Back to Meet Mimi
Mimi White ~ New Poems
| Click on link to see new poems | ||
| Feeding
the Dog So He Can Die A New Orleans Valentine |
More Mimi
Poems  |
|
| Also
see the Schoodic Poems. I wrote these while I was an artist-in-residence at
Acadia National Park, one of eight artists nationwide to be offered a residency at Acadia. It was heaven. - mw |
||
| Settling In | The Path Your Hand Makes | In the Mineral Dark |
Back to Top
. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
Here are the Schoodic
Poems. I wrote these next
3 poems while I was an artist-in-residence
at Acadia National Park, one of eight artists nationwide to be offered a residency at
Acadia.
It was heaven. - mw
How does one arrive at death while contemplating beauty?
"A pleasing quality, a harmony of form". No words yet to describe what I felt as
I drove along the shore on my way in. Last night's moon, off the
end of the earth, might be a beginning, but I know the sheer spectacle of beauty is
related to mortality.
Settling In
When the moon hung its nail
at the end of the world
we turned off the lights
and let the stars
replace what we had been saying.
Then a deer (which was once
darkness) stepped
across the road
and became forest
again. If I practice
walking I am footsteps
on the lively fungus.
When I gaze at the white
lichen I am the moon.
When blackberries
print seeds on my lips
I am the sweet season
that houses summer,
fragrant, waiting to close.
Back to Top
. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
Steve dropped me off at the trailhead parking lot for Schoodic
Outlook. It was time for him to leave. I wanted to walk the blackberry path because I
think there might be a poem there. When he drove off, he turned and I turned and he waved.
He never ever waves to me when he leaves, never before he leaves for a hike, nothing. I
have grown to accept the way he hurries toward his destination, forgetting me as he
readies himself for what comes next. I admire that in him and I find it irritating.
Couldn't leave-taking be a bit sad for him? His return, in his mind, is so assured. My
being there when he returns so true and certain. Yet this morning he waved. That broke my
heart, I think. When I turned again, he was gone. All the sadness of the world that I had
left behind, the colossal sadness and shame of our country in New Orleans, rushed right in
where the sea and islands and trees had taken root. Then I started turning words over in
my mind and the sadness vanished.
The Path Your Hand Makes
When you left
I stood in the furniture of light
And held your wave,
Dazzled by the contemplation
Of space, your fingers pressed
Against a vacant now,
And it seemed
All the missing and the dead
Had traveled up the river to my feet.
Everything I say
Drives off in the wrong direction
But you.
So many days
Pass through
The snow-stream of my mind.
The stepping stones
That were yours
Are now mine.
. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
I walked the sundew trail late yesterday afternoon. In the fog and wind it was
beautiful. The moss and lichen were soft and vibrant, various shades of green. When I got
to the last lookout, I felt utter joy. It just came over me. Stopping between the first
and second lookouts, I said out loud, "I create a wide open space and step into it.
And when I create a wide open space and step into it, I feel great joy and happiness"
The spot on the trail where I stood was a tangle of trees, moss, white lichen, mushrooms,
small red berries, lovely deep and still, the wind racing around the periphery. But when I
got to the last vista, the tide was out and the waves more dramatic than at high tide. The
wind was blustery, the sky trying to clear, the yellow hint of the sun burning off the
vast white haze. It was a sky in flux and I felt I had caught it at its best. I was
stunned by the wild beauty as if I were part of the elements. It was that slight moment of
connection that made me feel joy. Alone, stepping into this changing scenery, I felt time
tick inside my bones, this is here and will be here for millions of years. If the spray
had doused my hair, I would not have moved an inch.
In the Mineral Dark
In the cold petals of sleep,
without mystery or trepidation,
they fly. Fastened to whiteness,
fugitive stars guide them
to my empty meadows.
They brush my eyes
with their heated bodies
and forests rise from stone,
the luminous flux of history
written in flecks and swirls.
They trace the mineral dark
with their soft wings
and leaf by leaf trees root
in the freshet of the night.
Blackbird by blackbird,
branches feather
the unfurnished dream.
A small stream rises,
ample, impossibly clear.
. .
.
.
.
.
.
.
I wrote this before the hurricane. Now it feels like a strange postcard from another
century. - mw
A New Orleans Valentine
Tonight's slow trolley rolls us
to our stop, one step ahead,
a girl's hips shift
between the fire and the moon.
Her feathers jazz,
rain perfumes
a cobbled lane.
A man leans into her, leans away.
His hand settles
on the small of her back,
his face like anyone's
in a mirror. His fingers nudge
her blouse's silk. The street conspires
with fumes, painted stucco,
tiny views. Neon lulls
the mind, her eyes.
The river and wide banks
collide. Now his palm
floats down her sleeve. We could do
what they will do
and never feel the difference.
Feel the ordinary pale of day
flee our faces, calm
as false storefronts,
and love what we had lost.
Wade through our decay
to watch the roses in our room
spiral on the cusp
of who's to say
what will slip free?
It's a hot city. Snakes cool
in the obscuring
swamp. Her soft hem
unknowable, scented
with jasmine.
Back to Top
Back to Meet Mimi