WIDOWMAKER REDUX
A Golden Shovel created from Jane Hirschfield’s “(No Wind, No Rain)”
It never mattered how many times No!
was the word that darted in on the wind,
or if placing down a glass you yelled No!
Of course there was fear leaning on the rain,
the sky just standing around watching the
finest swirl of mist tangle in the tree.
What now? you thought as you dismantled just
enough dread so that by the time it fell
you were done unpacking yourself just as
the drama peaked, a spray of sawdust, a
shaving of wood no bigger than a piece
of starlight slipping through a cracked fence, of
a melting trace of shadow on hot fruit,
quick wins on dense limbs—this is what spring does.
*
Soon this will cross a line inside me, but
for several moments I’ll stand and think No.
Not today, with the sun shining and not
even the frailest trace of trembling fruit.
The pond had just begun to turn and not
a single sign of a naiad nor ripe
enough stonefly to have taken flight not
for its gift but to assault where food fell.
*
It came with time as it always does. It
entered gates of cosmic lust and broke.
Out on the lawn for so many years, it
went unseen, yet always there, then shattered.
*
The house was shrouded in shade by the one-
the cherry tree groveled, its buds of cones
refusing to flower—no addition
to the spring which had come with the voice of
a craven blast that sucked the resinous
heart of the Rose of Sharon, its cell-sap
spattered into the fleeing sun with one
gasp, which threw gems of flowers, small-bodied,
onto the Plain of Sharon, it’s one bird
cast into the wind, arriving
as a song, pastel churning and threadbare, yet to
the crisis it adds no talent to tap,
even in Solomon’s voice, a code for
someone’s, anyone’s help to keep it a—
right, this gem—shade for the tiger Beetle—
I remember when my father heard it.
He was looking outside when it shattered.
*
No deafening noise or peoples’ wails. What
we heard? (No Wind, No Rain) no spoken word—
just the big maple manifesting what
engulfed it, forced it to perform the act.
We stopped hearing then and everything was
altered—our speech, our faces, the ground it
slowly knelt to—leaves’ backs praying that we
would not view them as weak. But we had thought,
watching it daily, our old friend, did not
mean sparks of collapse made the sky not matter
JONQUILS
II. A Game of Chess
What shall I do now? What shall I do?
But I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
What shall we ever do?
— “The Waste Land,” T.S. Eliot
An elegy for my Brother, Rennie McQuilkin
The wind resonates,
soaring between each branch, each leaf,
unfurling in the sky,
and in some exultant way
you find comfort
dreaming of the crossing.
When we’re entangled by the transcendent,
pitilessly tattered by despair,
tempests of anxiety approaching,
and the fatal mystification
of unfathomable questions burdens us…
even then you pass around
the Communion Plate of joy,
small fragments of love
by which the healing may begin.
Lights in some windows are dimmed
by those who remain behind,
dispirited by the unstoppable,
while you rely on devotion and love,
earthly and otherwise,
and fearlessly share these treasures,
handing them out
as if your supply were unlimited
and fear just some old fable.
The sky at night reveals fractures
under whose anemic elucidation you sleep-
you’re worn-down,
and your dreams are turbulent
beneath those weak lamps. .
Today was never enough.
No matter how hard you try
to renounce that fact,
you will still walk directly
into the coming day
prepared to accept whatever it gives,
and while tomorrow’s stock
is also inadequate,
your step remains light,
your gifts perpetual.
It is mesmerizing.
How is it that
in this partial light, dimming,
you’re able to enter
carrying another armful of euphoria?
Please… teach me how,
at the end of the day,
when the sky is lit only
by an arras of glinting embers
teach me, please,
how to know where the jonquils grow,
and when I might pick them,
so I can come to you and say,
“Here. These are for you.”
Even if it’s pouring rain
I will still go in search
of their resplendent yellow,
seeking some semblance of direction,
not knowing, at all,
whether I’ll find them
and get them to you in time.
Bio:
John L Stanizzi’s 14 collections include Hallelujah Time!, SEE, POND, and others. His newest book, Entra La Notte, will be out in November 2025. Besides his many appearances in Ovunque Siamo, John has also been published in Prairie Schooner, Cortland Review, American Life in Poetry, Rattle, Tar River, and many others. John has recently been nominated to be the next Connecticut State Poet Laureate. He lives in Coventry, CT with his wife, Carol.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 