Un-Becoming - A Poem

How not to become
an un-

a prefix sans sun

listless
mythless

undone.

By Mary E. Lohan

Train of Thought - A Poem

It becomes you

The gelatinous translucence
spurs debate
which prompts silence
    outwardly,
inwardly the gears turn
and the engines
    churn

We cannot escape ourselves
regardless of the category,
generation

We have consumed
the fallacy
of what our lives should mean
as we go from tangent to tangent,
then back again

It becomes you,
the longer you think about it.

By Mary E. Lohan 

These Storms -- A Poem

I feel for storms

that deep rumbling, dischord

that quickly sweeps and cloaks

all that is bright and light

until they break --

releasing the torrent, 

        the black torment

in a swirl of din, 

                            wind, 

                                        and sway

until all that was pent
is spent

and

washed away.

By Mary E. Lohan 

Thoughts on the Steps of Butler Library - A Poem (From "Four Folded Corners")

And you couldn't have known me,
couldn't have loved me
like I thought you did
even though your kiss
was a gift each time
upon my brow

and now,
I think upon those times,
      how much of that rush
was me
reading between the lines
of our affection?

Under this vast sky
of deepest blue
amidst the flocked
cry of starlings
from atop these majestic
columns
I am moved

moved by what
this deep blue sky
this flock of birds
these wispy white clouds
can do to me

and yet,
is it not I
who makes them 'moving'
lest everyone should stop,
gape and sigh
at this night's wonderful gifts

as I debate
whether there was love
and not just lust,
between the sheets
of you and I.

By Mary E. Lohan

Mother - A Poem (from "Four Folded Corners")

She strings me words,
     gifts like pearls,
which I keep tucked away
     for special occasions.

By Mary E. Lohan

Our December (1994) (From "Four Folded Corners")

This New York snow
freezes cold
and all you do is pace
and flay,
say whatever comes to tongue
each gutteral flung
from your mouth
like blackened snow
under-
tire,
   
     I lean against a parked car
under fire,
afraid to blow a sigh
into this ice-picked wind
that might sling back

     and yet, my silence
brings a death
worse than dying,

I too
have learned to fall from heights
so quiet.

By Mary E. Lohan

MOMA - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darkness")

Cezanne - Still Life with Apples

The sun
kindles the sky

I dodge the New
York suits
the anthill scramble
of lunchtime,

pay the speckled lady
in the white, wide lobby
to broach the mazes
of these boxed halls,

the din of school kids
directionless
    spins then falls,

Gauguin - Still Life with Three Puppies

up the aligned
escalators we go,
lovers and others,
like me, alone, stroll

at the top, Marina
Abramovic --
B&W films roll
suspended,

within a few steps
post-war tension

jiggling breasts
one feminine
face, aghast
     upended

mid-scream
     extended --

Picasso's Wives & Lovers

I retreat to spaces
less impeding --
the calm and familiar
floors beneath:

Still Life with Apples,
Cezanne,
stippled, deep landscapes,
Renoir,
plumes of color,
Matisse,
Still Life with Three Pupplies,
Gauguin,
     But
why does Picasso's
Wives and Lovers
sadden me so?

I leave burdened
by their loss
of color, their heavy
lined faces
that have yet
to grieve

Until she bids me
stay --

The Girl Behind 
a Mirror with her
bright gestured
wave

with so much to say

like Christina 
from her World*
reaching, reaching,
     Come back for me...

I cannot leave
     yet
with one still to see,
Roulin**,

a tourist
videotapes
him, spright,
proud,
always a
showman

his beard
blaring from
behind the glass

What a precocious
     fellow:
Always a flirt.


By Mary E. Lohan


*Christina's World - Wyeth
**Portrait of Joseph Roulin - Van Gogh

MOMA - Museum of Modern Art

LIC (Long Island City), New York - A Poem (2015)

It is as it was

We move along the suspended
track, winding through
smokestacks, edifices
without proper faces
toward the banking tower
the lone citadel of this
trash-strewn region

I have returned to
the borough of my youth
not out of want
but necessity
as this Barack era
has further stripped
the city of meaningful
work with benefits

It is as it was --
plentitude and barrenness
exchange greetings

I climb the stairs
to the office.

