BY JAN HAAG

ART & POETRY - ACCUMULATIONS

INTRODUCTION + POETRY + MUSIC + ESSAYS + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART + HAAG'S BIO



1986

DORIS SOPHIE PEPPLER SMITH,




with nothing in her suitcase,
left for heaven. She'd have liked
to make each of you one last
strawberry waffle with cream,
or real maple syrup,
but her flight came too early.

With warmth and love we have made
you some of her favorite
cakes. Have a cake for Doris:
rich, like her heart, and sweet.
Her favorite flower was
the wild, blue forget-me-not.

Have a wonderful journey,
we'll not forget you, Doris.





DORIS

12-20-97



Doris, Mother, mourning,
forever -- Devayani seldom
thinks of you.

And yet, if she tells a story
or reads your death party poem
she cries.

She bows quite frequently, quite gaily
to you, there asleep, sprinkled
among the azaleas,

and to Father, under the cherry tree,
fresh in her walk,
almost every morning,

in the glory of the Arboretum.
Often chanting, Devayani
strolls, long-legged,

loose-limbed, by,
cheeks aflame with the cold winter air
off to commune in cyberspace;

at last, so glad to be alive,
having lived to the age of Websites,
as if she were born to be

a black widow on the Web,
passing, too, multi-level dwellings
of the spiders,

visible in the fog,
but gone now, in the biting cold
of winter.

If it snows, she'll cry again,
Devayani will cry
thinking of the strolls

in the snow,
with you, Mother,
pouring her troubled heart

into the warm receptacle of
your understanding.
Not until a Mother dies,

Devayani found out the hard way,
the only way,
that with a Mother's passing

passes from the earth
the only understanding,
deep and profound,

that she would ever know.
The love of a Mother
-- warm, strolling in the snow,

mittened and listening,
laughing in the illuminated night,
knowing Devayani,

flesh of her flesh --
reveals itself, year by year now,
in unexpected ways,

like the thousand petalled lotus of the heart,
teaching the loss.
Teaching, too, that it is tolerable,

and seldom remembered,
for it is kept hidden, like a comment
in cyberspace,

as it grows bigger, like a Website,
as intricate and beautiful
as fog shrouded, bejeweled webs.

O, you'd take it out
and look at it more often, Devayani,
if it didn't make you cry.

Mother wove a web of remembance
strong enough to catch forever,
an aging fly, like you.

Happy Birthday, Doris -- 91 years today
since your own gift of a mother.
Do your almost-twelve-years-seperated-molecules,

still and often cry?
Devayani will probably see
the Millennium

you wanted so to see --
she'll think of
you.





DORIS SOPHIE

1984?



You have a name, a soft kiss,
a smile. You are small, round, like

a dumpling, delicious as
brown sugar syrup made with

butter. They told you dessert
was nourishing. It is good,

sweet, warm, but essential fuel
is missing at the center.

Though skyscrapers could be se-
cured by your unchangingness,

though Greenwich could set clocks by
your constancy, you never

use your name. Once as a girl,
long ago, you stepped into

business, but now, frying the
chicken, peeling potatoes

you are just sugar syrup,
an apple dumpling, warm from

the oven, sweet with whipped cream,
eaten, forever hungry.
You never use your name.







Copyright © 2002 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jhaag@u.washington.edu




OTHER POEMS


Bilbao

The Cattle Have Diamond Bones

Feeding Frenzy

From The Jocasta Poems #15, Blindness

From The Jocasta Poems #16, Death

George Coluzzi

India

I Am Innuit

McDonald Observatory

Palimpsest I, Sphere

Ryoangi

Tibetan Chronicle

The Woman Who Had No Necklaces





BY JAN HAAG


ART & POETRY - ACCUMULATIONS

INTRODUCTION + POETRY + MUSIC + ESSAYS + TRAVEL + FICTION + TEXTILE ART + HAAG'S BIO



21st CENTURY ART, C.E. - B.C., A Context