Weddings
Abha
Das Sarma’s husband putting vermillion in her hair to mark they are married
after Indian wedding ceremony.
The night of vermillion by Abha Das Sarma
Walking round the fire,
the seven pheras of sacred
prayers and divine blessings.
Walking round the fire,
the seven pheras of sacred
prayers and divine blessings.
I carry the red vermillion
in my heart,
promises of family harmony
and marital responsibility.
that bridged the parting of my hair
on the wedding night.
Every night since
sighting the rising of Arundhati star,
for forty-five years vowing to love
under an open sky
letting fly dreams of togetherness.
Every night I bury the short lived
until the urban jungle Bulbul
outcries at my window.
Every night
I cleave into dreams.
How alone is the earth
in the hubbub of the day-
like the grief
hovering over a frozen deep.
in my heart,
promises of family harmony
and marital responsibility.
that bridged the parting of my hair
on the wedding night.
Every night since
sighting the rising of Arundhati star,
for forty-five years vowing to love
under an open sky
letting fly dreams of togetherness.
Every night I bury the short lived
until the urban jungle Bulbul
outcries at my window.
Every night
I cleave into dreams.
How alone is the earth
in the hubbub of the day-
like the grief
hovering over a frozen deep.
Note: Pheras, going round the sacred fire by groom and bride, is an important part of Indian weddings. Applying of vermillion by the groom to bride's parting of hair is a sign of wedded status. Often, at the end of the wedding, the priest asks the married couple to look towards the constellation that symbolizes conjugal love and affection. It portrays support to each other to reach a common goal together, the Arundhati star is seen in steps as it is only slightly visible.
The Wedding by Fran Abrams
Jerrod and I made all the plans
for our wedding. We waited a year
after I had finished grad school and started a job.
We lived together, already comfortable
operating as a couple.
As two adults with careers,
we paid for our own wedding,
negotiated our list of 150 guests,
made sure the celebration
had all we wanted.
A white wedding dress.
Lace from neckline to hem.
Long train like a princess.
Dress fitted to my then-slim figure.
I had lost weight, not on purpose,
just that lunch hour was the only time
my full-time job allowed
a chance to choose florist, caterer,
photographer, musician.
No online searches then.
All planning done
by phone and in person.
Big day arrived, circle of flowers
did not fit over my bouffant hairdo.
It was 1970. I wanted flowers in my hair.
I had let my hair grow long for the wedding,
had my hair styled with elegant ringlets.
Rookie mistake not to try it on
with my fancy upswept hairstyle.
But, of course, this was my first time
arranging a wedding.
I bent the wire circle of flowers in half,
made a tiara. Double layer of flowers
looked better than before.
Music was one accordionist,
a popular musician in the Jewish community.
He sounded like an orchestra on his squeeze box.
Dad walked me down the aisle.
Only stepped on my train once.
I stopped, let him catch up.
My husband-to-be waited, a grin on his face,
at the other end of the aisle,
took my hand and led me to the Chuppah.
We joked later that it was a mixed marriage.
His family, Orthodox Jewish, mine, Reform.
Two rabbis, his and mine, performed the ceremony
at the Orthodox synagogue, seamlessly sharing parts.
“Double blessed,” Dad said, “Should last a long time.”
Fifty years and two daughters later, it appears
he was right.
Sometimes I think it is because the two of us are always
willing to bend the wire, be flexible, adjust, and make life
better than before.
From I Rode the Second Wave.
Jerrod and I made all the plans
for our wedding. We waited a year
after I had finished grad school and started a job.
We lived together, already comfortable
operating as a couple.
As two adults with careers,
we paid for our own wedding,
negotiated our list of 150 guests,
made sure the celebration
had all we wanted.
A white wedding dress.
Lace from neckline to hem.
Long train like a princess.
Dress fitted to my then-slim figure.
I had lost weight, not on purpose,
just that lunch hour was the only time
my full-time job allowed
a chance to choose florist, caterer,
photographer, musician.
No online searches then.
All planning done
by phone and in person.
Big day arrived, circle of flowers
did not fit over my bouffant hairdo.
It was 1970. I wanted flowers in my hair.
I had let my hair grow long for the wedding,
had my hair styled with elegant ringlets.
Rookie mistake not to try it on
with my fancy upswept hairstyle.
But, of course, this was my first time
arranging a wedding.
