NEW POETRY
ISSUE 2
Wally Swist
Discovering What to Say
for Father Gabriel Rochelle
You write informing me
that you have traced your German surname
back to 1100 in Blaubeuren
and to two brothers who lived auf die riede,
or “by the swamp (reeds).”
How much like you
to provide the exegesis and the argument
at once, igniting my memory
of our once-a-week Monday talks
in your book-lined study facing
High Street, the tops of the heads
of passersby moving to and from
classes at the university,
when sometimes the very air itself
would fill with the intensity
of our conversations, the books
I would bring, the authors I would
introduce from my hours working
in the bookstore, and you sharing
the depth of your knowledge
and your active wisdom such as
how people forty thousand years ago
fashioned bone pipes in the caves
near Blaubeuren, how these pipes
were both discovered and their images
reproduced in paintings on the walls,
how you facilitate my hearing
the melodies of their playing
not because they have nothing to say
but exactly because you and I
will always discover what to say
and what is most specific to express
like the fires of an idea
that can even light up the walls
of a cave, just like that evening
I dropped off a Christmas gift
to you of a copy of David Jones’
In Parenthesis, his book-length
poem of fighting in the trenches
in World War I, the snow falling
as slowly as in a paperweight,
and you meeting me at the front door,
the hallway lit behind you, intimating
the length of the decades we would
remain in contact and in friendship,
wherein there have been silences
that are always filled again with words
we needed to say and said them
with clarity, not unlike the residents
of caves who sat beside the flames
of their hearth and blew into
their pipes of bone by discovering
what they had to say, as we have been
trying to leave a trace of the sacred,
so anyone could clearly see it
and begin to listen to it fill the air.
Devorah Baum
Rebecca Priestley