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A Century’s Divinity
Another time, another place,
A waft of smoke, a peaceful space,
Atop the club—a Deke at Yale,
And Vassar maiden, by the rail.
Alone they stood, alone they spoke,
Postured classic, lass and bloke,
A century’s divinity,
Not far from our proximity.
Far from perfect: Mother, Dad,
But what a life they held and had,
Absolutely void of strife?
Nay—no way—yet what a life.
Recalling them with drink and smoke,
Olive, Triscuit, cheese and joke,
Their friends we called by “Uncle, Aunt,”
There back in time I’d go, but can’t.
Reaching out to them, in mind,
Vivifies their life in kind,
And when affords the chance? I tend
To make my world, to theirs, to bend.
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The Stair
At the foot of the stair stood an epic embrace,
Her hands at his side; he stately, with grace.
The moment, though passing, still draws us to stare:
At a life, man and wife, perpetually there.
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(JN / UC / DKE / Theta Zeta / Berkeley)
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Speaking of Okra
I break some okra off a stalk
on my farm to table walk.
I kneel in dirt, to pull a weed,
And feel some hurt become this creed:
Who formed that root within my clutch?
Then pain I bear seems not too much.
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photo of okra plant (public domain)
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Alec Ream is a writer living in Virginia. His poetic work and creative fiction have been widely published. A member of the Demosthenian Literary Society at UGA, he wrote on Lookout Mountain, and continued to write, lecture and work for Delta Kappa Epsilon HQ. He was first published reading to the pledge class of Michigan DKE, in Ann Arbor in 2008. Recently, his poem Green Fire was read at the Washington Literary Society & Debating Union at UVA.
Your lyrical words resonate in unforgettable song!
Thanks for sharing.
You’re welcome. Thanks for reading, Paulette – and thanks for the kind compliment.
These are three delightful poems for a Sunday morning. Sonorous and sensitive.
Much appreciated there, Roy. Contemplative’s not easy, but it runs the long game well.
All three of these poems shout LEGACY. Okra is in the Mallow family, the same as cotton and Hibiscus. I used to grow okra just for the flower, because the edible pod is difficult to cook in a way that pleases the palate. The Deke reference is especially poignant — just ask Teddy Roosevelt. I’ve known a Vassar maiden or two, with mixed results.
CB: speaking of Vassar, and allied realms, What did the Mary Baldwin Grad say when you asked her to replace a light bulb? “I’m sorry, but the design of that lamp doesn’t mesh very well with my personal interpretation of an interior lighting plan.” Conversely, What did the Clemson Grad say? “Who needs a light bulb. We can drink in the dark.” Thanks for the remarks. Have I shared with you my other poem on Okra. “The Love Song of an Okra Bloom / I make my living in the gloom / Beneath the shade, I ply my trade / And at my death, your food was made.”
I’m currently in the UAE, Alec, where you can still smoke in pubs – and many do! Your poem brought back into focus the world of my parents, though not as posh as in the picture.
Speaking of Okra, there’s actually some in a packet, in the fridge. In the Arabian Gulf and North Africa it’s somewhat of a staple. I have it occasionally, but wouldn’t enjoy it as a daily staple. I’m glad to see a poem about much maligned okra.
Thanks for the reads.
Paul – I like the way you capitalized Okra – it’s a superfood. Caloric and nutrient value are proportioned exactly, just, so. At the Tennessee farm where I lived and worked a couple of years? I learned to eat it raw in the field; still do. My parents enjoyed snapshots of Mr Levin’s painting: we had poor months and then rich months also. They saved, then they treated us – I remember us walking into the St Francis on Union Square in San Fran? The brass luggage cart boasted a Thermos brand “Double 6-Packer” cooler, with Kraft American cheese and Sunnyland sandwich meat. As a contemplative, I only need a select number of snapshots to reflect upon, then write about. The Son of God provided (Jehovah Jireh) DKE to house and feed me for 8 years during the Great Recession. I got to travel Amtrak from Berkeley to Ann Arbor: epic. All that to say, I’ve been graced with just enough of a writer’s experience of having one foot in a farm cabin and the other in the proverbial high life (Steve Winwood). Al, my father? I could go on about him; he was the President of the Cotillion, and he married the President of the Museum Guild. We were Nixon Presbyterians, with Episco-Jewish McGovern best friends, who we’d go on vacay with…that’s who “Uncle and Aunt” refer to in the poem. I remember their conversations. One more digression: I asked my mother, when I was 5 or 6, “You and Daddy don’t agree with Uncle Joe and Aunt Faye, about the election.” She responded, “No but you can usually find something of value in what someone else has to offer” – a type of redemption. One that North America could severely use today.
This is not the first time Steven Levin’s work has proven the muse of writ –
https://www.classicalpoets.org/2015/09/metamorphosis-offering-by-neal-dachstadter/