At Bear River I got to work with Dorianne Laux (who has been one of my favorite poets ever since I met her at the Walloon Lake Writer's Retreat in, I think, 2002) and completely disregard her instructions (not willfully, mind you), like when she asked us to bring a "memorable poem" to workshop. I totally meant to do this, but failed. But I was planning on bringing "Chorus" by Katharine Whitcomb, which I may have posted here before, but it's worth posting again.
Chorus
a man in Canada has the aurora borealis all rigged up
he tells the radio reporter that he engineers
and records sound in the universe
the northern lights clamor down at him
they hurl what he calls "hissing whistlers" at the earth
he says the chorus always sings to him in the wilderness
a cacophony of swooping colored wings
and maybe you do have to be in the right place
at the right time to hear what is being sung to you
for my painter friend Werner that was his bedroom
the night his apartment building in New York City burned
in those slowed-down moments when the smoke was thick as Jell-O
he knelt on the floor to get more air
but the smoke was coming up from between the boards
and he could not breathe
he said he heard a voice tell him
he could lie down then with his pet cat in his arms
there was nothing to fear and dying would be all right
or said the voice he could stand on his cold windowsill
five stories up from the street and dive across an eight-foot gap
headfirst through a plate glass window
dive into a lit portal in the building next door still holding his cat
and that is what he did
he jumped across back into our world
where he can tell us this story
and show us his shoulders scarred with his choice to live
and mostly we do want to live
it may be that no one is truly safe but it does not matter
the chorus is singing
and the songs they sizzled and hummed over the radio
brought the deep calm of Quetico to me again
when the sky rippled with lines of phosphorescent laundry
and voices on the wind sang arias so beautifully
voices of my grandmothers and great-grandmothers before them
when they reached over to me singing don't be afraid
and all those hosannas swam together
into the one music that sounds within everything
(Katharine Whitcomb, from Saints of South Dakota, 2000 Bluestem Press)
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