Painesville--A Poetry Reading from January 3, 2017

Painesville 

Robert M. Coughlin

Bistro 70. “Words & Wine”

Painesville, Ohio

January 3, 2017

I.

Hard Times, Hard Winter

Anne Frank in Painesville, 2016

Nine-year-old Bernadette García-Lopez

Her two brothers, her baby sister,

Her parents and her abuela

Hide in the secret closet built into the basement

Of this old Painesville house.

They are totally silent, knowing the US Border Patrol and I.C.E.

Are on her street, arresting Mario Oscar, her neighbor,

A man dying from kidney failure, on dialysis –

He will be deported to Mexico, where he came from more than 20 years ago,

For a misdemeanor committed in 1994: working with a fake ID.

This means, almost for sure, that Mario Oscar will die,

Separated from his two children and wife,

Who are citizens or legal residents.

Everyone on this Painesville street, all the neighbors,

Are also hiding in basements or attics or other secret places.

Hands cover the babies’ mouths, toddlers are sternly warned

Not to make a sound—the consequences can be so horrible.

A stone’s throw from here, the old Rider Inn,

Underground Railroad stop,

Where escaped slaves hid, following the drinking gourd stars,

The subtle signs of the way to Canada, to freedom.

No, this is not pre Civil War America;

This is not 1944 Amsterdam, Anne Frank hiding in a concealed room behind the Bookcase, Holland choked at the throat by Nazis—

No, this is Painesville, Ohio, 2016.

                                                            Robert M. Coughlin

                                                                                December 8, 2016

en la frontera, los inmigrantes desesperados . . .

mujeres y niños llorones,

policía exigiendo documentos, pasaportes--

algunos niños agarran fuertemente los pasaportes americanos--

y las manos de sus madres--

pero las madres no tienen nada,

ningún pasaporte,

ninguna esperanza

para el viaje de vuelta largo a Guatemala,

donde no existe un futuro,

no existe nada.

[on the border, the desperate immigrants / mothers and children weeping / police demanding documents, passports / some children grasp fiercely their American passports and the hands of their mother / but the mother has nothing / no passport / no hope / for the long journey back to Guatemala / where there exists no future / where there is nothing]

Winter Solstice

The chill creeps into the bones:
December 21 and sun gone long before 5 o’clock;
huge gray clouds roll in off Lake Erie
riding the Witch’s gale, spitting sleet and

fears as real and as organized as the swirl
of pin oak leaves down Lakeshore Boulevard.
This day, shaken by nameless fears,
seems to last forever:

I wonder how I will get through the next minute,
and the minute after that,
and the minute after that,

wonder if I can make it
until hope returns

until peace-which-surpasses-understanding,
as mysterious as winter solstice’ fear--
my heart standing still, turning cold,
my spirit abandoned--

until peace returns like grace like unexpected

gift.

Robert M. Coughlin

Bitter Winter Home              (a poem in progress)

On snowy winter nights, Dr. Jim O’Connell

Rides a van through the slushy streets of Boston,

Going to the places you and I avoid:

The shelters, back allies,

Hidden places in the parks, the remnant woods,

The places only the Homeless know . . .

When he finds the place, a place he knows by heart,

He hops out of the van with his colleagues,

Armed with a flashlight, a small medical satchel,

Some gift cards to Dunkin Donuts or McDonalds—

(Some place for a bite and a hot cup of coffee).

You notice Jim’s athletic gait,

The concern on his face,

The smile, the warm encounter

With these forsaken.

Jim and colleagues serve without judgment,

Witness to human vulnerability,

The detritus of our brute society, those left behind,

And bring them what hope and healing they can offer

To the invisible ones.

The doctor, nurses, and helpers share their own brokenness

With those on the streets this bitter winter night.

You wonder who is the healer, the helper,

The teacher?

Bob Coughlin / February 22, 2016

Note: Jim O’Connell was a classmate at the University of Notre Dame and in the Innsbruck Program (Notre Dame’s Sophomore Year Abroad program). Jim won the 2012 Albert Schweitzer Prize for Humanitarianism and has been a physician for Boston’s Homeless for over 30 years,

The Deep-down Loneliness of the Homeless and the Hungry

Again and again I have noticed the deep down loneliness

Of the homeless folks who dine with us . . .

Liz, now walking with a cane, sneaking around the church

Looking for a cranny where she can spend the night,

Her mind a jumble of sweetness and anger.