I bent the wire circle of flowers in half,
made a tiara. Double layer of flowers
looked better than before.
Music was one accordionist,
a popular musician in the Jewish community.
He sounded like an orchestra on his squeeze box.
Dad walked me down the aisle.
Only stepped on my train once.
I stopped, let him catch up.
My husband-to-be waited, a grin on his face,
at the other end of the aisle,
took my hand and led me to the Chuppah.
We joked later that it was a mixed marriage.
His family, Orthodox Jewish, mine, Reform.
Two rabbis, his and mine, performed the ceremony
at the Orthodox synagogue, seamlessly sharing parts.
“Double blessed,” Dad said, “Should last a long time.”
Fifty years and two daughters later, it appears
he was right.
Sometimes I think it is because the two of us are always
willing to bend the wire, be flexible, adjust, and make life
better than before.
From I Rode the Second Wave.
Syrian Wedding Ghazal by Alan Walowitz
Four guest rabbis set out on the parchment the caterer’s men have laid and smoothed
like a putting green; then the cantor holding the mike, not the nightclub singer
he started out to be, but a fellow making love, shyly courting Him in a window
above. As he advances side to side, his Hebrew Beauty and the Beast fades, folds into
Sunrise, Sunset arranged for strings alone. And here come the olds—the Grandmas
and Grandpas--the violins making a tearful Middle Eastern mold itself round a Mizrahi syncopate.
Now a gasp, the little girls throw those bold colors to the ground with each studied pose
and a smaller boy in miniature tux, obedient but frozen now, even as his mother pleads--
he won’t be cajoled—she sweeps him up before he turns more sad than sweet.
Then, many retainers--maids, matrons, groomsmen, ushers, assorted honorees, --
all happy by profession or disposition as they hold a momentary mid-aisle pose.
The groom with his parents who’ve forsaken second spouses for this resplendent event;
then the bride, ah! almost forgot, accompanied by Dad, Mom, half step behind,
but such a glow. Whose wedding is this? Though we’ve been told, we might not know,
as the groom comes to behold, choose his bride, join the legions that have stood beneath
the canopy, enrolled, happy or not, in this enterprise they likely won’t get out alive.
originally appeared in Red Wolf Journal
Four guest rabbis set out on the parchment the caterer’s men have laid and smoothed
like a putting green; then the cantor holding the mike, not the nightclub singer
he started out to be, but a fellow making love, shyly courting Him in a window
above. As he advances side to side, his Hebrew Beauty and the Beast fades, folds into
Sunrise, Sunset arranged for strings alone. And here come the olds—the Grandmas
and Grandpas--the violins making a tearful Middle Eastern mold itself round a Mizrahi syncopate.
Now a gasp, the little girls throw those bold colors to the ground with each studied pose
and a smaller boy in miniature tux, obedient but frozen now, even as his mother pleads--
he won’t be cajoled—she sweeps him up before he turns more sad than sweet.
Then, many retainers--maids, matrons, groomsmen, ushers, assorted honorees, --
all happy by profession or disposition as they hold a momentary mid-aisle pose.
The groom with his parents who’ve forsaken second spouses for this resplendent event;
then the bride, ah! almost forgot, accompanied by Dad, Mom, half step behind,
but such a glow. Whose wedding is this? Though we’ve been told, we might not know,
as the groom comes to behold, choose his bride, join the legions that have stood beneath
the canopy, enrolled, happy or not, in this enterprise they likely won’t get out alive.
originally appeared in Red Wolf Journal
Jackpot by Judith Waller Carroll
The night before we eloped
I’d written the names of old boyfriends
in my journal, the future hanging
on a quick plane ride
to a state where weddings
were as commonplace as gambling,
a long service abbreviated to a few words
then a game of Keno
at a club that served thick steaks cheap.
When I idly dropped a coin
into the one-arm bandit, we never dreamed
a half-century of riches would come pouring
from its wide and prophetic mouth.
The night before we eloped
I’d written the names of old boyfriends
in my journal, the future hanging
on a quick plane ride
to a state where weddings
were as commonplace as gambling,
a long service abbreviated to a few words
then a game of Keno
at a club that served thick steaks cheap.
When I idly dropped a coin
into the one-arm bandit, we never dreamed
a half-century of riches would come pouring
from its wide and prophetic mouth.
