Sunday, April 30, 2017

Across The Knife Edge (poem)

Across The Knife Edge

Following the cold trail across the high country,
somewhere in front of us the other summit rises,
invisible in the icy windswept fog.
We must reach the safety of the other side
before the coming storm
reaches us.

Across the knife edge,
faster and faster we go
into the fog of the day.

Along the tumbled edge,
giant rocks make us twist and turn.
Some are hewn too large for us to step.
Faster and faster we go,
into the fog of the day,
into the invisible future.

Across the knife edge,
the path narrows as we climb,
but we don’t see it yet.
Why don’t we see it?
Hunting, hunting
for ground beneath our feet.
Will we stop or turn
before it falls away –
Why don’t we see it?
Hunting, hunting
for ground beneath our feet.

Across the knife edge,
into the fog of the day,
through the wind, ahead of the storm,
to the safety of the other side,
into the invisible future,
we race.

May 2014 North Andover, Mass.

Monday, April 17, 2017

From The Christening (poem)

From The Christening

Those who came before us
are not gone,
even though they rest today
in quiet fields of stone and flower.

Those we love who are gone
live in mind and heart,
their home,
alive in love’s power.

But more than this,
those who came before
and gave us life,
or read stories to us at a Sunday visit,
played games together at the family picnic,
gazed out the window with us during the storm –
arms around –
or held us at the christening,
still live I claim.

Look back through the lens of time.
Follow the unseen line of sight,
not my invention,
but one that science calls dimension.

This story tells of an unbroken line, a celestial strand,
a woven thread of strength eternal.
The eternal now.

The ones we love
are still as they were,
alive and strong,
though passed from our easy view.
They still move and breathe,
laugh and sing,
on that line of time,
as real as yesterday,
like friends who moved away
now living in another town.
But we’re the ones who moved.
Still, that strand is in our reach.

I feel the threads return and join,
connecting to the fabric here
that I now hold in hand,
this fabric of the gown passed down
from the christening.

April 2014  North Andover, Mass.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

here are some haiku / standing here looking at you / say kon'nichiwa

I wanted to share some haiku I wrote, but before I do, I wanted to start with a few by Japan's most renowned haiku poet, Matsuo Bashō, who lived from 1644 to 1694. These are translated by Jane Reichhold. Enjoy.

ah haru haru
yōinaru kana haru
to un nun

ah spring spring
how great is spring
and so on

haru kaze ni
fukidashi warau
hana mogana

spring winds
hoping the flowers burst
out in laughter

hatsu hana ni
inochi shichi jyū
go nen hodo

first blossoms
seeing them extends my life
seventy-five more years

my haiku about haiku

the words are loaded
in the poetic pistol they wait
bang! flowers appear!

simple only, so
around, it sees, it hears, so
in the moment, so

the haiku – not clear
a few words say what they say
everyone says what?

the black ink stands small
tries to fill the empty page
white space fills the rest

a poem
a suitcase of words
packed with brain, heart, and soul
ready for travel

Friday, October 28, 2016

My response to Dover Beach

One of my favorite poems is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. I hesitate to say this because it's such a downbeat poem. Oh my God, I swear, if Mr. Arnold had a pistol nearby when he completed it, it might have been all over.  In these latter days of an endless and endlessly downbeat election season, I can relate more than ever to the downbeat view of the human condition found in Dover Beach. "Darkling plain" indeed.

The poem is short, less than 40 lines, and very accessible. And yet it has so many layers and echoes for such a short poem. There's a good chance you read it in high school. It's called "the most anthologized poem in the English language." If you're not familiar with it, it's worth reading. Even if you've read it, it's worth re-discovering. Here it is:

I've been carrying this poem around in my head for a while now. The thing is, as beautiful as it is, and as evocative as it is, I couldn't disagree with it more. So in addition to the words of the poem, I carried THAT thought in my head for quite a while. Somehow, Mr. Arnold got it fundamentally - if beautifully - wrong.

