Poems by R. L. Swihart

Drink Deep

1.
Not the "mumbo jumbo of magic" (Auden), but more like the long distance runner,
panting with thirst, arriving at a table loaded with sparkling bullets (bottles)
of water. The runner probably knows about the table, but perhaps didn't
know (or had forgotten) exactly when it would appear
on the horizon

2.
Their gauntlet (flights from LAX to LHR and LHR to DUB, cow chutes, redtape,
car rental, driving on the wrong side of the road, winter, etc.), run just after the new
year because of a wedding at the Cliff at Lyons (still wrapped up for Xmas), is as
arduous in some ways as the runner's, and the twin cartons of W B Yeats water
(containers supposedly ECO FRIENDLY, recyclable and with a "tethered cap")
are a welcome sight in their "doable" room in Liffey Valley. She was always thirsty
so opened one right away. He was more curious about the afterlives of the mantic
poet (his image is on the now superseded 20 punt note, these water cartons,
what else). After they walked to the mall for dinner (hands in pockets,
hoarfrost feathering the grass), they used the remainder of the Pierian
water for tea

 

Dylan Whisky Bar

How many times do I have t repeat I am not a folksinger …
(Bob Dylan)

*

All the other options for "trad" were no-goes (Cleere's session being too late),
so after a short "slip and slide" down Canal Walk to admire the castle and
River Nore by night they stepped into Dylan's (session or no session)
to have a nightcap

No one was home, the place was empty, music (from hidden speakers) filled
the oblong box. The halls were still decked, and tiny white lights raced around
the ceiling, like chasing like. Finally, the slick-looking bartender
stepped out from who knows where

"Hello," he said, smiling without revealing his teeth. "How can I help you?"

"Any music tonight?" chimed the old American duet, leaning over the bar,
listening for a lilt in his reply

"No, fraid not. The two ladies who were supposed to show live in the hills
and couldn't come down. Snow and ice"

The odd couple sat down anyway and had the rest of what they'd come in for:
warmth, a few words, a half pint of Guinness (for him) and an Irish coffee
(for her). They sat quietly in a private snug near the door, whispering softly.
The old man took several pics of the displayed memorabilia and tried
to read some scribbles. The bartender busied himself behind the bar,
then disappeared again when they got up to put on their coats

Nada from Nada is Nada. But tomorrow we’ll begin again

 

Without Leaving the Farm

1.
She opens the glass door and lifts a fragile cup off
its saucer: a “flurry” of white, gold and roses

"I've never liked them and want to get rid of them," she says.
"My mother's voice. My mother’s choice. Communist Era.
Everyone had the same"

"Exactly the same," I reply. "Don't you think you should
keep them for the girls?"

"The girls don't care about these"

"Not now but ..."

*

She goes to bed, and I stay up late. Staring up through the glass
at the six cups and saucers, I fall asleep in my comfy
Scandi chair

2.
Our flight lands early in the morning. A taxi takes us to the train. We sleep
most of the way to her little town of Z, but I open my eyes at one station
and am glad to see three Hooded Crows (which I first saw on the Baltic
coast years ago) playing “crow hop & swagger” between
the opposite tracks

*

It's a short walk from the station in Z to her mother's flat, and we have
traveled light. We pass an old brick tower with graffiti you can actually
read (if you can read Polish). The new mall. The butcher's window
where the predominant colors are red, pink and brown. I catch
a small white parachute before it hits her hair

*

Her mother buzzes us in, and we climb three steps to the first floor. She's
there at the door and ushers us into the sitting room. She brings in a tray
loaded with three cups of coffee (already doctored with milk and sugar)
riding on their saucers. I get up and bring in the assorted rolls and
pastries she got fresh that morning (not more than a block away).
I go back to the kitchen to get the butter

*

I take a bite of a soft white bread roll, which is generously studded with
blueberries. After that I wash it down with coffee. Only then do I think
to look at her mother's cups and saucers. My first impression (with
only a “last impression” of ours in my head): Our "flurry"
is more gold than roses, hers is more roses than gold

*

While her mother unloads a bunch of questions in Polish, she
patiently answers in Polish (giving me the gist in English).
And I listen, while continuing the side job of comparing
her mother's cups and saucers to ours