Stanley, dressed impeccably, looking like an insurance salesman,

Wheeling his cart full of his possessions. I wonder

Where does he sleep? How is he able to clean up,

Present himself as if he is some upper middle class white collar guy . . .

Jimmy, looking much older, talking to himself,

Friend to my blacksheep cousins—could have married one of them!

Erin, who eagerly hugs Cindy, then comes to the kitchen while we are cleaning up—

To hug her again.

He looks like he should be able to make it,

But something mysterious holds him back.

I look at the beautiful children, daughters and sons of the Homeless or Hungry,

Wonder about their futures. Right now many of them are happy, carefree.

One reminds me of my beautiful grandsons!

Where will they be in January, when Lake Erie sends us feet of snow and blasts of bitter

Cold? I think: I could help these innocent ones . . .

Jack sitting all day near the wall by McDonalds, with his homeless cart,

What does he do, how does he spend his time?

Another Jack, looking like an Indian,

His hair pulled back in a ponytail,

Sometimes very sweet, sometimes staggeringly drunk.

Most have their routines, lunch at the Salvation Army, supper at St. James or St. Mary’s,

Sometimes enough coins scrounged for McDonalds,

Mornings and afternoons at the Morley Library,

Nights at Project Hope, or in some car, in an alley,

An abandoned building, on somebody’s porch,

In a tent by the Grand River, in the woods behind the power plant.

So little comfort in their everyday lives, lives we can barely understand.

I hope we bring them good food two nights a week,

Some companionship, some kindness,

Some beauty,

Maybe a laugh . . .

Wish we could do more . . .

Bob Coughlin / September 15, 2016

II.

Hope for the Future

First Poem for Baby Ava

When Colin, your big brother, let your name slip,

I thought, what a beautiful, simple name!

It reminds me of wings, of butterflies and birds,

Monarchs and robins, swallowtails and cardinals.

And “Ava” hints at “Eve,” earth mother,

Mother of us all.

Little Ava, born into this beautiful family,

We welcome you

                        Into this crazy and wonderful world.

Bob Coughlin  / July 27 and August 4, 2016

Elf-on-the-Shelf

What do Robby and Colin think about the Elf?

Every morning when they wake up,

The elf is in some new and interesting place.

Yesterday he (or she) was up on the ceiling fan in the foyer,

A nearly impossible location.

Elf appeared to be smiling at the boys—and their parents.

Sometimes the Elf appears with a message—

This morning the message, writ large, was

“Be Good!”

My daughter, such a creative mother,

Must know something about this Elf,

And Elf’s mysterious movements.

Where will Elf be tomorrow morning?

Where does Elf go after the Christmas season? Why does Elf do this?

                        Bob Coughlin / December 10, 2016

Portrait of Robby at Two

When Robby wakes up after his nap,

(And this boy is one good napper),

He lies in bed awhile and talks.

Sometimes he practices sounds or words.

One day I heard him say the word “yes”

At least ten times. “Yes!” “Yes!” and “Yes!”

If I come visit him and walk into the house with my shoes on,

Robby points to my shoes, then pulls them off,

Carries them to the door, sets them in perfect order—

He is like me, his Grandfather,

He likes order—and at the same time,

Loves chaos.

Robby loves to play in his basement,

A paradise for toddlers. He tells his Grandmother,

“Nana, run! Run!”

Then runs in a circle ten times,

Wearing out poor Nana.

When visiting, I ask Robby to show me the fish.

He takes me to the aquarium and shows me

The big ones, the little ones, the blue and the pink.

He loves the fish—wants me to feed them.

Then he takes me by the hand to the piano.

He actually puts my fingers on the keys

And says, “Play, Brrr, play!”

“Play ‘Jingle Bells’!”

He calls me “Brr” like his big brother Colin—

“Brrr”—the bearded grandfather,

A name I love.

This little guy, now two-years-old,

So happy, so much fun,

Such a great teacher to his parents,

Grandparents, and brother.

                        Bob (“Brrr”) Coughlin

                        January 2016

Robby's Third Birthday

"Here I am!" you announce,

Climbing out of your crib,

Surprising us in the family room.

Yes, here you are!

And we are so happy to celebrate

You, on your third birthday.

You, so full of joy and energy,

You so full of love for Mommy and Daddy,

Your big brother Colin and baby sister Ava,

For your Grandmas, Nana Gigi, Nana Linda,

Your Grampas, Bumpa and Brrr,

Aunts and Uncles, cousins and friends.

