Three Poems
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Three Poems Catharine Savage Brosman
Accepted: 25 August 2020 # The National Association of Scholars 2020
Heart For years, her valves inflamed, she lay abed— rheumatic fever. Games and playmates, banned; no school; just lessons at her mother’s hand. At times, she must have wished that she were dead. There was no treatment then, no hope of cure, save rest. What irony: a child’s disease, already noted by Hippocrates. What recourse had she but endure, endure? She grew somehow, and managed to excel in several ways, despite a damaged lung. Her resolutions: always to stay young; at work, in love, in friendship, do it well. Above all, play. She gave it her whole heart. For seven years she’d thought of it as art.
Catharine Savage Brosman is professor emerita of French at Tulane University; [email protected]. She is also the author of Chained Tree, Chained Owls: Poems (Green Altar Books, 2020) and Mississippi Poets: A Literary Guide (University Press of Mississippi, 2020).
C.S. Brosman
Aglaonema A lovely genus, “Chinese Evergreen.” Mine’s of the mottled sort called Silver Bay —a little present from my friend Christine. It has, she noted, feuillage panaché, bicolored in this case. Set in a pot of yellow plastic, which it soon outgrew, transplanted neatly now, it takes its lot as happy, flourishing as if it knew it was admired. Don’t mock me out of hand: if plants emit an ultrasonic scream when injured; if a heavy-metal band makes rubber trees recoil, then it would seem they might respond to our affection, care, as to vibrations, touch; mimosas live quite differently, but on the common air and light, in sentience, as they take and give. Cells seen by an electron microscope, men on the moon, and soon perhaps on Mars: nothing’s so strange that we cannot have hope. We’ll harness messages among the stars, collect them, analyze and read their codes, send back replies in ours; we’ll find the sense in subtle signals proffered by green modes— great mysteries, and small, in confluence.
Three Poems
A Call from Porlock Oh, no, I haven’t taken opium, nor hashish. And not even alcohol, so early. But the man from Porlock’s come (or woman, this time) anyway—a call by telephone, a modern mode. “Hello, hello! I tried to get you Saturday.” (I did not answer then.) A vapid flow of talk ensues. “Let’s chat.” (Please, go away!) —A poem’s on my mind, words half in place. What can I say? It’s better to talk now and get it over, I suppose. I brace myself, take off my glasses; yet, somehow, the mood’s not right. She loves the theater, the ambiance. What shows she will attend, or did, the travel, dates—all such recur; directors, costumes, casting; with which friend; and where they’ll rendez-vous each night and dine; her memories of last year, when she met a famous actor. —I reply, “I’m fine,” when she inquires. It does no good to fret; just tune her out, or, rarely, say “Yes, yes.” Some forty minutes pass, with more details on plans and past performances. I guess I should not let myself go off the rails. To nudge her toward a closure, I rem
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