Poems of Margaret Howe Freydberg

Peggy Freydberg Portrait — Photo by Eli Dagostino
 
Poems from the Pond, The Writings of Peggy Freydberg: "107 Years of Words and Wisdom, Poems from the Pond" was conceived of and edited by Laurie David, 2015.

Portrait of Peggy Freydberg by Eli Dagostino.


Chorus of Cells

Every morning,
even being very old,
(or perhaps because of it),
I like to make my bed.
In fact, the starting of each day
unhelplessly,
is the biggest thing I ever do.
I smooth away the dreams disclosed by tangled sheets,
I smack the dented pillow’s revelations to oblivion,
I finish with the pattern of the spread exactly centered.
The night is won.
And now the day can open.
All this I like to do,
mastering the making of my bed
with hands that trust beginnings.
All this I need to do,
directed by the silent message
of the luxury of my breathing.
And every night,
I like to fold the covers back,
and get in bed,
and live the dark, wise poetry of the night’s dreaming,
dreading the extent of its improbabilities,
but surrendering to the truth it knows and I do not;
even though its technicolor cruelties,
or the music of its myths,
feels like someone else’s experience,
not mine.
I know that I could no more cease
to want to make my bed each morning,
and fold the covers back at night,
than I could cease
to want to put one foot before the other.
Being very old and so because of it,
all this I am compelled to do,
day after day,
night after night,
directed by the silent message
of the constancy of my breathing,
that bears the news I am alive.

~~

Falling in Love

What kind of an instrument was I,
when he found it,
and, because his blood impelled him to,
daringly, for caution was very strong,
reached a broad, square finger
and plucked, for the first time,
one of its strings?
I could have called myself a Stradivarius,
for though I, of course, was just an ordinary violin,
waiting,
ready to be held for the first time in a musician’s hands,
primed to be played,
mobilized by all my busy genes
to become music –
when first I felt the quiver
of its stirring sound,
I became, imparadised,
the most priceless stringed instrument
on the face of the earth.
After all those years
of lying in the curvaceous coffin of a velvet-lined violin case
snapped shut,
unborn, but
fully contoured waiting to emerge
and breathe to make my destined music –
one day he came
and dared to pluck a string.
Life made its first whole sound.

Leave a reply

Theme developed by TouchSize - Premium WordPress Themes and Websites