You, lover of music, running,

Trains, trucks, diggers, eating, napping . . .

We celebrate your joyous life!

Happy Birthday, Beautiful Robby!

Grampa Brrr / December 30, 2016

III.

Memory, Hope, and Hurt

February’s Dream

the snow lies thick upon the earth

the groundhog saw his shadow

the nights are long and bitter cold

but I have watched closely

and have seen some signs:

the morning concert of chirping birds

tree twigs turned a shade of red

silver maples’ pregnant buds

I have felt the quickening

first hope in this hard winter

I look for the crocus

and remember the birth

of a love

(Pippa Passes, Kentucky

February 1979)

Song of the Turtle

“and the song of the turtle is heard

throughout the land.” Song of Songs 2:12

winterwaiting

our spirits hibernating

like our brothers the bear

our sap slow and deep

our thoughts turned in

but what’s this?

a turtle coos victory over death

the earth quickens

sends out magic crocus

forsythia explode

ecstatic mirror of the sun

redbud promise

dogwood dance under the April moon

our sap is running

our love is blooming

our spirits dancing

to the turtle’s magic song

(Pippa Passes, Kentucky

February 1979)

Grace and Darkness in Matala, Crete-- April 6, 1968

In this little Cretan village, Pitsidia,

Just kilometers north of Matala,

Anastasios invites me into his home,

Hands me his precious bouzouki.

Photos of Pope John XXIII, an Italian, and John F. Kennedy, Irish-American,

Festoon this Greek’s whitewashed walls.

Two days before, Martin Luther King Jr. murdered

In Memphis. Two months from now Bobby Kennedy

Will be murdered in Los Angeles.

Anastasios introduces us to his beautiful daughters, Kharis (Grace),

Maria, and Magdalena. Shows me a photo of his cousin Nick

In New York City. I weep over his kindness,

His sweet bouzouki, his beautiful girls,

The passing of John XXIII, the murder of Jack Kennedy.

                                    Robert M. Coughlin / November 22, 2013

                                   

Lucky (Stones) at Mentor Headlands (1964)

Got my driver’s license a week after June 11th,

borrowed Dad’s ‘59 Pontiac Catalina, big as an ocean liner,

and headed down Lake Shore Boulevard to Headlands.

The drive in mid June is wonderful, windows down,

“Cathy’s Clown” blaring from WIXY 1260,

Everly Brother’s in their perfect blood harmony.

My brother Denny and my buddies are singing raucously along.

We think we’re big deals, going into junior year of high school,

hormones boiling, but a Catholic straightjacket firmly over everything.

We get to Corduroy Road, then north past the Marsh

and east to the park. Hundreds, maybe thousands of cars

parked there, the hottest day of the year.

We hit the broad beach, burning like coals,

and hot-foot it across the sand towards the lake.

Half-naked bodies everywhere. We’re not in Catholic school any more!

The smell the wonderful smell everywhere, sweat and tanning lotion,

coconut, Coppertone, and towels cheek to jowl on the sand.

Transistor radios, tuned to WIXY and WHK, “color radio,” whatever that means!

We run into the lake, and the contrast with the sand is astonishing!

The lake is freezing cold, the sand too hot! But we are 16

and don’t give a good goddamn. We are 16,

Walk the beach toward the Fairport Lighthouse,

pick up luckystones and polished beach glass,

wish the impossible, that we could get lucky,

with the beautiful girls sunning on the beach!

The music is changing this year, Gerry and the Pacemakers,

Peter and Gordon, “Love Me Do,” side by side

with “Chapel of Love” and “Girl from Ipanema.”

Headlands is no Ipanema, Mentor no Rio de Janeiro,

but we are 16, Kings of the Beach, and happy to be here!

[Bob Coughlin / April 3, 2014]

The Gift

This chilly, foggy December 8^th morning,

Twelve years after your peaceful passing into a new life . . .

We remember you, Mom.

You our protector, the one who loved us and cared for us

In good times and bad.

I remember your brood, all siting on the davenport

A winter’s night in the early ‘60s,

Dad working the hated second trick at Fisher Body,

We watching some silly tv show, The Real McCoys,

Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip, Lawrence Welk—for God’s sake.

The whole crew snuggling next to you, Bobby, Denny,

Mary Ellen, Kevin, Jimmy.

