Knute Skinner: Four Poems

                           Self-Assessment at Eighty

                (After reading Peter Ackroyd’s Shakespeare: The Biography)

I spend the morning writing a poem. Perhaps it will go into a book. My

         latest, Fifty Years: Poems 1957–2007, has had welcome reviews.

In the afternoon I file my statements from Fiserv. My investments from

         retirement income are doing all right.

Shakespeare, in the closing years of his life, at the height of his fame, was

         semi-retired from the theatre but writing King Lear.

He had purchased New Place and had recently invested in tithes.

He was wealthier, by the standards of his day, than I am now.

His achievements, then as now, were beyond compare.

My advantage is that I am still over ground.

                                                                                    Knute Skinner

Boyhood Paths

One aimless Saturday we lost ourselves,

Dick and I, in a wood,

an overgrown path between hostile trees

failing to point us homeward.

As the day subsided, we found at last

a break from dark, towering limbs

and low-lying, bruising branches.

We walked out into sunlight.

Into sunlight and into a long familiar landmark,

a cinder path alongside railroad tracks.

As a locomotive drew near, we dug in our pockets,

placed palm-soiled nickels on a shiny rail.

Then, standing as close as we dared,

we waved, as always, to the engineer.

Then we scurried between the ties

to look for our treasure.

We could have spent our wealth on 6-ounce Cokes

or, if too thirsty for that, on 12-ounce Pepsis.

Instead, we pocketed beautifully flattened coins,

good value for our money.

            Lover

How he loves going there.

The frisky lights, the brisk pavements,

the sharp colours, the bold gestures,

the expressions that inordinately offer

the heady taste of distraction.

             *

How he loves going there.

The soft, irregular lines of surpassing meadows,

the casual release of attending stars,

the small talk of men and women

rooted in a sequence of seasons.

             *

How he loves going there.

The key fitting the lock, the turn of the handle,

the door opening to a face

framed by a well-ordered room

with sight lines that lead to a pledged passage.

         The Power of Prayer

I braced myself and murmured a prayer.

I could hear myself laughing.

Then “Hey, you,” I said, “whatcha doing?”

“I’m praying,” I answered, “I’m

just bracing myself and murmuring a prayer.”

Then “What’s it to you?” I added.

We could have gone on like that, I and I,

but the driving rain abated

and an oncoming car swerved clear.

“Well, what do you know!” I said,

and “What do you make of that!” I said,

and “I think I’ve converted myself,”

we said together.

Knute Skinner