Sepia

Sepia

by Dana Lee Stone

                                                             Sepia tones

capture his image

on the aerodrome in France

                                                  where he trained.

He smiles,

left hand placed

jauntily

on his hip.

Confident,

maybe a little cocky.

He was 19 that day.

Dropped out of U. Va.

to enlist in World War One.

This was the man who loved me fiercely.

The son

of a printer,

and a Southern belle.

Product of the Gilded Age

Before all hell

broke out

with the “war to end all wars.”

                             Smiling directly at the camera,

                                     eyes gleaming like the shiny steel

       of his Curtiss Jenny.

Dashing,

Handsome.

          This was my father,

veteran of the First World War.

           (and the Second).

     I want to know more

about him,

     but there are  so few letters.

All I have are

memories

of his stories

of France

 and the faraway places

in fairy tales he used to

  read to me before

   I went to sleep.

Left Side of Brain Throughts

Someone told me recently
that one of the requirements for
being a writer is unhappiness.
Unhappiness brings about
creativity
like the flowering of a lotus,
or gently falling rain,
or a whisper,
or a kiss.

On Meeting Marlon Brando at the Chapel Hill Library

The New Jersey accent is cool,
not to mention the plaid shirt,
grey hair, glasses, and jeans.
His manner is a little in-between
friendly and studious.

But helpful, yes, he answered my question.
"How far is it from Amherst to Brookline?
Do you think I'll have time
to see the home of Emily Dickinson?"

"Well, it's way over here,"
he replied, gesturing with both arms.
Half way across the state, apparently.

"Oh, you've been there?"
Yes, he had.  Even though he is from
New Jersey, home to Walt Whitman.
I've got to run.
But linger.
"Did you go to UNC?"

He did, not I.
Too many shots required,
like those for Hepititis C.
No, he doesn't have a library degree.
English, even better.
That means he appreciates poetry.

"So you live in Durham?  Where?"
"Downtown."  Me?  "Near Southpark Square."

Let the man take his break.
There is another place I have to be.
But let me see your face again, hear your voice,
you are beautiful to me.

No Words

No Words

can capture the sadness

of a mother carrying her baby

dead

                    since birth

                                                           either  balancing the infant

                                                       on her head

                                                                                   or pushing it forward
                                                                                                to the surface.

Not even Aphrodite
could breathe life into
the little corpse

deep mourning
sets in
as other members of the family
take turns
supporting the burden

we can only watch
in stunned silence
from a distant shore


https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0249/1083/files/JPod_072918_FLD_20180729_235500_000.mp3?5879655354628321978   (audio of grieving whales)

https://www.boston.com/news/animals/2018/07/30/orca-carries-dead-calf-for-week-during-deep-grieving?s_campaign=bcom%3Asocialflow%3Afacebook

Conciliatory Poem

It's hard to be a first grade teacher

when I notice this little girl falling asleep

at breakfast then later,

during reading class

she seemed so sad and aloof

and scared

that I gave her a prized possession

from my pocket

a prism edged with tiny stars

Havana

In Havana, the damas hang their laundry out like flags.

azules, negras, blancas, rojas --

tank tops and tee shirts with Che Guevara's face,
waving like banners of victory
Little girls' dresses one by one
hung up on the line to dry,
nearby, Papa's bar serves daiquiris, just the way he liked them.
White shirts like the ones he wore
hang row upon row on clotheslines.

I love the way  the damas hang out their laundry.
Not intending to create art.
They do anyway and in their way
welcome us to old Havana,
where you can still smell cigars and listen to
congas tap out a tropical dance.

Tyshon

Tyshon

Came in late for school that day

Deshelveled, hungry.

"Want a muffin?"

He lurched forward

and grabbed two,

before resting his head

on the desk.

He was a reject.

By the school system.

By his mother.

Kicked out of school for

hitting a teacher.

He was autistic,

but artistic.

Man, he could draw,

intricate designs

with pointed lines,

angles, and arrows.

Anyone could see he had talent.

"Crips and Bloods."

He claimed to be a Blood,

just like his twin.

I visited his house one time

when he started skipping school,

and once more,

when he was shot dead at 15.

His aunt looked stricken 

but bouyed by my presence.

I felt terrible that the school system

had left this boy behind,

but happy about

the last time he'd come

to class and I'd given him a hug.

In his casket, he looked

dignified, innocent,

in a brown suit and tie

that he could have designed himself.

Left behind

In so many ways.

Not one other teacher attended his funeral.