Denny and Mary Ellen

Brushing your beautiful hair.

Jimmy and Kevin playing with their toys—

Hand-me-downs to hand-me-downs—they didn’t mind a bit.

Bobby making fudge, the great family treat,

You taking a call from Duty, your blood sister,

Sister of your deep heart.

Skip, your beloved brother, dropping by, out of the blue,

Unannounced, perfectly welcome.

By 9:30 or 10, all your brood put to bed,

You wait for Dad to come home from work.

We sleep deeply, the way children do,

Confident in the security and love

You have given us—

Precious gift beyond calculation.

Devil with the Blue Dress On . . .

                                                            (University of Notre Dame, 1966-67)

played over and over at Notre Dame’s Rathskeller,

Basement of the Student Center, Good Golly Miss Molly,

Only place on campus where you might, but probably not,

Meet and dance with a girl, while you’re

Grooving on a Sunday Afternoon,

And smelling their sweet perfume,

Wishing they would dance with you.

Tomorrow will be Monday, Monday,

So Reach Out I’ll Be There—

And I will Cherish you like a thirsty man in the desert cherishes water.

Of course, you will say to me, You Can’t Hurry Love;

I know you’re right, but why not let’s try.

Baby, I Need Somebody to Love, and tonight

We could go Dancing in the Street, down Notre Dame Avenue,

Down to Frankie’s or Louie’s or another juke joint,

And you could Light My Fire . . .

O baby, I’ve been Lonely Too Long,

So Lonesome I Could Cry,

And this is Notre Dame, where you learn loneliness

Along with calculus, geology, and German.

Bob Coughlin / August 2016

Walking Across Frozen St. Mary’s Lake

I am walking through the woods and gardens

Of Holden Arboretum, holding the hands of my precious

Grandsons, Colin and Robby.

They cannot know what they mean to me,

Cannot know that I dreamed them into being—ha ha! --

. . . in the bitter cold winter of ’66-67,

me walking across the frozen St. Mary’s Lake,

At the University of Notre Dame.

The Golden Dome shining in the crisp night,

The spire of Sacred Heart Basilica,

The glow of the candles at the Grotto—

Me imagining two little boys, one holding my left hand,

One my right, as we tromp across the lake.

Me, rehearsing in my mind ways to explain to your mother

Why this was safe, why this is good—

A controlled adventure,

A thing the boys won’t forget—

Doing something amazing and magical

At this special place, this special night,

With a man who shares their genes and blood—

Boys, I imagined you long ago, I conjured you

When I was 18 years old

On a frozen winter night,

On a frozen lake, long ago,

I dreamed you!

These amazing boys, this fierce love,

This bottomless gratitude.

                                                Bob Coughlin / October 25, 2015

The Brokenness

I’ve prepared and served about 250 meals for the Homeless these past five years.

We’ve had so little trouble that, frankly, I’m amazed—

At the kindness, graciousness, even peacefulness,

Of our guests—whose lives are so hard.

But last night,

The brokenness of our guests, the brokenness of the world,

Broke out.

Why? My guess, a combination of weeks of bitter cold and snow,

The Christmas holidays, the full moon . . .

Really, who knows!

One guest accused Ringo of stealing his stuff, wanted to fight him right there!

Another young woman came in weeping—her boyfriend, father of her three children,

Just out of jail, acting like an idiot, threatening, going back to the needle.

Another woman wanting to fight her boyfriend, yelling obscenities.

K blocked her at the door with physical force.

Next thing you know, she has to block

Her boyfriend, yelling back, face contorted in anger.

And in a bathroom stall, a man shooting up,

His legs shaking, shorts at his ankles, needle on the floor.

Here in this peaceful place,

Children out in the hall . . .

I do my best to help, to keep the peace,

To reestablish some sense of order . . .

And pray for the broken world,

Our broken and homeless guests,

Our own broken selves.

Bob Coughlin / December 27, 2016

IV.

Postscript

The Apex, the Epitome, the Acme, the Climax, the Peak . . .

There, in that glass case at Garman Model Bakery,

Pride of Painesville, the Peak of Pastry,

The climax of American Culinary Art:

A ladyfinger, éclair par excellence,

Stuffed with crème,

Frosted with maple,

and

Crowned with a six-inch long

Strip of bacon.

What can you say but

God Bless America!

                                                                                                Bob Coughlin / 2016