Al and Sharon Knutson say vows in hot air balloon
Floating on Air by Sharon Waller Knutson
in a hot air balloon
in a sky blue as the ocean
over the city of Reno
was not what I had in mind
when you proposed
but here we are in the Kodak
photos saying our vows
in red sweatshirts and blue jeans,
your hair still dark, mine
still blonde and curly,
as the rainbow colored
balloon floats without even
a soft breeze to nudge it,
and we watch people, cars
trees and houses shrink
into toys in a universe
where dreams come true.
Even in my eighties
as I fear I’ll fall if I stand
on a chair or a ladder, I know
if you propose we renew
our vows, I’ll book the closest
balloon and float over Phoenix
and feel like I am in heaven.
These Are My Gifts by Gary Grossman
These are my gifts, to you little bird,
Grown yet growing, young yet old,
Wise yet learning.
These are my gifts.
Not sculpture nor jewels,
Nor peaches nor perfume.
My gifts to you are the wind and rain,
And the forest and sea.
My gifts to you are freedom,
Tolerance, and an open heart.
So when he eats the last slice of pizza,
Drinks the last can of soda,
He will you know.
And when he’s always late,
Remember my gifts.
The freedom to grow into yourselves,
The tolerance of best friends,
The love of hearts growing whole
These are my gifts
Note: Gary wrote “These are my Gifts” for his oldest daughter’s wedding.
These are my gifts, to you little bird,
Grown yet growing, young yet old,
Wise yet learning.
These are my gifts.
Not sculpture nor jewels,
Nor peaches nor perfume.
My gifts to you are the wind and rain,
And the forest and sea.
My gifts to you are freedom,
Tolerance, and an open heart.
So when he eats the last slice of pizza,
Drinks the last can of soda,
He will you know.
And when he’s always late,
Remember my gifts.
The freedom to grow into yourselves,
The tolerance of best friends,
The love of hearts growing whole
These are my gifts
Note: Gary wrote “These are my Gifts” for his oldest daughter’s wedding.
The Unspoken Vow by Laurie Kuntz
Take this moment—let go
of the splendor of promise,
the ring of faith,
embrace the stark truth
that all needed for this journey
of two is to listen--
The wind zips into a field’s open arms,
ripples pirouette over a stilled lake ,
the sparrow lands on an ebony branch--
No vows are needed,
just a belief
that together you will grow--
the way a tulip senses the time
to rise above the loamy soil,
and opens its wordless yellow cup
to all that is possible.
Note: Laurie wrote ‘The Unspoken Vow” for her son when he got married
Take this moment—let go
of the splendor of promise,
the ring of faith,
embrace the stark truth
that all needed for this journey
of two is to listen--
The wind zips into a field’s open arms,
ripples pirouette over a stilled lake ,
the sparrow lands on an ebony branch--
No vows are needed,
just a belief
that together you will grow--
the way a tulip senses the time
to rise above the loamy soil,
and opens its wordless yellow cup
to all that is possible.
Note: Laurie wrote ‘The Unspoken Vow” for her son when he got married
The Bride by Wilda Morris
long satin skirt
empire waist
floral beading on the bodice
train trimmed in lace
sparkling tiara
veil of white tulle
bouquet of artificial roses
giggling attendant
in peach shantung
music
young girl dropping petals
down ribboned aisle
between folding chairs
at a measured pace
robed minister
groom and best man
in tuxedos
vows, bride looking down
at white slippers
rings exchanged
the mandatory kiss
applause
cake, punch, hugs
Alzheimer patients
alive these few moments
eyes sparkling
Thanks Stephanie!
See you when we do it again
next month,
says the activity director.
Editor’s note: Wilda wrote “The Bride” after reading an article about an Alzheimer’s facility that had “fake” weddings for patients to make them happy and remind them of their wedding days.
long satin skirt
empire waist
floral beading on the bodice
train trimmed in lace
sparkling tiara
veil of white tulle
bouquet of artificial roses
giggling attendant
in peach shantung
music
young girl dropping petals
down ribboned aisle
between folding chairs
at a measured pace
robed minister
groom and best man
in tuxedos
vows, bride looking down
at white slippers
rings exchanged
the mandatory kiss
applause
cake, punch, hugs
Alzheimer patients
alive these few moments
eyes sparkling
Thanks Stephanie!
