In honor of Madison Cloudfeather Nye
Somehow the voices twined around a young mind
encouraging gentle stanzas, open endings,
even in a Texas town where they wanted you
to testify before cashing a check. Heck with that, boys.
I’m heading out in my little gray boots, slim volumes
of poetry in my holster, William of Oregon, William of Maui,
drinking jasmine from an old fence. I’m finding a meadow,
children, dandelion puffs, scraps from a vintage notebook.
The double William of Paterson, New Jersey
helped keep us sane though our teachers
went crazy over that wheelbarrow.
Love it, then move on!
Riding a train north in England to the stoop
of another William’s cottage, sloped roof,
his sister’s purple-scented paper next to his,
high school memory loitering: our teacher
insisting his gloomy poem nearly led
to death. My classmates concurred,
not caring much whether some guy
leapt from a cliff long ago or not,
but I said, He grieves, but he is filled
with joy. In a strange voice
like a ringing bell, immeasurable joy, because
he grieves so much. Because he loves
so deeply all that he is seeing.
They stared at me.
I was never at home in that school.
Our teacher wanted everyone to get
the same thing from a poem.
Later home felt everywhere, radiant waters,
thistles, greenest hilltops dotted with sheep,
masses of tulips and geese, wandering William’s
intricate paths, pausing at every turn,
life stretching ahead, mountains of bliss
and searing sorrow for years to come.
They wrote it, we defended it,
it seemed joyous enough to know one could
love forever, carry on or stop right there,
and the power was yours.
