AWAITING THE PHOEBE’S SONG

Scattered throughout my sister’s house,
her collection of Boehm birds. Plates,
singles or groupings, adding a whiff 

of color to the mahogany bookcases, 
a fleck of light to the dark paneled
walls. She had gathered the limited

edition over the years, had invested
in its timelessness and beauty so that
in the bleak winter she might see

the cardinal’s red crest in clusters
of imperial-purple grapes, hear 
the golden crowned kinglet in bearded 

blue iris, graceful and tall. Today,
as I stack and restack her plates in the curio
by my own hearth, winter’s winds are 

whipping down the alleyway, and 
the streets are quiet, except for occasional call 
of fire and other rescue services. But in this

winter, I am the one hunkering down in the cold
awaiting the phoebe’s song. 

COMPLICITY

It touts my first date, the Prom of ’71.
The day was not particularly memorable 
except for the anticipation I felt leading
up to the event, for my date, gifted
by my brother, was surely the most 
coveted prince in our little kingdom, 
a tall, blue-eyed blonde about six-
and-a-half feet tall. He picked me up 
in his sports coupe, and we exchanged niceties,
pinned carnations onto each other’s breasts,
and drove the short distance to the private
festivities where we smiled for camera
and administration and sipped yellow fruit
punch like butterflies imbibing on the nectar
of phlox and buddleia and exchanged more
niceties with each other and with classmates. 
If I remember correctly, I was home by eleven,
without so much as a kiss from the dashing
college senior in baby-blue tuxedo who had been
my escort for the evening.

Fifty years later my heart still languishes,
as I read yearbook entries from the class 
of ’71, not from my handsome prince
who might have stolen my heart away
on that warm Friday evening in early May,
but from two classmates of color 
who had joined our class of twenty-five 
when we were juniors. There in my annual
in beautiful pen are the words from the one
steeped in silence, sitting near the windows
on the last row of history class. Never forget
that there’s one boy who thinks you are more
special than special. You got it wrong, E, 
you got it wrong. I didn’t fight for you to join
the party. I left you sitting there in that last row
of history class, lost in your dreams. Today,
I search for you, but you are already gone. 
I carry the weight of your words, the weight
of my silence.

DOES ANYONE EVER REALIZE LIFE WHILE THEY LIVE IT?

—after Thornton Wilder

Did I brush my teeth this morning? Take
my medicine? Change my underwear?  

How do people fall in love? Out of love?
And if they fall out, were they ever really in?

What is the difference between forgiveness
and reconciliation? 

When you learn there are 100 billion galaxies
each one containing a hundred billion stars, 
do you feel boundless, immeasurable, or do you 
feel constrained and small?

What was life like for Lazarus after returning
to this side of paradise?  What was going on 
in his head as he stumbled out of the grave?

Thoreau said he did not want to live a life that was
not life, insisted he wanted to live life deliberately.

Did I notice, really notice, the yellow-eyed grackle
hopscotching at my feet this morning? The bearded 
live oak, its arthritic arms outstretched?

Poet’s Statement:

Though I have always loved poetry and have relied heavily upon it in teaching my high school English classes, I did not come to a writing practice until after retirement when I was homebound with an ailing brother and then COVID. At that time, I began taking on-line classes and found myself writing every day, self-publishing my first book of poems, Strange Fire, in 2022.  Though now I do not birth a poem every day or even every week, I continue the daily ritual of reading poetry and keeping notebooks of my favorite poems and prompts, quotes and interesting vocabulary. 

If you listen to today’s poets, you will hear a common refrain, “Poetry has saved me.” Such is my experience. “Awaiting the Phoebe’s Song” and “Does Anyone Really Understand Life While They Live It?” came from a difficult 2022. In February of that year, my spouse was diagnosed with an extremely rare and aggressive leukemia (only 38 cases in the world), which took us to two other states for experimental drugs and a bone marrow transplant, a journey of wild uncertainty and even wilder hope. Though the days were long and hard, the hours in hospital waiting rooms and motels provided rich soil for writing and for reflecting on what it means to live, as Thoreau wrote, the “deliberate” life. The ending of “Awaiting the Phoebe’s Song” refers to some of those difficult days of transplant when we were “hunkering down,” waiting for springtime. “Does Anyone Ever Realize Life?” is a series of questions, some dealing with the small, seemingly insignificant details that make up our lives and the others touching on big ideas like death. The last stanza touches on one of those tender times when my husband and I were enjoying a rare moment of respite at an outdoor café near the medical center in Houston. Enjoying the scenery with us under the mossy oak was a blackbird, big and beautiful, eyeing every nook and crevice for a piece of pasta or bread. Writing the poem helped me hone in on ordinary moments like this, allowing me to savor them forever.

“Complicity” is a poem of regret, a memory from over fifty years ago when school integration was beginning in the South. In 1971, after the school board canceled the high school prom, parents and teachers organized a private junior-senior dance in a nearby town for the white students of my class. Though at the time I thought little about the hurt we must have caused our two black classmates, I have since often considered my complicity in that event. How I wish I could go back and be a voice for justice. A spokeswoman for what’s right. A friend to my friend. Poetry allows me back in the classroom in the early seventies for a do-over.

So, does poetry save us? I can testify that it does. Poetry most certainly saves us.

Jo Taylor is a retired, 35-year English teacher from Georgia. Her favorite genre to teach high school students was poetry, and today she dedicates more time to writing it. In 2021 she published her first collection of poems, Strange Fire, and in 2022, she was nominated for Best of the Net. She enjoys morning walks, playing with her two grandsons, and collecting and reading cookbooks.