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Diane Wakoski not only taught me about writing poems, she helped me excavate the pieces of my religious past. Last week thirteen of Diane's former students read tributes to her in a reading celebrating her and 35 years as Poet-in-Residence at my university upon her retirement. I wrote this poem a couple of months ago for the occasion and read it to her at Thursday's event as she sat in the front row. The title is an allusion to Diane's poem "Thanking My Mother for Piano Lessons". . .
I want to thank
my mother for working and always paying for
my piano lessons
before she paid the Bank of America loan
or bought the groceries
or had our old rattling Ford repaired. (excerpt from Wakoski's poem)
My poem is a palindrome, and in this case, at the middle the lines repeat in reverse order. (Palindromes can also repeat words or letters in reverse, as in the sentence, "Madam, I'm Adam.") If you are not familiar with the Greek myths of Persephone and Demeter (Proserpine and Ceres in Roman mythology), and of Orpheus and Eurydice, you can link to them in the names. To read about Diane Wakoski's important place in American poetry, go to the Poetry Foundation's page about her here.
Thanking Diane Wakoski for Poetry LessonsIs it the pomegranate juice you pour
from an earthen pitcher at your table
that draws me into this world of dark fruits
my mother hid from me?
I leave her and the hymned piano lessons,
in a missionary field of corn,
and you, Poetry, appear like Charon
ferrying me across the Hudson.
Even after death she, like Demeter
and Orpheus, searches for me among sepulchers of jazz,
but I am innocent in these tombs of joy!
I crave cigarette torches in dark tunnels
where little deaths are a relief from high heavens.
Where little deaths are a relief from high heavens,
I crave cigarette torches in dark tunnels
but I am innocent in these tombs of joy,
and Orpheus searches for me among sepulchers of jazz,
even after death, like Demeter,
ferrying me across the Hudson,
and you, Poetry, appear like Charon
in a missionary field of corn.
I leave her and the hymned piano lessons.
My mother hid from me.
That draws me into this world of dark fruits
from an earthen pitcher at your table.
Is it pomegranate juice you pour?
Listen to a podcast of this poem here.
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