
that stayed in my hand
as I threw him up into the air
so he could
continue his flight
across the universe.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
The Move
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
They packed
the odds and ends
of the house in the car—
along with the plants and dog.
She wanted to leave
at noon, but he wanted
more time to say goodbye
to his friends.
They left at 6.00 P.M.
No one was there
to say goodbye
after twenty-five years.
They pulled out onto the Interstate
towards Duluth–a six hour drive.
They waved goodbye
and also said some
“Good Riddances”
to “Their Town.”
A semi was following
behind them
and pulled up alongside.
He rolled down his window
and hollered, “Goodbye”—
Then waved again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis
Auschwitz E. Poland, January 27, 1945 , a poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Deep January
never felt so warm–
when the strong arms
of the Red Army
picked up
the skeleton-like people
and set them
on blankets in the snow.
The evil snake
had reached down
deep into their bodies
and tried to snatch
their very souls,
but the soldiers
gathered them
like sick dogs
in their arms
and set them
into the sunshine.
Libertacja was like
the swinging
of a thousand swings
up into the air–
a day when poetry
began to be written.
Originally published in Gallup Journey, January 5, 2011
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Healing Bear
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I am the healing bear.
I will lick you
all over
from head to foot.
I will take
the bad smells out
of your fur.
I will bring you
up out of the labyrinth
and will heal you.
I will show you
the face of your child
so small you can
hold it in your hand.
I am the healing bear,
and I will heal you.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Healer, from Ethel Mortenson Davis’s I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, iuniverse press
“…you have been yourself at the edge of the Deep Canyon and have come back unharmed” An Elder of the San Juan Pueblo. 1959. V. Laski. Seeking Life.
“I was invisible” An Asiatic Eskimo. 1980. D. Cloutier. Spirit Spirit, Shaman Songs.
In the snowy canyons
you came to me
as an eagle
and whispered
(in almost audible sounds)
“the key to the secret
of healing. . .”
For my wounds
had gone beyond wounds
and had festered
into deep holes
in my sides,
and gangrene had set in,
but, in a whisper,
you came and said,
“you have the keys within you.
You are the stars
in the starry night.
You are the source
at the mouth of rivers.
You have the medicine
to heal
already in your bones.”
And my wounds became
as faint as the sound
of feathers,
as pale as the ringed moon.
And the healer
came to me
in the face of the wolf.
She came
and nodded to me
with her deep intelligence,
and her eyes told me,
“your spirit is strength.
Your force is as great
as volcanoes,
for your goodness prevails
over the dark;
your goodness
has brought you out
of the deep canyon.”
And again the healer
came to me.
This time as a bear,
a joyous white bear
with great white paws,
and she told me,
“you were invisible,
but now I see you.
You have gone
to the edge of the great canyon
but have come back
unharmed.
“And now your laughter
will become
as mountainous as thunder,
and your tears
will be the tears of glory!”
I tell you.
I have put my ear
to the great Earth
and have felt your presence.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Published Books
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