September 2020 Poetry Matters!

Beginning in March of 2020, shortly after we began to shelter in place due to COVID-19, Clark County Poet Laureate Heather Lang-Cassera began a collaborative Nevada community poem. Any Nevada poet interested was invited to join and assigned 24-hours within which they could contribute approximately two to eight lines of poetry responding to or jumping from the previous poet’s stanza. More than forty poets contributed, and the following was the result.

These stanzas have been read out loud by Ms. AyeVee and Heather Lang-Cassera, both of whom are Nevada Humanities Poetry Matters! hosts.

A Nevada Collaborative Poem      
—written while sheltering in place

We lift our hands toward the cloudy
desert sky, letting so many somethings
slip between our fingertips.
I am here for you, my loves.

Even if I cannot ease your descent.
The propeller seed takes an erratic path,
whirling madness in tight concentric
coils. It seeks groundwater.

The earth no longer crying,
rain bringing in new life the dirt following suit,
‘tis the season for change,
better or worse the lessons are learned,
the bright somber eyes fill with hope.

Bright yellow are the daffodils.
So small and elegant, the bluebell flowers.

Darting fast are the birds’ bills.
So bright and diligent, these local flyers,
How they soar above, so high, so high
Before dipping, again, so low, so low.

I would ride them open mouthed
taste the colors of winds
that sing through their wings
Soprano at the lift, so high so high
Basso as they land, so low, so low.

Like the low byte of a signed integer,
I am constrained by 255.
A bit is alone but
4 bits is a nibble, and 2 nibbles, a byte.
Two bytes make a word—not so constrained after all.

The desert milkweed holds
silk-spun tents—dirt lungs and hospitality.
She keeps fits of Canyon caterpillars in communal
nests, for a moment, you do not remember—
There are 12 million lights on Fremont Street,
neon needs nibbles to fever.
You forget the panic spasm, blades of empty
spiky nothing, no glitter in the gulch.

And here we sit,
a sliver of light against a canyon of darkness
Las Vegas Boulevard rests easy underneath
a starry blanket.
Moonlit confessions as we stare at our computer screens
catch the quiver of our brows
Mouths agape at "the next"
We all wonder about tomorrow

In the morning I have no clue,
I am tired I am bored,
the law won't let me have my friends,
technology is the only thing we can communicate with,
the only place we can go is in our books,
filled with excitement I dive through chapter after chapter.

We've always practiced social distance
in the things we dare not say,
but now we find more sterile methods,
estranging every day.
Perhaps this is the broken middle,
the beginning of the close,
a futile effort in forgetting
what everybody knows.

Though we ebb away to flame crest of the sea
‘Tis our nature to revive not wreck all that be.
Appetite to create, waters spiral ashore
A cold cutting hunger to cry out ‘encore’!
Dim moonlight and dissonant melody rise,
Deep fathoms weigh on earth’s core tonight.
Held on her lap we rest light as a feather
Hear her coasts whisper, “Please, stay forever.”

At water’s edge, dispensing with I, we merged
into one body — luminous, large, unafraid.
Sealed inside coronas of mystery, we remember
where our poetic faith resides, where our disbelief hangs,
remember that we were butterflies once,
in Nikola Tesla’s studio, flitting in the blue glow
of St. Elmo’s fire, arcing toward this future
where we now reside, alone together.

As a child you pressed your palms
against your eyes until you could see
the fiery blue light. Sometimes in the dark
you wondered if this would be the time
it wouldn’t work. You kept still, looking
for what would come forward. Now,
you press your palms tighter and ask
memory to intercede.

Memory answers
with a different light,
yelloworangegold,
like sun seeping through
your eyelids, but rising
from your ribcage, welling
to your throat.

Build this palace;
hold each brick and give it
name, color, body
position, movement.
It is you, this crooked dawn⎯
and tomorrow will be
arranged again.

Today is the tomorrow
of yesterday’s creation
a bold, imperfect experiment teetering
on the brink of an unknown destination.
A fleeting moment in an illusion untold
save for the poets whose world these words now mold.

The poets will write
Words which may be raw
Some which may lay bleeding
Against a thumping heart of a small city
Will tell of a strange and scary chapter
In which we did not isolate our hearts
Instead we chose to join spirits
Creating unity through pain

Pain yields growth,
and growth yields change.
Though change yields fear,
PAUSE.
Understand why you’re here.
Go outside: take a walk.
Quiet your mind: love yourself.
Feel, be present, aware, alive: smile, if just for a time.