Well, as I carried this thought around, something happened, as things do. This mulling turned into a poem - one that actually started out in response to something else - but somehow in the end became a response to Dover Beach. Here it is:

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Almost Whole (a poem)

Almost Whole

The sea runs tonight.
The moon is almost full.
Stand with me at the narrow straits,
where the Merrimack meets the tide.
Gaze across the bay, under the gibbous night,
watch at anchor, how the island rides.
Against the dark, it plumbs the deepening sea.
Breathe in the cool night-air, and look!
Even the wind on the water moves to the lunar pull!
Keeping her date, the moon rests on our shoulders.
Starlight gleams from a distant shore.
Moon-blanched rocks stand above the flood,
the Joppa Flats are gone. Salt-marsh birds rest in the reeds.
Tonight they hide, choosing to let the tide work its force.
Keeping her promise, on her ephemeris, the moon moves,
the waters rise, and our river changes course,
bearing in the salt, a salve for the wounded.
Tonight we receive the tide’s ephemeral and ageless balm.

In this long arrival of life, I am reached
by a tide that stands full at the strand.
The water lies full at my feet, cresting
where I stand, where I am, cresting the shore.
Good comes in, comes in, to me as to each,
retreats and then, calls out, have some more.
In this run, ebbs strife.
Good flows in, arriving, and arriving.
It is enough. I take, I sample, I store.

Tonight there is no retreat,
no gliding taking in the wash of the strand,
no draw of the tide, no grating roar.
Tonight the same salten sea rises within;
the same ocean river courses the inner shore.
It runs in this temple, in these freshets and veins.
Tonight it arrives, bearing the same cure.

I am not as wounded as I thought 
no knife to withdraw.
I am speechless, struck dumb to my shallow core
by the depth of the sea that surrounds.
The breath of the sea-air touches my face,
sea and stars go still; wind and water, no sound.
From afar, tide and moon in silent tune embrace.
I see no struggle, no pain, no sadness, no sorrow –
no need. The moon is almost full.

What if I am standing at the waters of Charon,
in range of his searching eye? The ferryman, ready on his raft,
ready with his constrictors, his leathers, his binds,
gliding by, on the dark river Styx, silent, his eye all hunger –
what if he found me with no want, no hunger, no need?
What if he turned downstream?
Tonight, the ferryman turns his eye,
and misses one.
Ready with his constrictors, he turns from me,
and I unwind what was taut.
The cord of discord is loosed, prevented, undone.
I have finally gone to school. I have finally learned
how to be untaught.
What I have is enough.
The night-air is sweet. The tide is full.
The darkling plain but reveals
the glimmering light of the stars.

October 2016, North Andover Mass.

Monday, September 5, 2016

De-versification, or news of my divestment from The Vintage Book Of Contemporary American Poetry

I watch your angels
dance on the head of a pin.
I wait for music.

When I play your verse,
angels dance; my heart stands still.
The shoe never drops.

September 2016  North Andover, Mass.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

The 5th of July - a poem

The 5th of July

On the day I was born,
my mom stood on the battlefield.
Not a woman for dramatic entrances,
and even though her doctor warned,
she went, she didn’t want to miss the tour.
She went to hear the old historian,
to stand amongst the crowd in the morning dew,
to stand in the blue and gray dawn,
feet hurting, waiting expectantly.

I listened as my mom retold,
in the voice of the woman guide,
words that carried us past the span of the living,
how we came to stand upon that field,
words that summoned the watch-fires
of a hundred circling camps.
In the mist, we felt the eyes of soldiers watching,
eyes that told of fateful lightning and swift sword.
Hearkening the sounds of battle to our ears,
I was there as the historian spoke.

No longer a field, but the place of a battle.
No longer a field, but the place of rest.
For some, all ended here.
No longer a field, but the place of victory
and defeat, paid the same, with lives and blood.
No longer a field, but now a place.
The historian spoke, as she pointed to the high ground,
“See the stones and granite markers on that crest.”
Resting stones and markers we saw on the hilltop,
as if in marching columns, they passed from our sight.
Unspoken, unsaid, but not unseen,
known at least by some,
these stones pave the road of freedom.

No longer a field, but a place to walk
in peace, from this day forward.
No longer a field, but a place to stand,
a place to stand and see one other,
a place to know,
to know we are brother and sister to one another,
brother and sister to those who rest on this field,
brother and sister bound by those who have gone before.

