Tonight there was, like then
a gilded room with
two grand staircases
this one on a tv screen
the swish of silk and gardenias
turning through candlelight
time waiting a beat
for their smiles to sail by
And you were gone
my dearest friend,
when I wanted us to
remind each other of
waltzing with our beaux
dark haired young blades
in decorations and tails
before you all began
to leave, one by one
and me alone to remember
for you
For Lisa Young Donely
Every time I came back
it was to stand surrounded
by the square front hall
oak and lemon smelling
Metal shaded lamps
to draw the eye at night
Orange tiger lilies bracketing
moss glazed fire place tiles
The Parlor door open
direct afternoon light
chased by muffled gray
on humid summer days
The Green Painting waiting
open armed on the far wall
above a crack lacquered
roll top desk
It always took me further
into its own dream world
of fog, a stream dividing
the marsh edge to edge
The blackened green
of pine and cypress arms
rooted in celadon grass
no bump elbowed woods
The artist had watched
smiling when my grandmother
first saw the canvas and
took it wet from the easel
Thanks tossed back
she walked out the door
into the mist blocked morning
off home to hang it for me
see each forward step
my own not for another
true gift of friendship
____________________________
The way forward for a friend sometimes seems clear to me, but not for them. The hard thing is to step back, find the wisdom to make changes in my own life, and let them work it out. They already know that I care.
there is no more fog
and I am soaring
through these brilliant stars
above an open sea,
memory reclaimed at last.
even as I leave you,
going on alone for now,
winglike glowing tendrils
wrap me in their light
and warmth, strands
of our shared time
that can never break.
there will always be
a part of me alive,
held in your
hearts, or seen
among the trees
joy fanned by wagging dogs,
an artist’s brush,
the feel of things well built,
soil deep tilled,
good stories told,
the pop of corks,
sure handed trimming
of a wind filled sail,
upright honor, honesty,
deep rooted, long felt love.
even as the world around me
faded for a time,
and I seemed lost,
a quiet spark lived
in my soul, fanned
by the breath of love,
my anchor in this final storm,
and in its light
I knew you all.
___________________________________
for William Eastman Janes, a cherished friend who set sail and left us this morning. crabtown won’t be the same without you Bill. vaya con dios.
meeting,
they embraced,
communed with joy
sharp fueled
minds on fire,
souls exposed,
restraint forgotten
for a moment
then too soon
time led them home,
separating, leaving
fertile embers
_______________________________
two days is not enough to spend with like minds. a shortling for a chilly sunday.
precious drops of rain
rest in a scoop,
their surface
flinging hints of
life collected there
back to observant eyes,
their mass a seamless joining.
there is no certainty
of friendship as we meet,
no formula to join
both like and opposite
to make a whole.
recognition, kindred
souls, kindness
melding without seam,
like bits of nurture
from the sky,
these form a precious bond,
only if we allow ourselves
a look, a breath,
and see its landing place
___________________________________
friendship often seems a purely random thing, but it is necessary to be open to it, wherever it is found. sometimes it presents itself smack in our face, not to be ignored. this poem is for two dear friends I have known for but a year and yet forever, both Deborahs, who celebrate their birthdays this month.
The photo shows my godmother, Anne Hull (left) and my grandmother, Mary Howe, circa 1920. They were both pianists and composers, and performed together as a piano duo from 1912 until 1935. They met at the Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore in 1905, when my grandmother was studying piano with Ernest Hutchinson. She later returned to the Peabody (with the unequivocal support of her husband, my grandfather) to study composition with Gustav Strube, gaining her diploma with high marks in 1922. She was active musically until the early 1960s, an internationally recognized composer, and a founder of the National Symphony.
Anne was studying for an Artist’s Diploma and Teaching Certificate. She had a rich musical life, never married, teaching first at The Institute of Musical Art in New York, and later The Juilliard Graduate School. Retiring in 1968 at the age of 80 she left New York to live in the Algarve, and shared a house with the conductor William Strickland.
Friends for the rest of their lives, they did extraordinary things in a world that sometimes considered them dilettantes, and not to be taken seriously.
My grandmother’s unequivocal take on being a woman composer, circa 1950:
“Women composers should be played more than they are. I don’t think conductors have a prejudice against women composers now. But no one puts women writers or women painters in a class any more and they still do with women composers. I know I considered it a handicap to be a woman when I started composing. I’m not a feminist. But I think I would have gotten along faster if I’d been a man.”
I generally admire her pieces, and think her art songs were her strongest. She knew many poets, and read poetry voraciously. Her friendship with the poet Elinor Wylie, whom she met during an early stay at the MacDowell Colony, is a story in itself (a particular favorite of mine is her setting of Wylie’s poem “When I Died in Berners Street”).
Life With Horace 