The rich will be fine: they have a plan, mon frere,
"life's been fair."
But make no mistake: You cannot be prepared
to be spared.
Was there e’er a time: You lost sleep and care
from being scared?

Oh, you can huddle safely in your box
but fear will walk
these empty streets: our oldest, deepest
plague. I see
his leavings down every alley, for of course
he never stops—
he’s far too pressed for time to wait
and speak with me.

The silence of isolation brings everybody to the
worldwide web
We all run to the thing we are enslaved to
Privately in fear
No more unitedness
We do not stand as a nation anymore
We are even afraid of the person in the grocery store
Individualism is the trend

Isolation.
Who am I in the silence?
Staring into my own eyes
for the first time, in a long time.
No masks here.
Nowhere to run to anymore.
Just mirrors, empty streets & a lonely fog.
Who am I after the fall?

Trends don't last
This too shall
Become past
Fleeting memories
Or vivid dreams
Is this real
Or is it
Collective sleep story

Earth shares her
Endurances
Pink moon rises
and sets
Sages ponder
Form and Emptiness
as this new balance
Makes a shift.

Budding leaves look greener
Rain keeps cleansing
Washing away toxic tempers
Lavender and rose sunset clouds
Float through the Mojave
Like cotton ball tumbleweeds.

People ask: what use is desert? as if blind
monoliths looming near ancient waters,
the smell of wet sage in the afternoon,
and the thrill of actually finding life,
somehow, in the midst of every stranger’s
go-to image of nothing, aren’t answer enough.   

Answers from a precipice do not come easily:
People ask & ask, echoes cross canyons & valleys:           
A desert does not thirst, does not want?                         
[hungry as human,                                     
tied blind to time-space]
People we do not know ask:
Life, is it enough,             
such beauty sparing no one.

Hearing nothing… waiting for….what???
Silence?
An echo is a nothing but that moment our brain breathes while our breath continues on into abyss
I miss
I miss the times that you said nothing letting our bodies move
Letting your breath speak volumes higher than 11
Higher than the voice that whispers, Hello there
Hi,
Have you ever wondered what the moon taste like?
She ask me after wondering if our echo is just another us in a different time that figured it out before we
learned how powerful I know you is

After I learned how powerful me is,
Me, in the epicenter of burning flames as you were
pulled from me
In quelled seas as you rest against my bosom
togetherness bound blood and heart, or unbound by both.
You radiate through me, melt the ice
in my lungs, you slow my heart to imperceptible
Watch my soul in the midst, you know, unknow, you burn, freeze
into me, whom you made: mother.

A wave is a momentary monument.
I marvel at its height
then its full strength falls on me.
Who brings forth life, yours and mine;
The peak of water, the mountain reduced to a spray of mist.
After shrieks and fits, after awakening—
your small body lies across my arms,
I speak a name over you, as another did before me.

With our names breathed out like spells, magic
in our blood, we change what we touch, forget
Only to remember;
Become anonymous like a windchill
Skimming over skin.

Attuned to nature’s rhythms, we grow
lacy-rooted fingers, bury them in soil
of understories, written on fallen leaves.
Bent from wind, tattooed by lightning,
we bear witness.

Judged by a forest of our peers
We drink the rain while sunshine deliberates
Found guilty of wilderness
Squirrel heads, high and proud
Walking the wooded mile
To serve their organic sentence

To drink the rain
To serve the sentence
Or stanza or simile or
To squirrel away hubris
While holding fair pride

We drop onto the hard concrete bench,
ducks splash and quack in the shiny pond.
Willows sway above our heads,
as the sun rays rumba upon your long auburn hair.

Wilting in a molten summer,
“Good Will,” muse follows another way
apple, by hallowed be thy name
To redeem this lake-side manor,
live with the cellar
drink the runoff
“And…
How would you say the word ‘catharsis’”?

I would say “catharsis” with
respect. A wild ease, it requires
a wind that scours, a wave
that rinses clean. All that fevered fear
gathers in muscles and blood. It seeks arpeggios
from strong fingers on keys
like lattice boned wings seek bursts
of flight

And afterwards, calm. And afterwards comes
the silent crackle of lightning that blinds and illumines
the unblinking eye, dilated by the soundless calm.
How strange, the everyday. How strange, after
the exhausting last monologue, the actor engaged
in chit-chat off-stage is struck by no screaming,
no wrath, no confession, the beautiful breath
drawn after the drama has come to its end.

