More Than A Metaphor

Harmony as word and concept turns easily into metaphor. Beyond the world of music, for most of us, the word probably connotes inner peace, or the satisfaction derived from the strongest connections we share with others, or with the natural world. We may also associate harmony with an existential belief in an orderly cosmos, whether divinely ordained or, to some degree, scientifically verified. You will find several of these potential sources of well-being in the poems that follow.

We are fortunate to have three poems from Kelly Cass Falzone that trace her relationship with her mother over a lifetime. With extraordinary images in The First Sound, she creates for us life as a fetus experiencing the rhythms of her being as biological facts, both intrinsic to her development and mediated by her mother’s body: “I knew the rock and cradle of / her pelvis, that bony gait / and swagger, and her stillness. / My first love was that stillness.” And in Our Waters she recalls the physical closeness of her mother helping her learn to dive, followed by separation and movement “away from her. / I barely let her touch me from then on, her hands / like fire; our words grow teeth.” But their intimacy returns as the path of their lives includes her mother’s illness and eventual demise: “I offer to carry her to bed, she’s that small. . . .I tuck her in / and kiss her brow, and marvel / at the way we made it back.”

This bond of love we share with others, so vitally important at the very end of life, is also celebrated by Jill McGrath in Healing Hands, with her grandfather in his final moments, describing his hand moving when he told her stories: “Bird of air, silk-palmed, /
long fingered, gentler—you led me across years, / showed me everything you loved.” She is present for him, attentive, “Every word matters now. I’m here / with you as you tell of a journey / in whispers, and I hold on until / you’re ready to let go.”

Ron Riekki’s poems testify to the empathy that professional caregivers provide as he patiently accompanies and supports those with schizophrenia and dissociation disorders. And Ajibike Lapite, in epitaphs and eulogies, mourns the loss of a loved one and questions her difficulty in accepting the loss, but comes to realize that her grief, perhaps symbolized by the flowers she kept pressed in a journal, is proof of the power of our capacity to care for loved ones , and to memorialize them in our writing: “flowers pressed against white pages and spilled / ink are still flowers worthy of praise.”

Studies have shown how time spent in the natural world, in “green space,” helps calm us psychologically, as well as actually physically benefit us. John Schaff associates Silence with tranquility found in the appreciation and acceptance of all Creation; and Suzanna de Bacca’s Aspen Grove bathes the reader in glorious “white beams of light.” The speaker finds “There is forgiveness” within the grove.

While the positive benefits of our close relationships with others and the sheltering arms of Nature may help us find a peaceful existence, another group of poets herein– Veronica Ashenhurst, Shannon Frost Greenstein, Millie Jackson, Jen Lailey, and Alex Phoung–remind us that in the end, it is a matter of the our ability to choose to respond to whatever life hands us that is often the critical factor in finding a meaningful sense of fulfillment. And Kitzia Esteva-Martinez is notable in combining Spanish and English in a poem that strongly asserts independence from repressive shaming regarding an individual’s sexuality: “We are always complete, always ambiguous / We refuse to bear your cross”.

Since our last issue, my wife and I lost our Golden Retriever who was always “leaning in for love”; three weeks ago, it was a neighbor always vigilant about what he could do for others; Friday I learned that a friend I’ve known for fifty plus years had passed, he who spoke softly and praised language turned artful. So in honor of Savvy, Larry, and Jim I offer the words of poets from this issue that console, because they suggest that harmony is always there for us. You just have to know how to see it:

Some say they can smell their lost beloveds. I say:
Yes, of course. That which you cannot see is right beside
you. The sea can be heard in a shell or a soup can. It is
not a trick; it’s there to be heard. And we are—like the sea,

and the seeing—we are larger than our bodies; consider
the expansive contraction of the tides, the way light travels
from every star. It keeps going. And your breath, when it
leaves you, is still your breath. Still yours, and mine, too.

from Our Revision by–Kelly Cass Fanzone

Life is but a dream
like in that song about rowing a boat,
the one we sang in kindergarten.
It was a round, remember?
Different people coming in
and going out at different times,
and it went on that way
for a long time until it ended.
And then no one was singing.
Which felt a little sad, but the silence
that hung in the air afterwards
was full of smiles.

from Life is Sacred by Paul Hostovsky

Stephen Granzyk is the Poetry editor of Please See Me.