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Thursday, November 21, 2019

SEVEN SONNETS BY DON YORTY

Don Yorty is a poet, educator, and garden activist living in New York City. He is the author of two previous poetry collections, A Few Swimmers Appear and Poet Laundromat (both from Philadelphia Eye & Ear), and he is included in Out of This World, An Anthology of the Poetry of the St. Mark’s Poetry Project, 1966– 1991. His novel What Night Forgets was published by Herodias Press in 2000. He blogs at donyorty.com: an archive of current art, his own writing, and work of other poets. A new book, Spring Sonnets, was published by Indolent Books in August.

Don sent me seven and asked me to choose five - but as they are all wonderful I go on with all seven. I am not even changing the numbers he has given them in his sequence as they too matter.

All rights for these poems rest solely with Don Yorty.




42

In an abandoned web the baby twined
with its tail held fast in the twisted strands
which I gently tugged at with careful hands
not wanting to break the delicate spine
of one so young. When I went in the house
my father said, “Your cat is killing snakes
in the cellar.” I went straight down to shake
that cat and say, “A snake is not a mouse.”
It doesnt help though. One was real little
like the one Id just saved and crawled away
but the other ones beautiful length lay
severed in three. I was glad it was still
but oh the upper part opened its jaws
and coiled into a howl that wouldnt close.

58

Is it necessary to rhyme, to be
nailed down to a certain philosophy?
Inside the walls of our skulls are we free?
What if we didnt have the eyes to see
or ears to hear a word? Would we feel thought
like sun on a cold day? The squirrel shows thought
scurrying up the bark where a smart moth
has thought to camouflage itself. I fought
with myself walking in the woods afraid
my thoughts were not that good and saw clouds float
in the sky above and the spring below
where bubble rose and broke into the air
as if some giant in the earth belched out its
breath after puffing up and saving it.

96

Where theres a will there is a way. After
her stroke my friend Bernadette could no
longer write by hand, but lo and behold
she could type. Her words continued after
all, books full, and since then she has written
one of my favorite poems. Into the world
the unborn baby pushes and uncurls.
Bernadette learned to walk and read even
the subtitles in La Muerte de un
Burocrato and La Ilusion
Viaja en Transvia. Real visions
come to poets who know we suffer and
die, yet pain can begin more than it ends
healing hurting bones and making thoughts mend.

98

Mother is cooking marinara sauce
for three of her grandchildren wholl soon go
back to college. Its a darned slow process.
At Uncle Al’s I picked each tomato
as ripe and as red as it gets. Poaching
peeling slicing Mom finally dumps them
in the pot gasping heavily struggling
to breathe, maintain her heavy self and
ease the necessary doing, chopping
onions and peppers. The garlic and dried
basil I shopped for are thrown in bringing
all of the spices bubbling side by side.
To condense taste to its essence simmer.
Mother proves Love can satisfy hunger.

99

Reading Vygotsky I want to write down
a word Ive not heard of—involution
Hmmm? Is it opposite evolution?—
and look it up later. Notebook open
I planned to jot it here but instead wrote
a sonnet about Mother and forgot
the word in marinara sauce. Sonnet
finished, returned to Vygotsky, the word
is still right there where it remains unknown.
I wont write it now as the solution
but will remind myself with a poem
adding words I dont know or want to know
better: concupiscence, algorithm
exegesis, satrap and amalgam.

107

I created the world with the first word
I spoke connecting myself with the real.
Then I could even close my eyes and feel
what Id set in motion with the first word
I had spoken. Perhaps it was water
or maybe a snake or the sun coming
through the branches. Right now Im creating
because I was told to by Bill Kushner
whose hands look like sandstone with sudden flecks 
of pink in them, asterisk fingertips
or constellations of stars. From his lips
he commands, “Write,” and my hand starts to, quick
blurred. Its difficult to see whats living.
Is it from the dead we get our bearings?


112

This day fits my unquiet spirit. It
is cold but not cold—No, actually
it is. Still the pond melts. You cannot see
the fish. Cant skate or swim in it. And it
is raining ice. Cant take a walk. Im sad.
Help Dad stack logs he cut last year and split
dried out and ready to be lit. Ill sit
by the fire and read Hawthorne instead, glad
at the thought of it. Glad too the crows move
on the snow, peck through all the garbage Dad
left them this morning. ¡Feliz Navidad!
Joyeux Noël. Cake! Shrimp shells! Caw! Caw! Who
knows the words to articulate the we
and excite the good will in us and peace?


Next up is Santosh Bakaya, then to be followed by Daipayan Nair, Jagari Mukherjee, Aakriti Kuntal and others.

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