2011 Poems
September
thru
December
2011 Poems September thru December
I’m pointing at you! Print this poem only
You there standing in the shadow
of that big mistake
you the quarterback who just threw
your third interception
you the father kicking yourself
for being so nasty to your son
who just dropped the milk.
You fill in the blank.
Where did you learn
to love being stuck in the mud
of your every mistake
so rutted
you get a perverse pleasure
in that brown vapor
unable to draw a full breath?
You fill in the blank.
Maybe you need to go back
to kindergarten
where learning is fun
and each goof brings a giggle
a flag waving or a friend saying
here's something else
to learn.
You fill in the blank.
Can you leave those clotted boots in the mud
nod at your flub
step out looking around
for the next chance
to try something new
to be kind to those who err
especially you?
I'm pointing at me.
Written 10-9-11
​
Measure of Light Print this poem only
This dark path is large in my past.
An anchor
gargantuan
rust-crusted and scarred
dropped from my bobbing boat
falls too many fathoms
for my rope.
My shaking vessel lurches,
about to founder.
From the far reaches,
a deep drum, a distant boom
in my inner ear
tries to wake me.
Umber shadows
black oaks arise from the earth
dark bodies lean toward my path
dripping fingers
pointing down as if to say:
Pause here a moment.
Bring your scattered mind
back to this place
where you ran
where you began.
Linger here.
Feel the warm mud
folding around your feet
sink into your roots.
Find here the measure of light
you’ve been seeking.
Author’s Note: This poem is inspired by the George Rodrigue painting, The Baton Rouge Oak, pictured above. According to Wendy Rodrigue in her blog Musings of an Artist’s Wife, as Rodrigue was seeking his own unique artistic expression, he started painting trees and landscapes from his native Cajun Louisiana. He was asked about this painting and its name, and he said that, “it was the tree and its relationship to its surroundings that stood out to him.”
When I first saw this painting on Wendy’s wonderful blog, it was as if it reached out from the computer screen and took hold in my heart. I had to write a poem about it. As I looked at the painting and noted some of its details, its meaning for my own journey emerged in this poem. I was born in Baton Rouge and my roots go deep into southern Louisiana where my mother (Inez Durand Currier) was born and raised and where many of my cousins now live and love.
I am grateful to George and Wendy Rodrigue for helping me navigate the path from my past to my present and into the light and for their permission to use this image here.
Written 11-8-11
Poor Sparrows Print this poem only
It is cold and bleak today
rain soaked.
Poor birds,
so afraid and alert.
the feeder restocked with seed
what a feast
good day to be a sparrow
poor thing behind the glaze
cooped and confined
his gaze so empty of flight
But what is being inside on this cold day?
Secure in this heated space?
The cold corners.
The dark passages
like lava tubes once alive with fire
now empty and echoing
in shallow breaths
thudding of wounds
still raw with feeling.
Not so good
being inside.
Written 12-27-11
Stalactites Print this poem only
His ties hang in his closet
stalactites made drip by drip
of dressing, driving, thriving
in the rooms where he made his mark.
Casting with penlights in the dark
opening his mouth
to open their minds.
Dreaming drip by drip
some residue would pass
into their futures.
Now in the eye of his mind
he finds clear plastic boxes
filled with books and files.
Titles of his miles
already dust
being swept away by the custodians
of the next generation.
He wanders in the haze
of his afterward days
bumping into tables
losing his balance
melting into softness
of easy chairs
in the downstairs
of his next walkabout.
Through the marsh of his anger
he searches for that one thing
of import to talk about
a poem, a pear,
a berry for the ear
of someone
who hears
and speaks
the years
of his language.
Author’s Note: I retired from 40 years of teaching on 8-31-11
​
Written 9-14-11
To Forget Print this poem only
“Your poem may mean something to you
but it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
At first I reasoned it away:
It doesn’t rhyme so he doesn’t get it
but later it appeared as a sting
its venom circulating, percolating
the usual suspects in play:
“That thoughtless clod!” “Ignorant bastard.”
It was a hook lodged inside my darkness
each rumbling recall pulling me under.
Then I remembered what grandma said:
“Some things are best forgotten.”
This was a rock to drop off the cliff
into that fine fading mist of my memory.
The next time I rehearse a hurt
and feel the heat rising, maybe I’ll remember
to forget.
"To Forget," Copyright 2011 by Glenn Currier
Written 10-3-11
Waiter Print this poem only
My fork is poised ,
hashbrowns and sausage
now oranged with yolk
wait for my first bite.
“Pancakes are cooking
sorry you have to wait.”
At the next-door table
her eyes move here and there
without focusing.
Hoping I won’t notice her two dumb guys
with their smart phones
ignoring her
as she speaks
sorry she has to wait.
At another table
he stands pen and pad in hand
trying to wait easy over their decision:
scrambled or omelet
coffee or milk
sausage or bacon
sorry he has to wait.
One of my great quests-
learning to be
in traffic
easy over
not roasting
in line for mine
not sorry
to be a waiter.
Written 10-3-11
