Three Poems

Some Say

 

There are, some say, lives that we could have led,

choices we could have made, a castle in Spain

we could have occupied; we could have lain

beside each other in Dylan’s big brass bed.

 

We could have savoured viands unlimited,

depleted cellars stocked with rare champagne,

breathed lungful after lungful of frangipane,

and courted renown on steeds high-spirited.

 

There’d have been, of course, options other than these,

with stations less extreme, fare less exotic,

routines designed for a normal narrative.

 

And if people are free to pick the lives they please,

with a range of choice from quotidian to quixotic,

we well might have chosen, exactly, the lives we live.

 

 

 

 

Windows

 

Celebrate if you wish to

the view from your kitchen window,

a stretch of meadow perhaps

with people close to the earth,

backs bent, gathering grass

or loading produce on carts.

 

Or, it may be, people in gear,

their heads held high, on horseback,

prepared for the chase.

 

Or, if nothing like that, a high hill

sporting a ruined castle

(or perhaps an aesthetic cottage)

and topped with incomparable trees

that patrol your skyline.

 

As for me, I like our own view,

the window itself half concealed

by the colander next to the sink,

its dark-green handle pointing

(as if with intent) to the ceiling,

 

and by the plump cooking pot

half obscuring the top of the blender,

 

and by the checkered blind

pulled half way down to the sill

on which stands a pot of fresh basil

growing just for us.

 

And what can be seen through this window?

A thorn tree in full, white-bright blossom

that allows (just barely) small spots,

here and there, of a lucent

and confident blue-white sky.

 

 

The Cat in the Adage

 

Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would”,

Like the poor cat i’th’adage …

—Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 7

 

The cat would eat fish but she will not wet her feet

—footnote in The RSC Shakespeare: Complete Works,

 

A kitten, I chased

after anything that moved.

A feather or a teasing finger,

it made no difference.

Flies would come later, then mice.

 

A cat, I was content

in myself, with nothing to answer for,

responding only when it suited me

to rubbing behind my ears

or a lap to lie on.

 

In time, sleep would steal on me,

or else long, drowsy minutes

of yawning and stretching

and then yawning again—

before going back to sleep.

 

And now an old, old cat,

I learn that I’m in an adage.

But Lady Macbeth got it wrong.

Whatever she meant me to signify,

I never lacked for fish.

 

Knute Skinner