Fran Markover
From the Illustrated Field Guide
Markings are pedestrian by cardinal standards
The sparrows nicknamed little brown jobs
They are not robed for vespers, not stunning stars
even though their concert must begin at twilight
No soloists perform, just a choir, different sizes
Melospiza melodias not etched in bronze
but drawn so exactly in muted tans and gray
that painted branches sway with song, with
tchipping and sweetsweets for readers just like me,
tired after a day’s work, at home, light settling
onto eaves, over grillwork while canorous vines
tremble somewhere en masse, grace notes
that could waft from grids of brick and stone
This is what I picture when I turn the page─
the day lifting, the air darkening with feathers
A staff of wings
Tempo Rubato
for R. C. Williams, poet, 5/21/31- 12/26/15
I was struggling with your sudden death when a junco hit my window
Blank page
for the man in moonlight
holding his pen
I couldn’t find the bird until blue jays resting on the arbor vitae
began their shrieks, not of awakenings or for hunger but calls
of witness. The commotion roused my husband from a nap
Jade green through winter-kill where the still bird landed
Was it keening of blue jays my husband’s approach gloved hand
or pulses from the junco as it started to trill ruffle snow-brushed wings
Only then did the blue jays quiet the words flight cut time fermata
flutter before me lyrics of a song
Soft rime
shroud of lilacs
My hands lift to the sky
In the Garden with Emily
We wander, two poets, on fragrant paths.
She rustles like a flower, ruffled piqué,
upswept ribbons, white bonnet, whispers
cherry pie to the heliotrope she pinches.
I thank her for baby’s breath and hyacinth
in the nosegay, her note after my brother’s
funeral, unable are the loved to die. Ask─
how one ever writes well of hope or death.
Emily sighs, tugs a dandelion from yarrow
for the herbarium, points toward a hickory,
an orange flash almost hidden in boughs─
a 4:30 caroler, the oriole who sings before
neighbors awaken, sings, when morning’s
light reveals poet, early bird, inflorescence.
Thanks and Praises
the poster’s title, its joyous women
who uplift me with opening arms,
a whirl of red-blue-green dresses,
such large colors, a tiny spider,
another spinner, pressed between
the glass and paper. The artist
not knowing death would be spun
into dance. The spider’s largesse─
his delicate stay, the way he’s a
dark corsage on a pale skirt, part
of the sway, the gathering.
Fran Markover
I’ve practiced Tai Chi daily for the last forty years. When Waves Move Like Clouds or Snake Creeps Low, I let go of sorrow, fear, everyday problems. I never feel graceful but for fifteen minutes each morning, I’m a slow dancer or someone on a gentle walk. Nights, I meditate or do yoga positions, in class or by myself with a cat or two by my side.
Poetry-making is also part of a daily practice. My hope is that my poems hold rhythm, pause, space, themes nourished by breath-work, bodily awareness, mindfulness practice through the years.
I live in Ithaca, NY, where I work as a psychotherapist. I share my home and garden with my husband and rescue cat sisters. My poems have been published in journals including Rattle, Calyx, Able Muse, Earth’s Daughters, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Karamu, Spillway, among others. My chapbook History’s Trail was published by Finishing Line Press. I’ve been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and have been a poetry resident at the Constance Saltonstall Foundation for the arts.