By Mary E. Lohan

Instructions on How to Clear Your Troubled Mind - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darkness")

Calculate the misdeeds, list them, itemize them,
affix bold headings like Blame and push through

don't bother being fair
fairness is meant for those you respect

don't bother being polite
rudeness comes naturally and is a measure of might

yes, calculate the misdeeds
list them meticulously, then cite the wrong and the blame

then wonder why this list
(although the names differ) is always the same.

By Mary E. Lohan

The Mechanics of Birth - A Poem (from "Four Folded Corners")

They don't tell you
     that you'll have to lie flat
     on your back
     hold your own legs
     from behind your knees

and pull them toward you
     as close to you
     as your bulging belly will allow

and that he may criticize you
     for not knowing how to push
     for not taking Lamaze.

You've only known him
     as the small, gray-haired
     Russian    who barely smiles
     tells you you've gained too much weight --
     this being your first is no excuse.

They don't tell you
     he may deny you an epidural
     when you can't bare it any longer.

Initally,
    you said you'd try
         to go Natural
    but that was before
    the labor peaked
         paralyzing you.

Or that
     he might wait too long
     and then,
          you'd have no choice.

Natural childbirth
     Pushing
     How can one push "wrong"?

"Breathe, hee hee hoo hoo," she says
"When you feel the need to push, do so,
and hold til I count to ten."
The nurse thinks she's helping.

She counts, but she's distracted.
Her counting slows down, is off beat --
"Hold it -- no -- don't make a sound,"
but I release off cue.

Failure
A failure at pushing
at giving birth to my own son.

Time to hold my breath, wait,
expel --

We're like two rhythm-less dancers
on the floor --
I'm up to 10, she's on 8
I can't wait,
expel.

They don't tell you not to moan or groan
beforehand --
wasted energy --
but you can't speak.

My face reddens up,
cheeks puff up,
vessels pop beneath my eyes.

Baby's on the brink of crowning

"You have to try harder," he says,
"He can't stay that way much longer."

And all I can think of
     because I'm muted in pain
is someone save my baby.

I scream, fuck the rules
I push and scream, I still can't speak
     Push, push -- help.

Within moments, he cuts me,
     and my son slides free --

He's wriggling but quiet,
I look at my husband and cry,
     "Is he okay?"

"He's fine... beautiful," he says,
     "Lie quiet."

In a flash, he is weighed
     I hear his cry,
and he's cleaned,
     dried.

And his eyes ---
     opened wide.

He lies in my trembling arms
     a big, head-full-of-hair boy
eyes blinking through the balm --
     Hi, Mom.

By Mary E. Lohan

What Lays Hidden - a Poem

What lays hidden
flutters
begs attention
until one day
I utter
a mention
and all that
flutters
flies away.

By Mary E. Lohan

Nurse - A Poem

How very little can be done under the spirit of fear - Florence Nightingale

I lie on the table
striking a pose
for the ultrasound tech,
half on my back
right arm bent
over my head,

the doctor arrives,
a round older man,

a needle of lidocane
then pressure,
an extended buzz,

a breast biopsy is not fun,

still, it's the nurse,
who gets my
attention,

she has grabbed
my hand mid-procedure
is hunkered in close,
talking about "La La Land"
and other light fare

her attention on me
doesn't waiver,

"Squeeze my hand
if you have to,"
"I'm okay," I say
brave

I'm surprised
how shakey I am
afterwards

"likely the
epinephrine"

she steadies me
stays with me,
wraps my wounds
carefully

we are like sisters
talking about boys,
altho' the topic is
about wounds
and infection

she sends me off
with an icepack, ace
bandages wrapped
tight about my breasts,
and advice,

and when I arrive
home, I am calm,

as if she is still there,
hunkered in,
holding my hand,

somehow,
her spirit has stayed,

and I am less
and less afraid.

