Evening at the Exhibit (resulting in a poem)

Waterways                           11/6/2014

Slightly frumpy, she walked to the bus

and bought a senior discount ticket

determined to scratch the surface of

her everyday life

which was really fine, after all,

but not artful.

She used to wear high heels and skirts

going into town as a girl

and toss scarves and book bags

over her shoulder

and sometimes carry her

paisley art portfolio

confidently.

 

The bus routes changed over the years

and now she debarked

uncertain

as to where she really was

and where she was going

and wondering if she wasn't just a little silly

to leave home without supper

all for some Art.

The flyer said Calligraphy ~

she knew about that, or at least she used to ~

and Poetry ~ well,

sometimes it sang to her,

so here she was

in the darkened streets

looking for a song.

The street lights glowed

and golden leaves trembled

under the black sky.

A voice spoke behind her,

over her shoulder,

startlingly,

causing her steps to quicken

toward the gallery.

The tired feet, the overcoat,

the shoulder bag:

she wanted to shed them all

on the marble floor and

cool her face against the glass

of what might have been.

 

The river of italicized words

eddied around her

and flowed over and through

creating whirlpools around the sticks

she had been caught on.

Mysteries of the deep

became translucent:

Time, and Aging,

Unity and Separateness

and she

drifted downstream

in abandon.

Thus storm-tossed and wind blown

she traveled home by bus

not seeing out the window

but shining inside

just a bit

with the phosphorescence

of having stepped into eternity

for a moment,

cupping her mind against a draft

that would snuff out

her flickering candle.

Hollace Lindsay Chandler, 11-6-2014

 

 

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Credits: Poetry by William Stafford, calligraphy by members of the Portland Society of Calligraphers in honor of the 100th birthday of William Stafford, a former Oregon poet laureate, hosted by The Library Foundation.