In Honor of Poetry Month: Emily Warn

Once upon a time, in a land far to the north in a hamlet known as Bellingham Washington, there lived a young woman who wanted to grow up to be a poet and a writer. She worked in retail and loved hanging out with her friends, so her days were very full. But in between she tried to work on her writing. Most of the time she couldn’t afford going to writers workshops and came up with writing exercises on her own, but at least one time she was able to make it to a poet’s workshop.

It was a two-day workshop in the tiny Fidalgo Island (well, an island that looks like a peninsula) village of Anacortes Washington, and she could really only pay for one day there, not being able to afford overnight accommodations at the time, or the second day. So, she decided to go the first day and make the most of it. Over hill and dale she drove, over the Swinomish Channel that separates island from mainland by a mere sliver and on into the little town.

The work shop was being conducted by Emily Warn, a poet from San Francisco who had also lived, worked and gone to school in Detroit, Seattle, Lynchburg Virginia, Port Townsend Washington, Taos New Mexico and all sorts of other places.

The young woman learned several things from this poet including the difference between “practice” poem and a poem that digs deep and searches for the “thing” it wants to describe. And also that the religion one is born and raised with is as much a part of one as anything else and while one may walk away from it, it will always be there. So it’s best to turn around, face it and deal with it and how it will or will not be part of one’s life.

The young woman left the workshop with exercises and notes in hands, as well as a slim, autographed chapbook of poetry. The drive after dark through island fog taught her another thing, how to get past the fear of ending up in a ditch in the side of the road in the dark and just move on, as slow and steady as needed, through the white mist, illuminated by white lights burning from a white car.

Below is a poem, “Trouble,” from the chapbook, The Book of Esther, by Emily Warn.

Trouble

Began in trouble. Began in pacing
the Detroit desert until I found Esther
pacing on the boundary. She knew God.
Told me not to worry. That the ways I’d found
to survive were good. Then we compared manna.
Whatever you can imagine, like the law says.
Esther observed the laws. She knew them
inside out for each day of the week,
but there were homemade flaws,
especially on Shabbas. I watched her stare
right into the candle flame
without hiding her face.
When she tossed the Kiddush wine
into her mouth, it was in celebration
of her rebel ways. And God, she said,
didn’t blink. Then I knew Esther
was as great as God,
because her elaborate beautiful
offerings made her unafraid.
Esther is my hope and comfort;
she would laugh.
Yet I know she has lived through God’s terror;
she doesn’t take anyone lightly.
Not even me.
Not even my small fears
that grow wide and blank
as the midwest sky.
Impossible to speak out against them.
But Esther does. Then she dances
in her stocky certain body, a dance
you would do in a kitchen, careful
not to break the dishes or bang the pots,
but knowing if they break, they break.

She told me once that she too was afraid
but that won’t stop her dancing.
Knowing that helps, but I still cry out
and become brittle when the dogs bark
or the house creaks. And I sleep
facing the door, ready to greet God the stranger.

O what can anchor Esther to earth,
to her large bowl of sifting memories,
to five thousand years of Jewish graves,
to the notion of authority in a random universe,
if not for my caring for Esther’s
drifting spirit, for her separated self?
How could Esther have found her way
back to her body, how could she have kept
from floating through the ceiling,
how could she have hoped to be whole
if not for my containing Esther’s absolute
terror as she rose.

You can check out more about about Emily Warn at the website above or here, though it looks like she hasn’t checked in with her website or blogs for a couple of years.