3 Poems

Ellen Kort is probably best known outside the Fox Valley as Wisconsin’s first Poet Laureate. As such she became the prime advocate for the craft, traveling the state to serve the muse by opening the hearts and minds of our citizens to the strength, beauty and joy of poetry. The fact is that Ellen has been doing that for years, fostering the words of beginners and their elders long before her tenure as Laureate. It was recently my pleasure to take part in a one-day workshop of hers at The Clearing in Ellison Bay. As a teacher, she is the muse personified. Surely the fact that her own craft is driven by her passion to explore the whole human experience shapes her ability to inspire others. That passion is represented here in three of her newest poems. – HCT

A Moose is Down

Two hikers report a downed moose up near

the ridge just past the hiking trail on Sawtooth

Mountain. Her knobby legs branched out

like an old tree. Her dark coat heaving. The day’s

sun sucking her last breath. Her mate paces back

and forth calling, calling, inching as close as he dares

to the strange scent of humans. He paws at the ground,

lowers his head, shakes it from side to side as though

the huge rack is too heavy to carry. The DNR will

transport her, name her, will autopsy the cause of death,

sell her hide and hooves. Tomorrow in the Duluth Times

we will read how the bull moose walked the ridge,

coming back again and again to the smell of death.

Hands

Late into the night I tell you stories of Jessie,

the old woman across the street who wore

her husband’s severed thumb around her neck

like a rabbit’s foot. They could not sew it

back so she dried it and wore it for good luck

I remember how it was when you first

touched me. I wanted to warn you

that I could feel the heat rising from the half

shell of your hand, how I knew even then

it would burn between us in the dark, your heart

breathing like a shadow sliding from your hand

to mine. I remember touching you, studying

the skin of your hand, how music filled the spaces

between muscle and bones, how I traced and blessed

every finger. I want to tell you that heaven may be

nothing more then a cloud of hands rising upward

to music written long before we were born. I like

the way your hand spreads to it’s own longing,

the way I fit now between your wrist and the tip

of your fingers, your hand cupped like the moon.

Your hand the golden light that turns me in my sleep.

The Color

Of Your Name

Today

at a writing workshop

we write a poem

for someone we know

using the names of lipstick

I choose you Helen

the soft pink shape

of your mouth You

could be a walking

magazine ad

in a smart Silk Cocoa suit

in matching shoes

buying perfume

at Macy’s

Whisper  White Chantilly

but I paint you in Coral Sunrise

summer shades of Raspberry

and Plum your sweet lips

humming your garden

into bloom Lilac Lace

Rosewood Geranium

    Poppy Red