Six Favorite Poems of Ward Kelley
The Starting Gun
They question your capability to lie,
as though this isn't a common, human
inclination, for we were all born into a lie . . .
were we not?Not that very many really mourn this,
but the real mark of commonality
always has been the ability
to absorb the lie
then find someone to forgive . . .
maybe you found too many of us.Fire can separate lies from truth,
but did it also fuel your absolution?
You hinted there comes a threshold
where searing pain twists
into ecstasy, while you crash
through the runner's wall
into a cool sea of forgiveness
that only saints can discover
then show us.Your face holds the fire . . .
your tears drop balm
and agony, yet you
forgive and cajole
us poor humans
century
after
century.Artist's note:
Joan of Arc (1412-1431) earned, in the words of Louis Kossuth, an imposing distinction: since the writing of human history began, she is the only person, of either sex, who has ever held supreme command of the military. Although she achieved many victories for her beloved Dauphin, by age nineteen she had been tried for She was also the only person in history ever canonized as a saint of the Catholic church who had once been executed as a heretic by the very same church.
Chooses to Hide
Sinful, the sisters perform patience,
coupling as they do,
similar to forms of alliteration,
but these are not words they bind
or break to fascinate those new to these endeavors.And it is not flesh either, or titillation,
they use to explore the boundaries
of sibling affection; no, it is more powerful,
more forbidden, than sex -- a mundane type
of communication that nearly anyone can effect;
no, these items of angst instead fly everywhere.Not words, not flesh . . . but thoughts:
a combination of the two, for true thoughts,
you know, choices actually succinct,
are like sex bent into words,
or words squeezed into phantom caresses . . .
something, somewhere, must sail out to touch the soul.Emily discovered this early,
and never did, as some will suggest,
stay inside that large house from fear,
but rather there was nothing outside
quite as stirring as a flight of words
ghosting across the parchment
of her sister's skin . . . like a master . . .
not even God held this attraction
of cascading thoughts,
so there will be few real saints
ever found in these poems,
only jilted lovers staring out
the New England winter windows,
while thoughts scream like furies
incinerating around the bedroom.Artist's note:
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) is undoubtedly one of the country's greatest poets. Spending nearly all of her life in Amherst, Massachusetts, the last half in relative seclusion, Emily came to be known as eccentric. Besides rare contacts with people outside her immediate family, she wore only white dresses and sometimes referred to herself as a wayward nun. Regarding her poems -- only eleven of 1,775 poems were published during her lifetime -- she advocated the "propounded word." Her word for herself as a poet was "gnome," and the poems themselves she called, "bulletins from Immortality." Her last communication was written the day before her death, a short letter sent to relatives: Little cousins, --Called back. Emily."
Shine Eye Gal
There is a voice, a haunting by notes,
a voice to this ghost, stretching notes on and on,
to implore, to yearn, the breathing ones to come forth . . .
to be judged.There is a dead woman singing in my ear,
her name is Puma, running, running,
eyes haunting sounds of night gliding
by the skin of jungle cats who hide the souls
of those who might be judged.What does this ghost want to sing to us
who breathe the air of our own desires?
She does not sing words, for only haunting notes
are singular enough to bear a soul forth . . .
to bring one of us forward.This, then, is what the ghost
will do . . . she will sing
of wrongs and cinder love, she will hum of injustice,
she will yearn and she will think
oh why come forth, oh why, only then to die . . .
but we all must sing this particular song,
although few know what the ghost
did sing . . . how the only judges
of us all, at the end of all the breathing,
the only judge is our very own soul
who must judge the actions of its
own singular life.Yes, then, it's what the ghost
still knew, her own soul
judging her alone;
one sees it in her eyes.Artist's note:
Sandra Jones (1953-1990), received her Masters at Columbia University and went to Jamaica to labor in the social work field. She was overheard by aspiring reggae musicians as she sang a song in her apartment, a sound they later described as 'ethereal.' Together, they formed the group Black Uhuru, with uhruru being the Swahili word for freedom. Sandra assumed the name of Puma Jones, and the group went on to be highly successful, earning the first grammy by a reggae group. Michael Rose, a member of the group, once defined Puma's singing, "To tell the truth, she couldn't sing reggae that much, but she had a unique sound, something between jazz and opera. It gave us a different flavor, a sound nobody heard before." Starting to lose her health, Puma left the group in 1986. She died of cancer on January 28, 1990.