They fought on the 4th.
On that day, some laid down their task.
Their work brought us here.
Do we know
we were summoned by their call?
We stand on their field.
It’s the 5th of July.
They brought us this far, but could go no further.
The unfinished work is ours,
their unspoken call is heard.

Today is the 5th of July,
the day we were born.

Mark Bohrer
June 2016, North Andover Mass.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

A Door Opens (a poem for Mother's Day 2016)

A Door Opens

The bright day spills around the shades
drawn between the morning and the early afternoon.
In the darkened room,
the boy sits up on the bed,
naptime, tucked in, awake, waiting.
The door opens, a smiling face appears.
“See you later alligator.”
The face disappears, the door closes, a laugh is shared.
The game at the door is played between mother and son.
“After a while crocodile.”
Each open and close of the door
brings another laugh to share,
a smiling watch, an eager wait for more.
This is the playful game
of a mom and her five year old,
and how not to get a boy to take a nap.

There was love in your eyes
and you were looking at me.
I gazed back with the same playful joy,
knowing how much you cared about me
and how much I cared about you.
The door opens and closes.
Laughter and smiles are shared.
Playful joy and love fill the scene.

A look of joy across the room between mother and son
becomes a look across the years.
A gift you laid up for me now appears, fifty years on.
A gift you laid up for me is given today.
“See you later alligator.”
There was love in your eyes
and you were looking at me
with your gift across the years.
“After a while crocodile.”
When I was five and you were thirty-five,
with me at the start and you in the middle,
between the morning and the early afternoon,
with the bright day spilling around the shades,
a door opens between a mom and her boy.
So much love,
so much love yet to come.

Mark Bohrer
Mother’s Day 2016  North Andover, Mass.
Even though she passed away in 2006, just this spring my Mom gave me a gift. This is the poem about it. Happy Mother's Day to all moms everywhere.

Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Into The Mystic Pint (or My Ode to Guinness)

Into The Mystic Pint

Ah, The Guinness.
Another fine draw of the mystic pint.
Whether ‘tis nobler when poured in the glass,
or when poured down the throat,
‘tis a question to ponder indeed,
said one barrister to the other.
But ‘tis not such a conundrum
so worthy of debate at the bar
as long as there be
another bottle on the wall, of said bar.
Or even better
another keg in the cellar, of said bar.
And at said bar, what a fine judge you are!
Truly noble indeed!
Yes, thank you, dear friend,
I would take another draw.
‘Twould be a mistake to ponder further.

Ah, The Guinness!
Another fine draw of the mystic pint!
Magnificently we will flow
into the mystic indeed.

Mark Bohrer
January 2015  North Andover, Mass.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Short Poem Of The Week Feb 14 2016

The Good Pilot

The good pilot knows his plane
What it can do, what it can’t
Others might know takeoff power, rate of climb, service ceiling
He knows how to restart an engine that’s freezing
He knows how to crab in a cross wind
Knows how to land it dead stick

The good pilot knows his way round the sky
When to fly under clouds, when to turn back
Others might know albedo, isotherm or wind shear
The clouds he can read, he knows weather by feel
He knows how to navigate storms when they darken
Knows how to fly those dark valleys of heaven

The good pilot knows his route
To the home field today
No need for a chart, no flight plan is filed
He vectors on final, he pilots by heart
The instruction is done, no more touch and go’s
All his flight hours logged, at last returns to his love

At the home field she waits, sees the wheels kiss the ground
Takes in his last taxi and turn, her vigil ends at the gate
Patient during the post flight, magnetos check, engine off
She knows her man, was willing to wait
She opens the door as he flies through
Again they are one, no longer two
The good pilot is home

July 2014 Written in the air, somewhere over America
In memory of my dad, Joe Bohrer, Jr., the good pilot, and my mom, Ann, his love.

My mom passed away in 2006, and my dad in 2014. On the flight returning from my dad's funeral, with my son Nick sitting next to me, I wanted to write a poem for my Dad. As I wrote it, it turned into a love note to both of them.