Sheila Twyman
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Sheila Mullen Twyman¹s poetry and short fiction have been published in numerous literary journals, and anthologies including Do Not Give Me Things Unbroken, dedicated to the poet, Ottone Riccio, with whom she has work-shopped for several years, and the soon to be released anthology, Unlocking the Poem. She is the author of two poetry collections, Driftwood and Galloping in Bas Relief, and has co-edited several anthologies of short stories and poems. She has been featured poet at venues in the Boston, the South Shore, Cape Cod and Rhode Island Areas. Sheila is coordinator and host for "Poetry Under the Trees," an annual open mic gathering during the arts festival in Marshfield, MA. She produces and presents "Egads, It¹s Poetry," for the MA Radio Network for the Blind, which features local poets reading/performing their work.
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This Ghost is Not to be Exorcised
Soldiers stole the quiet from my village.
Nine people in my family died
before they even had their breakfast.
Silent shapes slithered past green rice paddys,
over dirt, fresh woven mats,
fired into the dark,
filled the air with sulfured smoke.
No husbands, no brothers sleeping there,
just old bones, suckling babes.
My Grandmother rolled me into a ball,
tucked me tight to her belly,
breathed her life into my ear.
****
Auntie says I have grown tall
and look like my Granny,
the same wide gap, dark between front teeth.
Today is an anniversary of Granny¹s last breath.
I will lay her memorial tablet on the altar
in the best part of my home,
prepare her favorite rice with ginger sauce,
light three sticks of incense
and invite her to this feast.
She will sit and eat and tell me
that even though I cannot see her
she drips dew from bamboo leaves onto my tongue,
blows the Œkoo koo¹ of spotted doves into my ears,
guides my fingers through soft moss on the temple wall
and winds and winds
every thread of my life
into a giant ball
and hugs it tight to her belly.
Nothing Lasts, Nothing is Lost
Title from sacred Indian writings
The wind has blown our old cherry tree down.
The one with the white spring blossoms
that float on the sea breeze
like spinning prayer wheels
and settle on the pool¹s surface .
The one that spreads its cool shade
above our picnic table.
That bent tree behind the fence
with the ancient grape vine
clinging with a symbiotic grip
tognarledarled branches.
Together, tree and vine have provided
sweet, succulent fruits to satisfy
a neighborhood of children every summer.
Now, the winged residents of the green canopy are airborne,
diving, screeching their goldfinch stacattos.
Their loss of home incomprehensible.
You trim the cherry¹s crown and
small branches into fire starters,
saw through the bark,
through the soft sapwood into the heartwood
until the tree lies drawn and quartered,
awaiting cremation on some cool evening.
The rings on the cherry¹s stump
reveal a bible of its past life.
New, large cells beget a season¹s earlywood,
snow, rain, sun, slope affect
and beget smaller latewood cells.
Each ring, a year of life,
controlled by uncontrollable events.
I will not wait until you have been felled
by sudden mistrals...ill winds that would
ruffle your hair gray and bend
your thin frame to the ground.
I will tell you now,
right now,
how much I love
Taking a Walk in Siem Reap
Cambodia
He counts on bony fingers...
"One, two, three, four,
four short years of peace..."
after three decades
of Lon Nol, Pol Pot, Khmer Rouge...
names that roll around the tongue
like sweet grapes,
names with an after-taste
that nauseate like wine gone bad.
I ask about the long struggle...
fathers, mothers disappeared,
doctors, artists, teachers disappeared,
anyone assumed guilty of being educated,
who might dare to resist...
all shot, or worse.
I phrase my questions carefully...
he may have been one of the enemy.
We pass an enclosure
with mounds of rusty metal...
mines, mortars, rifles, small arms
that the government will set afire,
melt into amorphous forms.
A rippling banner proclaims,
"Weapons are the enemy of development."
The rice fields are lime-green and lush
against the dark jungle fringes,
black water-buffalo chew lazily,
small white birds gorge on lice
that nestle within the stiff hairs.
Bent figures with conical straw hats
slosh through hip-high water
and tend to the precious, life-sustaining grains.
This land is exquisite...
an emerald chalice of symbiotic tranquility.
I start toward a nearby fragipani tree
exploding with pungent white blossoms.
"No, no," he scolds, "landmines...
that ground¹s not cleared of landmines yet."
So, we continue to walk in the middle of the dirt road,
I, with my two sandals flip-flopping,
raising red dust,
he, hobbling on one bare foot, two crutches...
his left leg fertilizing a field
somewhere in the distance.