See you when we do it again
next month,
says the activity director.
Editor’s note: Wilda wrote “The Bride” after reading an article about an Alzheimer’s facility that had “fake” weddings for patients to make them happy and remind them of their wedding days.
Horseshoes by Joe Cottonwood
After pulled pork on paper plates
I play horseshoes, that satisfying clang
with this old guy, stubby like a badger.
He said grace at this Kentucky barbecue
so I ask, “Are you a preacher?”
Clang.
“I was a firefighter for forty years,” he says,
“then I found Christ after wasting my life.”
“Fighting fires isn’t a wasted life,” I say.
“I was a drunk,” he says, “and homosexuality
is an abomination in the eyes of God.”
Clank.
Okay, delicate territory. “God created us all,” I say.
“God,” he says, “created an abomination.”
Clink.
The hostess whose lesbian wedding we are here
to celebrate pulls my sleeve, leads me away,
takes the horseshoe from my hand and says
“Today is hard on Uncle Buck. Really hard.
And now you’re beating him at horseshoes.”
Clank.
We see Buck with his white mustache taking
practice throws, sweating, throwing hard.
“He thinks you’re the liberal snot from
California come to visit the hicks.”
Clang.
She hands me the curve of rusty steel,
a weight on my fingers.
Clink.
“Please lose.”
First published on Steamboat
After pulled pork on paper plates
I play horseshoes, that satisfying clang
with this old guy, stubby like a badger.
He said grace at this Kentucky barbecue
so I ask, “Are you a preacher?”
Clang.
“I was a firefighter for forty years,” he says,
“then I found Christ after wasting my life.”
“Fighting fires isn’t a wasted life,” I say.
“I was a drunk,” he says, “and homosexuality
is an abomination in the eyes of God.”
Clank.
Okay, delicate territory. “God created us all,” I say.
“God,” he says, “created an abomination.”
Clink.
The hostess whose lesbian wedding we are here
to celebrate pulls my sleeve, leads me away,
takes the horseshoe from my hand and says
“Today is hard on Uncle Buck. Really hard.
And now you’re beating him at horseshoes.”
Clank.
We see Buck with his white mustache taking
practice throws, sweating, throwing hard.
“He thinks you’re the liberal snot from
California come to visit the hicks.”
Clang.
She hands me the curve of rusty steel,
a weight on my fingers.
Clink.
“Please lose.”
First published on Steamboat
To Be Considered Before Inviting Everyone to The Wedding by Laurie Byro
“The assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” Rachel Carson
Spring had gone silent, according to Rachel Carson, but the dead
hadn’t caught on yet. Aunt June, in her day, wore her famous
Indigo Bunting blue, matching her eyes and she missed that. June was especially
fond of weddings, of all family get-togethers really, although she never attended
a funeral, just the feast after. June loved the church, taught Sunday
School, delighted in warbling hymns. Her name, June Bodine, even
had a Southern Blackbird ring to it. She was the proud Secretary
of the local chapter of the DAR, (they accepted all kinds). June was free
of all racism. The bride, four months gone, was just starting to show.
Aunt June Bodine’s voice, a raucous soprano, invaded the others.
They all gathered and perched uncomfortably on unrelenting wooden pews, each
on the correct side. Stained glass dappled the lacy shoulders of the bride in a grass
green pattern like a nest. Strands of gold encircled June’s regular
pew, poured like expensive wine over the voices of the living.
When a woman raised her handkerchief to weepy eyes her hand loosened
her granny orchid and it tumbled to the floor. A boy kicked it with bare toes.
He couldn’t wait to be released to run outside, soon as this ordeal was over.
The tall grass would guard the fireflies he coveted and he would cup his
hands, hoping to fill the car with them for the endless ride home. Kidnapped
fairies, he knew, should be eaten to see if he'd light up the dark.
The trampled corsage with scattered baby’s breath was a bad omen,
his parents would later lecture. In the end, June had gone
back to whatever choir had claimed her, she was never fussy
when witnessing for the Lord. She watched silently as the couple stood
on the steps, was glad they were throwing rice and not birdseed (in
her mind a tedious State Park rule). She knew that songbirds sizzled
with desire before reaching the flame. The bride both broody and buoyant
insisted on a traditional fling, believed in all the trappings of good fortune.
