Ward Stories

NEW YORK CITYVOICES: Summer 2005

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A Column by Cindy Sostchen We have been captivated before by the poetry of Eileen McManus, a true poet and friend of mine, and here she is again, gracing the summer issue with her amazing words. Note how she deftly uses biblical and mythological references to demonstrate her personal experience, and ties it up with bundles of hope. Wooing the Genius, Wooing the Muse By Eileen McManus Sing for me, speak to me I gave you flowers once, have they dried and died? Have you pressed their petals among book pages to keep alive winter wounded memories? I activated musical notes in the blackness of my inner chambers I water colored images of thousand year old children playing among shepherds on pastures in eternal, vernal springs Sing to me, speak to me My inner world cool as marble, as swirled, as smooth and as hard Hides like Moses did among the rushes and reeds of the Nile Fearful of discovery My inner world silent and spacious with Rumbling echoes of footsteps and conversations Like a tomb or sacred temple Or the cavernous rooms of an ancient palace Gardens wait outside and I kneel at their boxes like Pandora Aching to free all the things I cannot see Glittering priceless, awaiting me Taste and See By Eileen McManus Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends- Is everybody in, is everybody in? The show's about to begin Taste and see, taste and see Succor from something that is dry mystery What is this song now, what is this dance? How many poems do we pretend, can we pretend we write in the quiet in the deadly quiet of the quiet room? Hurry up now it's time! Round and round the widening gyre- Hurry up now it's time! The falcon cannot hear the falconer- Hurry up now it's time! I thought that I heard you laughing-I thought that I heard you sing Hurry up now, it's time! I thought that I heard you cry I am losing my religion I am-Trying to keep up with you Oh no, Oh no now-These are my words now This is from the screaming why This is from my screaming why Oh no now Oh no now These are my words now Taste and see taste and see the goodness now the goodness now of the rooms Oh no now Oh no now Too much is said. Too much is being said. But we will dare to speak When shall we speak? And when shall we sleep? Oh, I have not spoken, and I have not slept, and it has been such a long, long time But tell me, tell me, tell me now Who is she? And what is she to you? Don't you know, can't you see? She's me, She's me. From the past from the past -- From the dreams from forever From living in eternity from dreams, from the tears that fell from the dreams. From the pickup of pieces from the whiteness and promises of the moon From the dark night of dreamlessness. From the dark night of empty souls From the dark night of empty eyes From the dark night of empty sleep. Who is she? Who is she to you? Can I wear the mark of the world comfortably? Can I transfer responsibility-from you to me? Hush now Hush now in these rooms are you and what you shall be Goddess of the hunt, Goddess of the household. Helen on Trojan shores, hiding from her hunting, haunted, panting husband Who is she? What is she to you? I can ask this forever, of all the dinner guests I can ask this of all the guests at the banquet I can ask this of all the wedding guests. Where shall I go, and who shall I ask but those in the desert Where shall I go but to the barren desert To collect the spirits exiled there Have you seen the spirits there? In the desert amid the sun-and the sky-and the brutal, brutal heat. What flower shall you be? All you, you young ones, born in the desert, are new flowers Blooming amid dry barrenness. Stealing succor from rocks Nurtured on, thriving on, nursing on, the fearsome reality of nothingness, emptiness, of the rooms, these bare, milks breasts, the quiet rooms the empty rooms the gift of the gods to those abandoned, exiled left to live or die, Hear the voices of those crying alone in the desert, left in the quiet rooms left alone in the back rooms More, more you shall ask for, you shall ask for more When have words been so harsh and rough? When have souls been so brutal? Here, now we have a new thing-Here now is a new thing Pulling water from a rock, milk gushing from a cleft of granite. Taste and see, taste and see, succor from something that is dry mystery. Oh I have pulled water from a rock, and it is a wonderful thing in our eyes. Touch my eyes and the dryness around it Touch my soul and its dehydration Touch something created from the dryness and quietness and silence and sterility and deadliness of those rooms Touch something that is not there Can you? Can you? And so we call the goddess of the hunt to find fertile ground in the mirage in the desert Tenderness where none exists Hear Oh Israel, hear oh Israel, hear John This Voice crying in the wilderness See the raging waters and flowing blood Drink the new dark wine and smell the steaming bread, Look at the soul drawing succor from a rock hear the wounds of the rooms within Watch as the souls learn to live in the wilderness Souls are but flowers around which our worlds revolve Out of Egypt I have called my Son. Out of Hades I have called my children Out of Bedlam I have called my little ones, my little dying ones, my little starving ones, my little crazy ones, my little mad ones, my blessed ones, my chosen ones We have learned to survive We have learned to live We have learned to draw water from a rock, Taste and see, taste and see We are nourished from something that is dry mystery

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