Poetry by Carrie Heimer
Tao of Cranes
The field is full of the calligraphy for empty,
Chinese characters meaning water
and middle. Bills bisect
brown brushstrokes of companions,
the Tao as it blunts sharp edges, unties the knot,
softens the glare.
The dance is a series of stills
crane sweeping lotus
crane strumming pipa
crane grasping sparrow's tail.
One steps left instead of right,
his looping windpipe pumping like a bellows
his rising, rolling call.
Lao Tzu says,
Perfect straightness looks bent,
a brilliant speech sounds like stammering.
At the last movement of the form,
rust-colored heads bow
and the whole field lifts
as though a class of beginners practicing Tai Chi
had accidentally learned to ascend,
one whirling column floating upward from the wooden floor.
First Thing I Tell You
It needn’t be much.
After all, the genius of
“You Are My Sunshine”
is warm and simple,
always sung by a child.
It’s enough to say
you are a watermelon seed,
small and smooth,
pleasant to sort out
from other pleasantness.
Linger over this.
Later, I will give you more.
Plans for Eternity
I’ve been reading poems
on death all afternoon
and the conviction startles
like a slamming door
that we must do everything,
you and I,
at once
and very slowly.
I have ideas
for our new assault on life
beginning
with a hammock
strung between trees
downhill from your house.
We’ll lie in it
for seventy-seven years,
memorize movement of the stars,
rename them,
secure our immortal place,
but the important thing is
we’ll get up only in summers –
let stars fend for themselves –
to eat sweet onions,
write more songs,
paddle a canoe.
Then it’s back to work;
attention must be paid.
We’ll keep a notebook
made of bark
and sewn with fishing line.
You’ll notice leaves
and I will notice you,
marking down the creases by your eyes
and how your knuckles curve.
After that, maybe Italy or racecars,
hot air balloons or herding sheep,
something light, less meaningful,
to finish out the time.
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