For Us To Remember

On Memorial Day

Lilies of the Valley, 1916 ~ Marc Chagall
Opening the Envelope of the World
by Alice Price

When it is dark, we return
to our young streets; birds
sleep in the branches
of our years; we follow

the road past our house;
the light is on; a dog
sleeps on the porch;
music plays inside us;

we pursue it across
summer and the the long
winter. The road is
there for us to follow,

and the light on
for us to remember.

In the next poem, when I read Price's description
of the escape through air, sun, cloud . . .
on toward the "lost island" and the "prairie sea"
I hear in my mind that tender tune sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary
(listen here, complete with Monet slideshow):

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea,
I sail in you, you sail in me

The stream sings it to the river,
the river sings it to the sea
The sea sings it to the boat
that carries you and me

Chorus

The boat we are sailing in
was built by many hands
And the sea we are sailing on,
it touches every land

Chorus

So with our hopes we set the sails
And face the winds once more
And with our hearts we chart the waters
never sailed before

Somos el barco, somos el mar,
Yo navego en ti, tu navegas en mi
We are the boat, we are the sea,
I sail in you, you sail in me

Words & music by Lorre Wyatt
A Fable Bursts Free
by Alice Price

We return to our house; the Indian
sleeps in his grandfather's cradle;
there is the cadence of rock
rolling over the long hill;

a dog barks beneath the willow.
We unravel into a skein of geese
weaving above the land's parabola
of shore. Without artifice, our words

come, legacies of the South and North,
a construct of our generation.
We escape through a portal of air,
a gate of the sun. We go without

hesitation through brazen clouds
forming seasons; we sail, once
and for all, toward
the lost island and the prairie sea.

"Opening the Envelope" & "Fable" by Alice Price, 1927 - 2009
from her book Our Dismembered Shadow

Charlotte Stewart, Germaine Greer, Alice Price, Susan Hastings
~ eating cake and reading manuscripts ~
at the Tulsa Center for Women's Studies, 1982

Time Traveler

The dates on their headstones
reveal that even in their graves
they grow older year by year
just as we do. They are all still with us.
We are all going in the same direction.

from the poem "Memorial Day"
by Ernest Sandeen

Willard M. Carriker, 1970s
A year ago, in observance of my father's birthday (18 July 1923), I wrote a post concerning Tennessee Williams' poem "The Summer Belvedere," including a footnote explaining that on "the day he died (Saturday, 27 June, 1987) we all watched Cat On A Hot Tin Roof that evening on TV. This was before the days of movie rentals, so it's not as if we planned or chose it; it's just what happened to be on. Although my dad's personality was nothing like the character of Big Daddy, we were all kind of mesmerized by the appropriateness of it." (See also my previous posts from "Father's Day" 2010 & "My Father's Birthday" 2010).

Even though I've never been one to put much stock in dreams or remember mine or analyze them or anything like that, a few years ago, I had an unforgettable dream in which my dad comes to a school picnic, wearing a white linen suit and Panama hat -- not like anything I ever saw him wear in real life -- with a camera around his neck -- again, nothing I ever saw my dad do. He looks like a tourist, which I guess is the point, as if he has traveled back from the afterlife.

In the dream, the school kids are all playing and the parents are sitting at picnic tables. When I see my dad come into the park, I say to one of the other parents, "Look, there's my dad." She says, "He can sit with us!" I say, as if it's just a minor setback, "Well, I have to tell you, he's no longer living." And she says, "Oh, that's okay. Tell him to come on over anyway," as if it doesn't matter in the least -- living or dead, all are welcome!

I've often felt sad that my father died before my boys were born; so what I want to do next in the dream is show him which of the children are Ben and Sam so that he can meet them, but when I look across the park, I see that he already has them standing side by side and is taking their photograph! That's when I realize, in the dream, that he already knows who they are! At that point, I woke up and, in real life, felt the same certainty.

I've shared this story with a few friends, one of whom pointed out that perhaps my father's uncharacteristic outfit was his way of saying, "Kitti would never pull this outfit out of her imagination for me, so I'll wear this. Just to let her know." I loved that interpretation, for truly, what I experienced that night did not feel like a dream from within so much as a visitation from without, a surprising, comforting visit from a time traveler.

I've had this same sensation only a couple of other times in my life; but I'll save those stories for another post. For now, Happy 89th Birthday, Dad!

Poems for Memorial Day

Memorial Day Service at Sunnyside Cemetery
Caney, Kansas
New Post for the 28th on

The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker

Poems for Memorial Day
Headstone For My Parents
in Sunnyside Cemetery ~ Caney, Kansas

#1: Memorial Day

On this day every year
our dead afflict us with
a kind of solemn astonishment
at how close to us they remain.

The dates on their headstones
reveal that even in their graves
they grow older year by year
just as we do. They are all still with us.
We are all going in the same direction.

from the Collected Poems
of Ernest Sandeen (1908 - 1997)
Notre Dame Professor and Poet

For this poem and more
see today's Fortnightly Post
"Poems for Memorial Day"
and from awhile back
"Day of the Dead"