Nan Williamson Poetry Collection
– Poetry by Nan Williamson –
Waiting
For Deborah
The elevator stops at five waiting room
of the worried mostly in twos hands joined
we sisters a mother and son young man
and his lover one sporting a toque or scarf
Low tones whispers We wait to hear
the future in results Intercom code alerts
in calm and modulated voices Deb our sister
scans the room bland white windowless
only a life-sized anatomy chart of organs
diseased Overhead rows of fluorescent tubes –
one that entombs black corpses of a couple of flies –
she informs us with a fiendish crooked smile
Stripped of diversions and disguise – Steve Madden
boots cashmere sweater her facade of “fine ”-
Deb’s standard answer to “How are you?” is exposed
Her private illness is made public now
At least the waiting room was real she said
distress and candour a raw quality unlike
the daunting office party where she
was the inconvenience in the room
colleagues hailed her breezily no eye contact
as if she were the clown in the miming act
where you use your hands
to define the cage you are in
.
Waiting
now in bed stalled by illness she knew
the gift of time a rest from workplace talk
life measured out in coffee spoons
Time to ask what is it? who am I? does it matter?
Pain subdued A mindful space to watch
the changing winter sky snow-lined trees
blackbirds chickadees see beauty
in a copper pitcher’s curving lines
sketch the devil’s ivy in the window
its satiny draping leaves taste the perfect
avocado with sea salt and fresh lime
listen to the spare and gentle heart-songs
of Satie greet us each morning with a smile
feel joy as winter sun lit up her bed
kiss and laugh and hug and hug
When we at last let go the wise
ones say we find ourselves our end
is our beginning gives structure to our lives.
That Easter Sunday morning her children harmonized
sang a cherished song The Canticle of the Sun
Her hand in mine before the welcome lethal
shot face joyful as the needle entered
Deb said she felt a dreaming vision injected
straight into her vein as if she was finally
bound somewhere no more waiting
reconciled among the stars
Poet’s Practice in these Times
There was a time when you wrote
that autumn dazzled struck our maple trees
and they were rich deep red and golden leaves
You said that early sunsets left them burning
hectic just before the night
This year the trees are sick pathetic
fallacy leaves wrinkled crispy brown
shrivelled on the branch they break
from dried-out stems falling into dusty piles
when weak enough and withered
Now you write of nightmares dark rentals of the soul
foul play conduct unbecoming top brass
behaving badly covid’s daily deaths
pandemic poverty more floods and fires
and here and there a Machiavelli
who can smile and smile and be a villain
Outside there are sirens someone’s been shot
Listen you must still speak of the shadowy
woman humming silky blue tunes by the night
window of violets dappling the lawn of lovers
who somehow survive and once again without irony
offer to the betrayed world one persistent green
shoot that springs from a spent maple tree
heard in the shell
For D. after breast cancer diagnosis
sea waves rise and crash
inside my keepsake conch
dark panic swells
no mere intimations but chaos
roaring in my ear
prophetic shell my skull’s blood
rushes out of control
this primal trumpet echoes fear
let me suck black seeds glistening caviar
crush papaya soft flesh in my mouth
don’ttellthekidsorsistersmother
this soft ripe globe hold in your palm
cup the bruised apple
circle areola with your thumb
crush it in your lips before the dawn
waking beside you sun
on the morning bed I dreamed
you saved me from the drowning waves
lift up the conch again maybe
there’ll be new music in the shell
and you will hold it let me hear
today’s green song
About the Author – Nan Williamson
Nan Williamson is a teacher, artist and author living in Peterborough. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers, Toronto, 2013. Her chapbook, leave the door open for the moon, was published by Jackson Creek Press in 2015. Always interested in the verbal-visual connection, she plays with shapes, colours, and texture to wed form and content in paint and poetry. More than 70 of her poems have been published in juried literary journals and anthologies in Canada, the US, and the UK. She is also the illustrator for Delicate Impact, a Canadian anthology of poetry, A Beret Days Book, The Ontario Poetry Society, 2018.
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Writing Myself Alive: An Episodic Poem
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