Early Days
The scent of roses, and the blazing sun,
The gas pump next door busy—day’s begun.
No school; some insects flit. I feel the heat
Upon my skinny shoulders and my feet.
As Mama’s chickens cackle in their pen,
I revel in the world I’m in. But then
Not too far off, there lay a darkened wood
To which I soon would go, because I could:
A place of cheats and liars, claw and tooth;
And no defense to bolster up the truth.
I reveled in that wood when as a child,
Though things I could not know were running wild.
In spite of disappointments of this world,
My early life survives, chaste and dew-pearled.
Trapped Butterfly
Ask of the fates why this small wingèd thing
Dropped down behind a glass-surrounded maze—
No one knew its confusion, heard it sing.
It could not count the hours that closed its days.
Forgetting scented meadow, feathery lane
The desperate creature thought, then questioned fate.
Wondering why the narrow glassed-in pane
Seemed safe and warm, it sensed its doom too late.
Free on the swinging air, it once could dive,
Then rest upon the dahlia’s silken skin,
Work only just to procreate and thrive;
Drift in the dark, then watch the day begin.
Traps are not always clear transparencies—
In dreams we seek the opening that frees.
Becoming an Artist
—for Peter Busa, Il Professore
His rumpled jacket hid a threadbare shirt.
The thing about him was, his aura sang;
His shoes, well scuffed by New York pavement dirt,
Walked in a sure, slow tread. The bronze bell rang.
You had to leave, but sensed his secret, strong:
He held it to his heart, a mystery
That called you out to join, to sing his song—
A lilting, vagrant, saucy melody.
He was an artist. What he had to show
Said nothing to you of the lifelong pang
Of loss, bad luck and evil, creeping slow—
His fights for truth with snaggletooth and fang.
Not knowing this, you chose to laugh along
And hope someday to join this glorious throng.
Sally Cook is both a poet and a painter of magical realism. Her poems have also appeared in Blue Unicorn, First Things, Chronicles, The Formalist Portal, Light Quarterly, National Review, Pennsylvania Review, TRINACRIA, and other electronic and print journals. A six-time nominee for a Pushcart award, in 2007 Cook was featured poet in The Raintown Review. She has received several awards from the World Order of Narrative and Formalist Poets, and her Best American Poetry Challenge-winning poem “As the Underworld Turns” was published in Pool.
Sally , your poem about your professor truly brings out his character. Outstanding!
I love all three of these poems. Each is great in its own way. The language flows naturally and at a fitting pace which matches the subject matter. I love the brevity and economy of words which is used to present each complex story with delightful details. I find these poems very relatable, great work!
Each one of these sonnets is a treasure, Sally. I love your use of language and the effortless way you allow the reader right into your heart to relive these experiences and observations with you. I love the innocent childhood depicted in “Early Days” but I think my favorite of the three is “Becoming an Artist” and its focus on point of view and how imperfect — and sometimes romanticized — is our knowledge of other people. You capture people so beautifully.
There is something about Sally Cook’s poetry that is haunting and mysterious. She can take the simplest little events and memories and relate them as if they were myths from a fantasy world. I consider her one of the best formalist poets writing today, and the fact that she is ignored and neglected is just another sign that we are living in a dark and barbarous age.
“Early Days” presents a day in a child’s life — ordinary, hot, filled with expected things. But then there is a “darkened wood,” where “cheats and liars, claw and tooth” are present, and though she is defenseless against them she still “reveled” in them, and this has marked and shaped her adult life, while the memory of her childhood remains “chaste and dew-pearled.” This as complex allegory of childhood, adolescent awareness, things forbidden and taboo, sinful delights, disappointment, and memory. And all of it is given to us without a single “story,” or “incident,” or “event” — just the restrained and limpid language of a passing reminiscence. That is not an easy thing to do in poetry.
“Trapped Butterfly” is a perfect gem of how to tell a small happening and draw a parallel conclusion from it that is unexpected. A butterfly is trapped between the panes of a double window, and the speaker anthropomorphizes the insect enough to let us hear its confusion, desperation, its “wondering” and “questioning” of its fate, and its memories of a former freedom in nature where it could “procreate and thrive.” The final couplet is a transcendent comment on the skewed human condition — the traps we face in life are sometimes visible, and sometimes not, but we still dream (or despair) of escape from them, and the dream itself is “the opening that frees.”
“Becoming an Artist” is a tribute-poem — one that acknowledges the debt a student owes to a mentor, a teacher, an advisor, and a cherished friend of long standing. Sally Cook has always given this respect to the persons who have helped her in her career as a painter, or as a poet. In this sonnet she tells how one man’s personality and outlook on life were crucial to her own growth as an artist — not just his teaching, but also his style and habits and deepest feelings. And the poem closes with a powerful statement on the triumph of art over misfortune and grief.
Sally is still in the rehab center, and cannot reply to any comments here. She has asked me to express her thanks to those who are in this discussion thread.
Anyone who wishes to send a note or letter to Sally may send it to the following address:
Ms. Sally Fisk (Cook)
c/o Chautauqua Nursing and Rehab Center
10836 Temple Road
Dunkirk, New York 14048 (Attention: Nurse Kim)
Dearest Sally, there is a lot to learn from the exquisite beauty and heart-touching honesty of your admirably crafted poems, and these three poetic gems shine with your unique voice… a voice that sings to my senses and my soul. I especially like “Early Days” – it reminds me of childhood summers sprawled on a manicured lawn beneath a pink flowering cherry watching stories unfold in the clouds overhead… my journey through the darkened wood hasn’t managed to erase the unsullied wonders of this wicked world. I am most grateful for that. Thank you for making the world a brighter place with your gifts.
All three of these invoke, shall I say, civilizational memories that no reader here can evade or deny. Words written from the heart cannot but evoke feelings in the hearts of others. Anyone reading these will immediately feel the depth of perception of an artist who has invariably paid close attention to the exterior and interior worlds where life is lived.
Sally, there is so much to savor from your poetic portrayals with a depth of sensitivity from “Early Days” of innocence to the “Trapped Butterfly” not understanding the situation and on to the precise and concise characterization of “Becoming an Artist.” These are endearing and edifying.
In Early Days, I especially liked the build up, with sight, sound and feeling in the first stana to set the scene, a Stephen King-ish, mystery-laden childhood second stanza, and the retrospective nostalgia of the final stanza.
According to the implied metaphor, we are all trapped butterflies in the final analysis. You’ve expressed well, Sally, how we all get our wings clipped by life’s pitfalls.
On becoming an artist had something of the ‘tears of a clown’ about it. Many of us on this site can write humour and, but there’s always that serious side that laments for humanity. Strangely enough, five minutes ago, I advised a student to work slow and steady (to have a sure, slow tread) rather than to rush.
Thanks for the high quality and great breadth of your work, Sally.