The Gypsy's Daughter Enters the Third Reich
The billows, the flames and spouts of fire,
the smoky deluge of despair, the stains of tears
wafting, drying, in the oven air . . .
I lift the smallest of my daughter's fingers
as if such beauty is our final defense
against the ugliness that some generations
surface in the human heart.Her arab eyes appear so beautiful,
even stretched now by fear; her saintly nose
slightly flexes, alarmed, by the acrid scent
in this heartless dry air . . . she is so brave
I yearn to explode my lungs in grief,
but I remain calm so I might steer her
through our final walk together.Her grownup, brown eyes mean to ask me
why there are such volumes of hate in this world,
so much her little life must be exchanged.
She will spare me this impossible question,
and I thank her with my own eyes,
a father's smile, a kiss of souls, as the soldiers
prod us forward to the stark, concrete building.This is too much bravery for one man to act out,
too much beauty for one daughter to convey
to her father out here in this forlorn night.
I am deeply proud of us both at the end,
and so I lift her little finger with my thick thumb . . .a humble wave goodbye to our sinful world,
then I pray this is the proper response
to this horror . . . to meet it
with the smallest act of beauty.
The Naming of Parts
The naming of the parts
is an act that can only be
performed by the sole personregarding their own solitary life,
with the greatest importance
applied to the recognitionthat there is no other soul
like your own, none, in
the vastness of time past,none, in the promise of
the bending future. Then,
what is a heart, and whatdo I call this greedy beast?
What is a life, and how do
I best wield this sword?What is my death, and is
it the respite my soul has
promised? And then I seehow the naming of these
trickster parts reveals the
contrary nature of the harness.Artist's note:
Katherine Anne Porter (1890-1980) was a highly acclaimed American author, winner of both a Pulitzer and a National Book Award. She once wrote, "I was brought up with horses, I have harnessed, saddled, driven and ridden many a horse, but to this day I do not know the names for the different parts of a harness. I have often thought I would learn them and write them down in a note book. But to what end? I have two large cabinets full of notes already."
Pounding Poems
Poems pounded down like thumping hooves,
staccato oak leaves, slapped paper,
the all-importance of the words
a bond, a liturgy sticking the nuance
of self to your soil . . . even though you were
never meant to be here for long, for long.You knew this by the way the poems pounded
down like your hand slapping the carpet
when the sloe gin has taken your presence
on another slippery expedition of mortality;
it's clear the poems do not pound the words pulped
of many other poets, flouncing their fears forward
on paper held like a ticket, a ticket.The very thing that keeps you here
also makes you flirt with another way,
yet you fear there may not be an exact torrent
of poems there (the only way to pound the blood,
the only way to properly shake the fabric of death)
and if there's a chance the poems only pound
on this side, this side, can this be why
only a handful of poets come this close to the kill?
Poems must continue to pound, you understand,
even as you caress another way to compose yourself.Artist's note:
Sylvia Plath (1931-1963) American poet, published her first poem at the age of eight. Suicidal from a young age, she endured, at various times, electroshock and psychotherapy. She married the poet Ted Hughes, who went on to become England's poet laureate. The marriage lasted seven years, but failed when Hughes left her for another woman. Months later, Plath killed herself with cooking gas. In a macabre twist of irony, the woman for whom Hughes left Plath also gassed herself to death. Another poet-suicide, Anne Sexton, wrote of frequent drinking dates at the Ritz with Plath: "Often, very often, Sylvia and I would talk at length about our first suicides; at length, in detail, and in depth between the free potato chips. Suicide is, after all, the opposite of a poem."
bibliography:
Ward Kelley has seen more than 1000 of his poems appear in journals world wide since he began publishing in 1996. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Kelley's publication credits include such journals as: ACM Another Chicago Magazine, Rattle, Zuzu's Petals, Ginger Hill, Sunstone, Spillway, Pif, 2River View, Melic Review, Moongate, Thunder Sandwich, The Animist, Offcourse, Potpourri and Skylark. He has been honored as featured poet for Seeker Magazine, Physik & Times, and Pyrowords. Recently he was the recipient of the Nassau Review Poetry Award for 2001.
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