We exit the theater into a street-swarm of faces, some masked
for duplicity, others harboring fantasies of survival, of anonymity, seeking
a balm, striving to cling with nameless passion, like a passive barnacle
upon a riotous metropolis waiting to be brushed into history's egalitarian
dustbin, to be plucked from the leaden masses and labeled "gold"
under God's exquisite monocle. But a terrifying voice bubbles up
from the muddled broth dolloped into the bowl of our lives,
a voice of righteous hunger saying No more gruel. From now on
I kiss the bosom of the loveliest angel. The voice is our own.

This whisper of peace we believed was ours split the frayed wing,
yanked us out of a Twilight Zone sleep-eating, dragon in the mirror
siren screams blast echoes from a forgotten conch, hum through the bone
hum through this nightmare hum on once-truths mangled.
Yes, it was me, Alchemy, clash and burn with the shrill spill, fire-breath penetrates
the cracked brick, splayed crumbs, shattered plates tendering chaos, a cyclone
thrust us face naked at multidirectional crossroads, arrows full spin daggers
dangle the spiked edge, prickly cough a rain that stole our voice and parade.

Intimations of tranquility lie at our core pulling us past mere hope
In a flash things change—diapirs do not hum but burst suddenly into the open air, violently
Icarus meets Mr. Element in Wonderland, and wings tattered between two suns must fall
Our philosophers have been stoned over at Maryjane’s place, brains dissevered too long
That the enormous chord is fractured beyond recognition—it’s only an illusion
You cannot choose a path by throwing your cards in the fire—
Hum a tune of beauty as you go south to the wasteland
Meditate upon your destiny—own the power of your ability to choose

###

An Index First Lines     
in the order they appear within the poem

We lift our hands toward the cloudy, Heather Lang-Cassera

Even if I cannot ease your descent, Emilee Wirshing

The earth no longer crying, Melanie Grace Munsell

Bright yellow are the daffodils, Julie Lang

Darting fast are the birds’ bills, Shane BorzaI

would ride them open mouthed, Charlene Stegman Moskal

Like the low byte of a signed integer, Michael Cassera

The desert milkweed holds, Jennifer Battisti

And here we sit, Nathan Say

In the morning I have no clue, Basil Munsell

We’ve always practices social distance, Simon Hunt

Though we ebb away to flame crest of the sea, Sara Paye

At water’s edge, dispensing with I, we merged, Nancy Gott

As a child you pressed your palms, Angela M. Brommel

Memory answers, Gayle Brandeis

Build this palace, Teri Vela

Today is the tomorrow, Tami Belt

The poets will write, Brittany Cerna-Madrid

Pain yields growth, Rosalie Spear

The rich will be fine: they have a plan, mon frere, Shahab Zargari

Oh, you can huddle safely in your box, Kurt Rasmussen

The silence of isolation brings everybody to the worldwide web, Dani Dinlocker-Santiago

Isolation, Ms. AyeVee

Trends don’t last, Ana Jimenez

Earth shares her, Vivian Olds

Budding leaves look greener, Drew Seevers

People ask: what use is desert? as if blind, Garnet Sanford

Answers from a precipice do not come easily, Autumn Widdoes

Hearing nothing… waiting for… what???, Andy Kenyon

After I learned how powerful me is, Angela Spires

A wave is a momentary monument, Elizabeth Quiñones-Zaldaña

With our names breathed out like spells, magic, Echo Clark

Attuned to nature’s rhythms, we grow, Nancy Gott

Judged by a forest of our peers, Bret Breeze

To drink the rain, Bruce Isaacson

We drop onto the hard concrete bench, Mark Snyder

Wilting in a molten summer, Nick Jacobs

I would say “catharsis” with, Melanie Perish

And afterwards, calm. And afterwards comes, Andy Nicholson

We exit the theater into a street-swarm of faces, some masked, Jarret Keene

This whisper of peace we believed was ours split the frayed wing, Sherry ShaRose Niedelman

Intimations of tranquility lie at our core pulling us past mere hope, John Salacan