Magnolia Trees, Poems, and Me

Last week there was a lovely article in the New York Times, by Kerry Kennedy, describing her father's love for poetry -- this is something I did not know, that Bobby Kennedy loved poetry, kept a "battered book" by his side at the dinner table, and challenged his kids to memorize poems while he and Ethel were on trips. I have written my own poems about war's futility, and keep a Norton Anthology at the dining room table, but I don't have something that RFK had -- an ability to connect history, current American life and culture, poetry, and my children together in a way that reverberates for them. At least, if I do have that ability, I can't see it yet.
I did write a poem about a magnolia tree once. And I've learned a lot about RFK this month. Now if only I were writing more.

The Tree Attended

The rain is okay.
Wind scares me
makes that slap clacking sound
in the flags at the end of the pool,
when I put my head up I think of
skeletons or someone dropping silverware.
The black sky okay, too,
safe and close, oddly warm even when
the window is flat ice under my palms.
Hail jumps sweet,
sugar candy or popcorn,
the shy rain that changed its mind into shapes
big enough to share, then
brags its brightness, dents the air.

When it’s over
the tulip magnolia tree stands like a crossing guard,
a fair shepherdess,
blossoms pink and bruised white,
scattered along the sidewalk in two directions.
But many are still on the tree
jealous of their spring
like new breasts, eager
to fall into whatever the weather builds for their falling
and somehow reluctant
enjoying the shape of the their beauty.

Lisa, see how the tree is as big as a pick-up truck,
powerful, hauling the glistening oxygen,
damp, competent, moving
in the steaming evening,
flowers cupped with rain in the branches
and some in the street.
Everything lies down under the deluge.
The flowers don’t care
where they will fill up with nightfall,
or who sees them,
losing their minds.

(2005)