On My Walk Today

A bamboo patch,

a trail through the woods,

a baby in a bear snowsuit,

a memorial garden surrounded by stones,

a brook,

a temple,

a community center,

a school that teaches Hebrew,

new friends made,

life is good.

For Nikki

I thought of Nikki this morning
in church,
when she suddenly appeared.
"My daughter," I laughed,
giving her a hug.
Nikki's back and that is good.

I think of the other Nikki's who
have been part of my life.
A beloved tabby,
and the poet Nikki Giovanni,
who feels like a mother to me
She
can take even the most horrible moment,
like 911,
and bring meaning to it.

Her childhood memories take
me back to Knoxville, Tennessee,
and to Virginia,
to church picnics,
and jamborees, gospel
sings and bluegrass
and the long days of summer,

shimmering with hope and promise.

Coming Around

"It hath the primal eldest curse upon it,
A brother's murder."  Hamlet

You must have seen the folds of the sheet
over the corpse,
its feet peeking out beneath the whiteness,

the head turned to one side, as if asleep.
An ever widening pool of blood leaked
from the head wound,
creating a  pool of crimson that
kept spreading in the 82 degree heat,
that was typical of a summer in Ferguson.

"My son, my son!"  The father's pleas were futile,
as rough men kept him from approaching the scene.
He could scarcely take it in.  The heat, the heat
didn't let up
during the four long hours that the body
baked in the hot sun.

Who was this son?  This son from Ferguson?
This brother, this friend
whose voice didn't fit his body.  "A boy

in a man's body," is how they described him.
A little kid's voice in a man's body,

anxious about the future, just graduated with a GED,
and soon, off the trade school.
He was anxious about that, and so approached his friend.
"Dorian, man, I need to talk to you."
So off they headed, to the store,
to walk and talk.

"Musically inclined," "reserved," "with a
"passion for fashion."  His classmates liked how
he matched his shoelaces to his outfits.

"Lil Wayne,
video games,
smoking pot, known to be kind,
yearning for a better time.

A kid in a big man's body,

who should have been home watching "The Family Guy,"
or fixing things
instead of stealing Swisher Sweets.
For that he had to die?

Six shots, one to the head.
Guaranteed to have him dead.

But just to make sure, a
final, sacrificial stab wound from which
blood and water flowed that day on  Street.

The officer claimed to be in fear of his life,
"like a five year old cringing before the Incredible Hulk."
Man up, Warren!   You made a mistake, acted in haste.
The boy was unarmed.  You disgust me.  He didn't have to die.

Mike-Mike, Big Mike had a girlfriend he wanted to marry.
He loved to rap and make music.  He confided to his father,
"Someday the world's gonna know my name."

But not like this, Michael, not like this.
For the rest of us, our lives will be forever a part of Ferguson.

You Were There

You were there

when our father died

 and I thought my life was over.

I never cried.

You were there

at the white columned school
when I had to leave,

orphaned,

to live with you.

You were there to see me through.

You were there

when high waters came,

bringing water, and candles, and food,

and so many things to help us through.

You were there when I could have died

and didn't because my faith pulled me through.

You were there,

and You.

You were there when my heart was broken

over a lapse in judgement.

It's not a sin to be lonely,

is it?

You were there,

and You.

You were there, when I sold my house.

And moved to a new one.

When I lost my knee

and got a new one.

Yours was the last face I saw

that day,

and the first one I thought of 

this morning, the first of a New Year.

So fresh with promise.

So bright with sunshine.

And You.

You Didn't Have To

You didn't have to 

shoot heroin.

You said you never would do that.

Was it worth it?

I know you said you felt

happy afterward.

That it was the only thing that

took away your pain.

Your husband was right to come

get you from the sleazy pad

you were sharing with your

drug addled boyfriend.

You didn't have to sleep around.

Have sex with two guys in an alley down town.

No, you didn't have to

make that toxic choice.

Rough sex.

Enough sex

to last two life times.

No, you didn't have to do those things.

But I'm glad you survived.

And I'm wondering how you avoided addiction.

You are such a contradiction,

dear child,

You take communion now

by the rushing stream under the bridge.

You have redeemed yourself by telling your story.

It's ok.

Everyone makes mistakes.

Listening to the Warm

Listening to the warm

notes of a flute playing in 

the distance, while the

colors of morning skies 

sharpen my senses.

No Wasted Space

Thirty thousand dollars for a cemetery plot?
I think not.  That's money most people haven't got.

There's a better place than wasted space.
Anyway, the dead can't make a case
For their final resting place.

