Gratitude

For moments big and small, featuring poems by Wilderness Sarchild, Sandy Longley, Michael Miller and James K. Zimmerman.
7 minutes

TRANSCRIPT

It’s Thanksgiving time. And Thanksgiving’s about Pilgrims and families and overeating and football and lots more. But at its core, it’s about giving thanks, about gratitude. So, some pieces not about the holiday, but about the sentiment behind it. And coincidentally, all of five pieces on this episode are from books and not journal issues that Passager’s published.

Wilderness Sarchild published this first poem in her book Old Women Talking, “Ordinary Moments.”

Again, the hummingbird
buzzes over the sugar water.

Again, the coyote
crosses the road.

Again, the deer
feeds in my yard.

Again, the bullfrog
sits on a lily pad in the pond.

One breath,
then another.

“Ordinary Moments,” Wilderness Sarchild. Next from Sandy Longley’s book Mothernest, “On Our Knees.”

Today I read of a poet who simmers oatmeal in apple cider
for the birds each morning. While it cools, he walks his dog.

And I was reminded of farmers who rotate their cows
in their stalls to prevent them from freezing in winter.

I once watched my young daughter stand perfectly still on one leg
watching a little green heron at pond’s edge waiting to spear a fish.

My neighbor, an oncology nurse, checks under her hood each morning
to make sure a feral cat isn’t curled around a once warm engine.

Just the other night a meteorite slammed into the Blood Wolf Moon.
It slammed into the moon.

“On Our Knees,” Sandy Longley.

Here’s James K. Zimmerman’s poem “Gratitude Journal (Early December).”

I am grateful for the sycamore
outside my window that has lost
every leathery leaf but one

I am grateful for freezing
rain that has not yet chosen
to become blinding snow

for the dark loamy smell
of your skin, your hair
with its touch of frangipani
and sweet Hawaiian ginger

I am grateful for the easy sound
of zippers undoing, the sleek
rustle of falling silk

for the memory of sun
as it flows in golden waves
over the waiting windowsill

and for the taste of each breath
the ebb and flow

the space where the world
ends before it is born again

From his book Little Miracles, “Gratitude Journal (Early December)” by James K. Zimmerman.

Wilderness and Sandy and Jim used a lot of nature imagery to express their gratitude. But it doesn’t have to just be natural beauty that we’re grateful for. Here’s Sandy Longley again, “Joys of Our Desiring.”

Such a brutal, beautiful place is this world.
Your heart feels like wet pulp one minute,
a battering ram the next. A blister the size
of a pearl onion forms on your left heel –
all that walking on concrete in suede boots.

A man crouches over a heat vent on the corner
of 56th and Broadway. A dog leans on his back.
You want to buy him a pair of blue cashmere
socks. (The dog, too.) He would then rise and
turn into the prince he once hoped to become.

And then you see a red neon sign on a pop-up
that shouts “Bach”– a fugue wafts out onto
the sidewalk. Pedestrians crowd the doorway –
Listen. A wizard conjures piano magic on a Yamaha
Grand: cascades of notes, jazzy chords, crazy counter-
point – a musical chase from line to astonishing line.

Buoyancy lifts us into late afternoon light. A woman
wearing earmuffs merges into traffic on her CitiBike.
A pigeon heaves into flight, gripping a bagel in its mouth.

Sandy Longley’s “Joys of Our Desiring.” In his poem “Morning Song,” Michael Miller expresses gratitude for a long relationship.

Leaving the darkness
I wake from undisturbed sleep
To light streaming through
The opening in the curtain
And the shrill call of the jay,
Nothing melodious except
The flow of my lasting love
Carrying me from
That unforgotten bed
Where we joined decades ago
Without a dream of the future.
Shall I wake you,
Touch your arm folded beneath
Your head, your long hair
The color of silver?
I let you sleep.
I enter the day
Lifting my gratitude
Into a song.

“Morning Song,” Michael Miller from his book The Solitude of Memory.

I’m sorry. I thought I could get through this podcast without a turkey poem, but I was wrong. We’ll end with yet another Sandy Longley poem “Metamorphosis,” also from her book Mothernest.

act i

From a distance they looked like
two Glad trash bags
billowing in the April dusk,
a plastic adagio.
But when I walked closer
I could see

act ii

those small turkey heads,
long, fan-shaped tails,
glossy, bronze wings dragging,
dark, rufous, feathery tips,
a prince-like display, the male
strutting his comic brio,
wattles ablaze like pieces of the heart,
an offering.

And the hen, dreaming of poults,
yelping in response to the call
of her polygamous lover,
a sudden balloon skyward on her
scrawny legs before the
destined coupling.

act iii

No evil sorcerer,
no promise of fidelity,
no Lake of Tears –
instead a grayblack disappearing act
into open fields,
all eyes on the roost,
stage left.

“Metamorphosis,” Sandy Longley.

To buy Sandy’s book Mothernest, Michael Miller’s book The Solitude of Memory, Jim Zimmerman’s book Little Miracles, or Wilderness Sarchild’s book Old Women Talking, or to subscribe to or learn more about Passager and its commitment to writers over 50, go to passagerbooks.com. You can download Burning Bright from Spotify, Apple and Google Podcasts, and various other podcast apps. Passager offers a 25% discount on the books and journal issues featured here on Burning Bright. Visit our website to see what’s on sale this week.

For Kendra, Mary, Christine, Rosanne, and the rest of the Passager staff, I’m Jon Shorr.