Conclusion to my Undulating Tribute to Claire Kelly’s Poem, “Westward Wind”
How I Learned to See through Sand, The Final Whistle
The Final Whistle softens along a blast of steam that swirls off the foam
Listen, Reader, Writer, or Whoever we will be once the light that ebbs reemerges to come in all-at-once like a train from a distance undefined, from a dimension undefinable:
I know nothing — but, sometimes I wonder what it’s all about.
What if following the sense that listens
leads us to an open star, and looking, we see the point of it all is both as long as a photon, and as rebounding as the beam of longing that once fit and flipped around inside
the original quantum eye that saw itself as nothing but a rare and random opportunity for awe that opened wide enough to bear response to the responsibility of being born
out-of-nothing into a world fit to feel itself trembled from
the warmth of the imagined snowflake sinking presently, palm-through-body, body through a planet who sees through time, and knows enough, when we cry, to care and ask
“How are you — hey, there, what’s the matter?” so that we can each answer with our lives.
Claire, when your poem arrived, the moon light was folded
deep inside the deepest clouds of the night. The moon was submerged in the richness of reflected light — it was buried in the night.
But because of your poem, I remembered all the lunar dust was still there, just on the other side, rounded into satellite —
and the messages rebounding right now “summon presence” and personalize the sensation starlight must have had when it first woke up and found itself
locked inside a stone.
So, hey, maybe its ok to be lonely because home always overbuilds essence into flow —
somewhere the front is always moving in — and, listen, here it comes
again as music; and our song is about to be reborn.
I hear the distance whistle as spacetime folds us in, and finally you are here. Hold with me — let’s be so still
the snow has a chance to catch up and re-crystalize. And, as I look back into his eyes, I feel your poem evolve evanescent ears that open all your readers lives
to the colors singing and moaning, to the love that takes us in and lets us listen to its originating music forever dissolving borders, casually burning
this response —
here come the colors of love learning that expectations sometimes sublimate hue — orange often never even bothers to flicker as confined energy so longs for air, that once let go, its fire might surge someone else’s life sky blue, but leave me aghast — one day I expect, when my digital life goes abruptly white, I hope my heat will leap, sow other lines and leave you
opening the container, letting currents of ash reseed these clouds tonight with snow.
But for now, the sky is still black beyond the reach of words for velvet, and as I release your poem, I know that somewhere, snowflakes feel the moon swell, spill the glow —
I know that around the bend of night, skies slide frame — love unlocks, and while your poem has found eyes of bird-light, your insight has taken nest in the mind of a seed
lifted, and I feel the calm of a new song coming on as somewhere a heart beat finds time to beat with mine, and together, we serve as a syrinx to the content tumbling, absolving itself of syntax on westward winds.
Dear Reader,
Thank you immensely for sharing this journey. Although I have read Claire’s poem and learned so much through weaving my felt response in with her original insights, you will never know the true meaning of “Westward Winds” unless you are Claire, or unless you read it for yourself.
In fact, just because her poem and my reaction have been healing for me, it has been over two years since Dave died, and grief still hurts.
Just like no one can tell you how to live or write, no one can tell you how to grieve, or how to read.
Reading is your own experience, no one else’s, and sometimes you can see no lesson to be learned. And, sometimes in our lives, we lose someone we love and, for a time, grief engulfs and “echoes” and all you want is to get out of its way — but there you are.
To read an excellent, succinct and powerful poem that shares a different response to grief, a short poem that presents a genuine, raw reaction to grief that may seem counter to mine — but one that actually realizes many, many days of pain that so many of us can identify with, I encourage you to read Natalie Gasper’s succinct and powerful poem,
“163 Days,” published in Scribe.
Here is the link:
This has been the “Final Whistle” of an accumulated train of thought, or an inter-linking response of mind and heart that has transformed from comment to tribute, to a poem of enduring appreciation for the poet who helped me learn to see through sand.
You can find the first car here: https://readmedium.com/how-i-learned-to-see-through-sand-1d518e2e876b
The engine is and will always be Claire’s poem!
Please make sure you read Claire Kelly’s poem to see why I had to do my very best to make this tribute personal and universal.
You can click on this link to read “Westward Winds,” composed By Claire Kelly, and graciously published in Imogene’s Notebook.
I actually found Claire’s poem one cold dark night in December — it was my 38th anniversary, but Dave was 2 years gone. Claire’s poem, “Westward Winds,” was the gift that let me hold him again — even as I send my cherish back to her — and let him flow.
“Westward Winds” let me know that while my husband will always be a part of my heart, death is just part of life, and that while the process of becoming is forever building and coming, it is mostly the reality of already being home.
Claire Kelly’s poetry is transformational. I am so appreciative for her poem and for offering me a chance to write for her publication, Write Under the Moon.