Since it's up to me,
I choose to be
Buried at sea.

Atlantic or Pacific?
I think I'll be specific.

Cape Charles or Cape Cod.
But I could also give a nod

to the Sitka bay,
since I cherish the day

when my son came to be
born in that place by the sea.

A King, a Prime Minister, and a General

I had a friend who served in the Second World War.

John got to see a King, a Prime Minister, 

and a General,

all on the same day.

"Mighty nice station you have here," said Churchill.

Rumor had it that he smoked seventeen cigars

    and drank a fifth of bourbon everyday.

"They say Eisenhower just wanted everyone to get along.

He shook hands with everyone of us.

That was pretty impressive for a nineteen year old,"

John once told me.   

"I'm not easily impressed these days," he would tell me.

But John, he was impressive.  I'd see him out walking

all over Tarboro,

from Bojangles

over to the hospital. 
He looked dashing in his
Greek fisherman's cap,
with his pipe and cane.

He recalled that during the war,
he carried a good luck piece,
a locket that belonged to
his girlfriend, Gloria,
just nineteen then.
Same age as Lauren Bacall,
who died recently at the age
of 89.
John and Gloria
were together sixty three years.

  

"Dynamic Possibilities": from Stuart Singer's Modern IV class at the American Dance Festival, 2014)

I.

The teacher

greets students by name.

The two Emmas,

Dubois,

Hannah,

Emmanual (from Montreal, originally from France),

then Kayla, Johnny, Ruth, Kay, Carolyn,

Dylan, Angela…

"And I'm Stuart.  How are you?"

He connects with each student

as class begins.

"Arms, pelvis, skull,

how do these parts harmonize?'

Conceptualize.

"Get closer to each other if you want

and look closer at this body.

Point the pelvis downward and notice 

a sense of energy.

Cultivate the long,

dynamic torso and think

about how it feels to connect your pelvis with

the floor."

The teacher lies straight down,

then thrusts one perfect leg into the air --whoosh!

"S-p-r-e-a-d...

s-p-r-e-a-d out…

no need to be touching

but it’s ok to fall asleep!"

Forty-three bodies flat on the floor.

Listening.

Silent.

Not judging.

Just paying attention,

letting go.

Listening to details

of wrist bones,

ribs,

smoothing out the curvature of the spine.

What does this mean to me?

Equality

of purpose.

Anatomy.

The body as a wonderful machine.

The teacher circulates,

then hesitates

by each dancer, to touch,

to correct, first asking

permission.

And I think of my yoga mat

and how with that,

I could participate,

and cycle my right leg out and feel

the weight of my femur,

and other body parts

that start

to ache in this kind of weather.

The exercise concludes.

The music ends.

II. 

Dancers on the floor again,

music begins,

and forty three bodies reach and extend,

right legs crossing over, bending,

curving, blending.

Their bodies work well.

Long bodies, satisfied to be 

here.

Now pelvises are on the floor.

Grounded.

Legs rise, then come down with

such force

that I shudder.

Legs pulsate like fish out of water,

and I wish

that I could do this!

Expanding, faster,

the piano chords rise,

reaching up to heaven,

then back down to the ocean's floor.

Feet start circling, then hands,

legs are shaking,

gelatinous and loose,

faster, 

climax,

relax,

and soar!

Let it out! Sigh.  Scream!

The music is magic.

Voices, percussion.

Evolution.

III. 

Jungle heat.

We sweat.

Bodies are wet.

Finally, a breeze

as the harmony starts.

Music from Africa,

drumbeats, with voices wailing.

It's all original.

Primeval,

bringing out animal instincts.

Power to the pelvis!

The teacher speaks:

"Find the tail bone on your partner.

Press in.

Now walk!"

It's a rapid walk through

unexplored territory.

With power and momentum,

these bodies

march,  propelled by the pressure

on their tailbones.

A Tlingit chant cries out 

above the sound of footsteps.

A coyote howls,

an eagle cries.

The drums get louder.

Run!

Celebrate!

Shout!

Scream!

Stop…

III.

Rest.

Run.

I concentrate.

And let my imagination flow.

Forty three dancers, fully wired,

watch as Emmanuel from France

demonstrates.

Stuart, impressed,

tells her she’s hired.

That’s it for today.

I stay

behind

And chat with the teacher.

Dance matters!

Students swarm him

with questions on technique

while I seek

to pull myself away,

back to the real world of traffic,

and cops and courses.

And a good book on

the history of dance by de Mille,

before tonight’s performance.