The Poetry Of..
Deborah Rey............................................................
Weeping Willow
We bought a weeping willow tree,
its stem no thicker than a broomstick,
a crown - when pruned as we were told to -
looking like a hand, with fingers
pointing accusingly up
to what others call Heaven,
or G-d.
Our little weeping willow tree
covered its accusing fingers with
virgin-green leaves. Its branches grew,
became longer and longer, and
resembled a relaxed and elegant hand that
beckoned me. "Come. Come,"
our willow whispered.
"Come, come," it said. "I'm weeping!"
I stood and stared, then gently closed
my hands around its fragile trunk,
and leaned my head upon them.
The pendulous branches shielded me
against the sun and proudly, happily,
I wept.
It Will Be Good For You, they say
It will be a room of clean and impersonality.
A bed, white sheets (of course), a chair and
another one for if someone comes to see
if you are still around.
The painting on the wall no more than an
enlarged postcard showing the centre of the town,
drawn by some former inhabitant, or by the
Director's niece. An original, I guess.
I'll open my valise in order to take out my clothes,
put them in the thin thing they call the closet.
Only loneliness and pain come out. I forgot to
pack my clothes, I guess. Back then, at home.
For three fine weeks I'm going to have 'fun'
and 'talk' and 'breathe' together with all those
just like me. So interesting. Strangers,
people I am being forced to 'want to' get to know.
We all have the same problem, all are attached to
plastic leashes that give us air. Here, the oxygen supply
comes out of the wall; just a little thingy. Much nicer
than those huge canisters I cannot handle at the house.
'It will be good for you,' they say. 'To rest.' ...to be
at ease, to exercise, puddle in the pool, look
at the tombstones of those who did not make it
and were buried at the property.
Who knows? They may even take us to the market
of antiques. In a mini-bus, nice and cosy, chairs and all.
Edmond Rostand's Villa Arnaga will be a no-no.
All those wheelchairs! Too much bother.
I'll look around the room and wonder how I will survive,
something so normal and nice, such a treat for others.
I'll look at my empty suitcase and wish there'd been some love
in it and then, remember the photograph of my beloved dog.
My bear-sized beast, which I call Baby.
'Come, my dog,' I'll say, 'come Baby,
let's sit on the tiny balcony
Yes, yes, sit close together.'
On the photograph I don't
have to let you out, or worry about feeding.
They'll do that to the real you at what they
call home, my house of dreams untrue
When the time comes, let's sit, my Dog,
let me feel your thick fur and tickle you,
scratch your huge paw
feel your giant head on my knees,
And, please, look at me with love in your eyes,
even on this profile shot.'
Sees with Ears
He refuses to carry
one of those telescopic
white canes and doesn't
wear dark glasses
Doesn't have to, nobody
notices that his pupils
are so enlarged
they turn his green eyes
black and endlessly
He goes for walks on
the land and ventures
even further, into the forest
carefully feeling his way
avoiding trees – most
of them that is – while
seeing with his ears.
Our voices tell him where
we are, show him the way
back home and where to bend
his lovely head to receive
my butterfly kisses,
wants to be helped up, though;
it's nice to be spoiled.
He now seats himself wherever
he wants to, not where we would
like him to, turns toward you when
you speak to him, but sometimes
focuses just next to your face,
no longer is the Boss, somewhat
afraid of the dogs, and his Alpha
cousin, but otherwise he's fine,
just fine and, at seventy-two
– which is fourteen in cat years –
a still very handsome pitch-black gent.
Ken-Li,
the firstborn of the Cat
is still enjoying life while
seeing with his ears.
(Ken-Li April 7th '93 - April 30th '08)
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