From New and Selected, The Poetry of Laurie Byro
“The assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.” Rachel Carson
Spring had gone silent, according to Rachel Carson, but the dead
hadn’t caught on yet. Aunt June, in her day, wore her famous
Indigo Bunting blue, matching her eyes and she missed that. June was especially
fond of weddings, of all family get-togethers really, although she never attended
a funeral, just the feast after. June loved the church, taught Sunday
School, delighted in warbling hymns. Her name, June Bodine, even
had a Southern Blackbird ring to it. She was the proud Secretary
of the local chapter of the DAR, (they accepted all kinds). June was free
of all racism. The bride, four months gone, was just starting to show.
Aunt June Bodine’s voice, a raucous soprano, invaded the others.
They all gathered and perched uncomfortably on unrelenting wooden pews, each
on the correct side. Stained glass dappled the lacy shoulders of the bride in a grass
green pattern like a nest. Strands of gold encircled June’s regular
pew, poured like expensive wine over the voices of the living.
When a woman raised her handkerchief to weepy eyes her hand loosened
her granny orchid and it tumbled to the floor. A boy kicked it with bare toes.
He couldn’t wait to be released to run outside, soon as this ordeal was over.
The tall grass would guard the fireflies he coveted and he would cup his
hands, hoping to fill the car with them for the endless ride home. Kidnapped
fairies, he knew, should be eaten to see if he'd light up the dark.
The trampled corsage with scattered baby’s breath was a bad omen,
his parents would later lecture. In the end, June had gone
back to whatever choir had claimed her, she was never fussy
when witnessing for the Lord. She watched silently as the couple stood
on the steps, was glad they were throwing rice and not birdseed (in
her mind a tedious State Park rule). She knew that songbirds sizzled
with desire before reaching the flame. The bride both broody and buoyant
insisted on a traditional fling, believed in all the trappings of good fortune.
From New and Selected, The Poetry of Laurie Byro
wedding for one by jlewis
angelic echoes circled
whispered through her veil
she knelt at the altar
alone
spoke her vows
to a singular idea
a meeting of two minds
that carried with it
some haunting promise
she had been a bride
once and again
knew this uneasy feeling
fear and excitement
and respect and anticipation
and hope and ...
she crossed herself
head bowed
and made a quiet covenant
not to love
not to cherish
not to interfere
with the process this time
amen whispered
she stood
smiled
blew kisses to the gathered
inside the waiting car
she stared out the tinted window
puzzled at her aloneness
vaguely aware
that the rice she brushed
from her veil
tapped politely for attention
on the book of poems
beside her
Editor’s note: Jim wrote “Wedding for One” for a friend to calm her wedding jitters.
angelic echoes circled
whispered through her veil
she knelt at the altar
alone
spoke her vows
to a singular idea
a meeting of two minds
that carried with it
some haunting promise
she had been a bride
once and again
knew this uneasy feeling
fear and excitement
and respect and anticipation
and hope and ...
she crossed herself
head bowed
and made a quiet covenant
not to love
not to cherish
not to interfere
with the process this time
amen whispered
she stood
smiled
blew kisses to the gathered
inside the waiting car
she stared out the tinted window
puzzled at her aloneness
vaguely aware
that the rice she brushed
from her veil
tapped politely for attention
on the book of poems
beside her
Editor’s note: Jim wrote “Wedding for One” for a friend to calm her wedding jitters.
The Wedding Photographer by Sharon Waller Knutson
shows photos
never paid for
or picked up
of veiled brides
tuxedo-ed grooms
bridesmaids
groomsmen
ring bearers
flower girls
guests packing pews
as couple promise
‘til death do us part.
They filed for divorce
before we processed
the photos, she says.
One bride bought
her photos but insisted
the groom be cut out.
Save your money
and elope, she advises
as she burns the photos.
Editor’s note: This is a true story from the 80s before digital photos and disks.
shows photos
never paid for
or picked up
of veiled brides
tuxedo-ed grooms
bridesmaids
groomsmen
ring bearers
flower girls
guests packing pews
as couple promise
‘til death do us part.
They filed for divorce
before we processed
the photos, she says.
One bride bought
her photos but insisted
the groom be cut out.
Save your money
and elope, she advises
as she burns the photos.
Editor’s note: This is a true story from the 80s before digital photos and disks.
Wonderful variety of poems, Sharon.
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