4 Poems by Renata McCormish
Chung Tea Ceremony
The glazed cup rests between us - armless, undressed alabaster.
You lean forward, touch its wide mouth, and say, there is a vast,
sea inside the man. He rests between the heaven and the earth.
A landscape print behind your back sheds leaves. There is no wind.
I see a crack in the heaven - smooth, clay lid veiled in whiteness.
I know I must lift the man with one hand. I am a woman.
The tea leaves unfurl, you sip their green liquor. My knees boast
the sober imprint of a tatami mat. Bamboo braided into blossom.
I stroke the saucer. How long can the earth withstand the heaven?
My lips meet the man. . . I sip the jade sea inside him.
The tea leaves whisper. I breathe his scent when he is empty.
The glazed cup rests between us - armless, undressed alabaster.
You lean forward, touch its wide mouth, and say, there is a vast,
sea inside the man. He rests between the heaven and the earth.
A landscape print behind your back sheds leaves. There is no wind.
I see a crack in the heaven - smooth, clay lid veiled in whiteness.
I know I must lift the man with one hand. I am a woman.
The tea leaves unfurl, you sip their green liquor. My knees boast
the sober imprint of a tatami mat. Bamboo braided into blossom.
I stroke the saucer. How long can the earth withstand the heaven?
My lips meet the man. . . I sip the jade sea inside him.
The tea leaves whisper. I breathe his scent when he is empty.
Stained Glass News
(St. Vitus Cathedral, Prague)
The sun is rising above Prague like a monstrance.
My back is pressed against a stained glass window.
The latest news ignites in rosette splashes of blue,
red and gold on the opposite wall. I read it eagerly.
My whole life is written there. So much desire in
this vast space of silver, stone, and pointed arches!
Every tomb familiar, every statue alive with light.
When I move, colors climb up my bare arms –
I read myself. What difference is there between
my bones and the cathedral arches? Only the colors
know the answer. The sun streams in, transfigured.
(St. Vitus Cathedral, Prague)
The sun is rising above Prague like a monstrance.
My back is pressed against a stained glass window.
The latest news ignites in rosette splashes of blue,
red and gold on the opposite wall. I read it eagerly.
My whole life is written there. So much desire in
this vast space of silver, stone, and pointed arches!
Every tomb familiar, every statue alive with light.
When I move, colors climb up my bare arms –
I read myself. What difference is there between
my bones and the cathedral arches? Only the colors
know the answer. The sun streams in, transfigured.
The Package
There is little you can do
when a woman washes her life
and spreads it across the lawn,
......numb and bleached
in the receding sunlight.
Sitting on the porch steps,
she sips wine with bergamot
while waiting for it to dry.
There is nothing you can say,
when her work is done.
She folds her life,
......clean and emotionless,
and packs it into a tight,
cardboard box, ready to ship.
Destination unknown,
yet always the same.
The enclosed note says
Life has too many threads
I can no longer handle.
There is little you can do
when a woman washes her life
and spreads it across the lawn,
......numb and bleached
in the receding sunlight.
Sitting on the porch steps,
she sips wine with bergamot
while waiting for it to dry.
There is nothing you can say,
when her work is done.
She folds her life,
......clean and emotionless,
and packs it into a tight,
cardboard box, ready to ship.
Destination unknown,
yet always the same.
The enclosed note says
Life has too many threads
I can no longer handle.
You Have Left Something Beautiful
You have left something beautiful
......on the edge of my kitchen counter.
............A plate of fresh figs and prosciutto
sliced by the morning sun. Streams
......of gold flooding the marble tiles where
............last night, I leaned into your embrace.
You have left something beautiful
......in the tousled fall of my graying hair:
............The promise of a revived pierot lunaire
tossing laughter with a vinagrette.
......Seasoning time with flamenco words.
............A meal of fresh figs and new hope.
You have left something beautiful
......on the edge of my kitchen counter.
............A plate of fresh figs and prosciutto
sliced by the morning sun. Streams
......of gold flooding the marble tiles where
............last night, I leaned into your embrace.
You have left something beautiful
......in the tousled fall of my graying hair:
............The promise of a revived pierot lunaire
tossing laughter with a vinagrette.
......Seasoning time with flamenco words.
............A meal of fresh figs and new hope.