By Mary E. Lohan

Note: A very special thank you to Nurse Carmella at Ocean Medical Center 

I'm Not One to Question God - Poem

I'm not one

to question God

after all,

against the odds

you found me

lured me with

your charm

..I can't help

but get lost

in your arms

think of you

from afar,

I know you

have doubts

while I have faith,

I guess,

it comes down to

"What are the odds?"

but really,

I'm not one

to question God

and everything is but

a breath in space.

by Mary E. Lohan

Love (It can be...) -- A Poem (From "Four Folded Corners")

It can be

     a shackle,
a surname you can't spell
     or pronounce,
a placeholder in a large bed,
     a reason to corner her and vent,

but what if it were
     a momentary,
meaningful embrace,
     a softly whispered word,
a butterfly kiss,
   
wings.


By Mary E. Lohan

A special thanks to Shack in the Swamp Photography for use of their beautiful images on my blog. 

Bissjon (Lovanger, Sweden) - A Poem

By happenstance,
I am here
beneath this forever sky
that stretches
beyond memory

candy pink haze
vanilla and blue hues
of light until dusk

a yellow cottage
sits at the gate
of this quaint hamlet

purchased from
the quiet dairy farmer
who tends to the lengths
of land and hay

happenstance
has plucked me,

from the bustle
of New York
and dropped me here
at the Northern most
reaches of the Earth

closer to the Mongols
than ever before

We drive to the market
foraging for food
amongst the foreign
letters and staples  --

sandwich cakes topped
with seafood are a sight
to behold

English is a visitor
that comes and goes

We pay for bags
and jump into the
rented Volvo that
runs for miles upon miles
on diesel

travel over
smooth, perfect
highway roads
guarded by
camera traffic
"eyes"

pines line the way
abound like skyscrapers
in a huge city

they fall away
to expose an expanse
of farmland

the sky
looming large, vast
and limitless

in winter
these roads are
refuges from the
swaths of snow drifts
that engulf feet and legs
with a crunch

in spring
these wildflower
lined paths take you
through emerald
and gold seas
straight to the
gate of
Oz.

By Mary E. Lohan

Revelation - Poem (From "Four Folded Corners"

girl child hides
in food stamp lines
behind mother's skirt,
     legs,
          coat,

afraid of faces,
     eyes,

studies floors
     tirelessly

holds her mother's hand tighter

     and asks in a whisper
twenty years later

where have all the men
     in this family

gone?

By Mary E. Lohan

Luggage - A Poem (From "Two of Cups: A NY Poet in Galway")

You towed my luggage
with care, without complaint
     up, down, in, out
     up, down, in, out
so easy it seemed
     two cases, two other things

I realize now
     baggage unseen
     is harder to move.


By Mary E. Lohan

Later - A Poem (From "Two of Cups: A New York Poet in Galway")

One day
when time stops
you may see
footsteps
impressions
long melted away
that diverge
and circle
and ponder anew
their course

you may recall
my face
faintly
our drives through
the countryside
or not,

yet
I will remember
this dull ache
the deepest eyes
the pursing of
your lips
right before
the dawn
of your smile.

By Mary E. Lohan

Life is Not Tidy - A Poem

Life is not tidy

we must forge

a path 

through thickets

and recircle

time and time
again

another day

until
we emerge 

from the maze

amazed.

By Mary E. Lohan

How Poems Come to Me - A Poem

They come to me
     like family,

when I fall out of bed at dawn
     or when I'm drowsy
about to asleep,

half in and out
of this world,

calling to me
     to let them in,
lest I forget,

calling my name
     from some far off place,
"We're coming over,
     we'll be right there!"

And when they arrive,
     it's like they were always
here, like I've never
     known life without them.

By Mary E. Lohan