Photo by Sharon Knutson of granddaughter, Tori, 13, dancing with elderly gentleman at New Year’s Eve dance.
Two poems by Sharon Waller Knutson
The Snowbirds and the Songbird
Dec. 31, 2008, Queen Valley, AZ
We bring our granddaughter
instead of our own bottle
to the New Year’s Eve Dance
at the Recreation Hall
thinking a ten-year-old
at a party with senior citizens
may be a disaster, especially when she
asks, Will there be any boys my age?
and the signs at the Golf Course
swimming pool says: No Children.
And surround her like groupies
asking if she is nervous when she sings
and she shakes her head. They say she reminds
them of their grandchildren and they miss
them less and less and she beams like the sun.
Although she’s been spending summers
with us a since she was four, this is her
first Christmas Vacation in Arizona.
She doesn’t miss the Grand Canyon,
caves, carnival, camel and roller coasters.
We keep busy with yoga, belly dancing,
painting rocks, avocado facials,
writing poems, posing for photographs
taken by her grandfather and cooking
shrimp scampi like Red Lobster.
As we shake the noise makers and shout
Happy New Year none of us know
this will be the last year she will visit us
solo as she marries and has children of her own
who sing and dance and are cherished by seniors.
Southern Style New Year’s Eve
Dec. 31, 1952 Columbus, Montana
and black eyed peas.
I am ten and fascinated
with unfamiliar families.
My friend, her two sisters
and mom and dad just moved
from Georgia to Montana in the fall.
Her mom’s blonde hair curls
in the steam as she checks on
the pork belly in the oven,
while we girls cook the cornbread,
collards and black-eyed peas
and the pecan pie cheesecake,
none of which I’d ever eaten.
We always have this supper
for New Year’s Day
because it brings good luck
and prosperity in the new year,
her father, a salesman of sorts,
says. Soon everybody is chiming
in on customs around the world.
Dutch eat deep fried dough.
Greeks hang onions on the door.
Italians wear red underwear.
Japanese slurp Sorba noodles.
Danish smash plates.
Greeks pummel pomegranates.
Irish bang bread against walls.
All we do is wash dishes
and dance in bobby sox,
sweaters and skirts
as Patti Page sings
The Doggie in the Window
on vinyl before her father drives
me home on snowy roads.
New Year’s Celebration in Amsterdam 1966 by Rose Maey Boehm
I heard our door slam and watched
from the window how you walked away,
your coat collar up against the cold.
You wiped some solitary snowflakes from your eyes.
They were skating on the canals,
the skates making that sharp swishing sound.
One hand behind their backs,
leaning forward, streamlining themselves.
Driving was a careful dance on snow-covered icy ripples,
melted tire tracks frozen again overnight,
interspersed with black, traitorous, black ice.
But the canal would have held, should I’ve missed.
New Year in Amsterdam and the cold
crept into my bones. There was the invite:
tonight at Jan and wife’s. We had RVSPed.
Champagne, confetti, and ‘Strangers in the Night’.
Red, shiny, lit up faces, bare shoulders,
the logs in the fireplace crackling,
Loud laughter, ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
Kisses, hugs, shrieks and ‘Gelukkig nieuwjaar!’
I stood and watched, lifting my glass.
I had never felt more alone.
I go back to my room before supper,
put on my winter coat, something
I’ve never before done in San Miguel de Allende.
I remind myself at least it isn’t Chicago
where tonight no one strolls
city streets selling lovers a song.
I duck into a small restaurant, savor
fajitas de pollo and a hot cup of Chiapan coffee.
I zip my coat and start downhill
to the posada, but a panpipe is playing
in El Jardin. I turn back, unable to resist
the pull of music in a public space.
In the windy park, a father wraps
a poncho around himself and his daughter.
The hotdog stand sells more coffee than cola.
The Restaurante Ricón de Tomas on the corner
is full but its sidewalk tables are empty.
It’s so cold both Mexicans and turistas
awaiting the midnight fireworks
welcome the annoyingly persistent
poncho and scarf vendor.
NEW YEAR’S TRIPTYCH
Mexico City, Mexico, Dec. 31, 2003
I.
Outside the empty
streets echo
with blasts of fireworks
To scare away the demons
that lurk in the shadows
of time a-changing
& within this silent house
my mind echoes
Scare away those demons
of war, hunger, disease
Scare away those demons
of misery & poverty
Scare away those demons
of corporate greed
that is destroying this planet
II.
At midnight
the streets fall silent
I eat a grape
at each stroke of the hour
& wish
May there be no war
& wish
May there be peace on earth
& then
more cracks to scare
the last demons away
III.
Come dawn
the smell of a fire
creeps along the
abandoned streets
A police car’s red-blue-red-blue-
yellow lights silently
reflect off windows
Standing in the
ochre fog that slithers
past sleeping homes
& closed shops
I look for an answer
of what this new year
may hold
Cúcuta, Colombia, Jan. 1, 2006
Midnight approaches
without a
bell toll
Already rockets burst
in green & white
in a red heart
against a sooty sky
The old men are dragged
to the streets
& at that hour
they are burnt
firework stuffing
exploding
& we eat grapes, one
by one
Gabriel counts his money
over & again
Rice is thrown, scattering
in the still air
Someone walks around a block
suitcase in hand
To welcome in a
better year
Note: “Old men” are effigies representing the old year. Often they wear masks of despised politicians, sports stars, etc.
both published in: The Blue Hour
New Year’s Eve India
From a tree house
my eyes survey
a golden expanse-
parakeets swooping
in rhythm, in abundance-
waking of a paradise dream.
Fresh harvest laden fields
like a blooming generation-
a time of plenty inciting a season
of celebrations.
Visit to temples, meeting friends
over festive foods marking a new year.
Baishaki in Punjab, Noboborsho of Bengal,
Vishu and Puthandu in Kerala and Tamil Nadu-
each Indian state boasting a unique tradition.
Flowers, grains and fruits forming a lucky beginning
in and around Gujarat with Diwali festival.
Fairs and thanksgiving prayers,
Hanging neem leaves in front of houses.
Eating sweet and bitter in preparation for joy and adverse.
As one world we celebrate the new year
with dance and champagne as well-
numerous TV shows rolling into the midnight
ushering in the moment.
Another year of determination and intent.
The sound of farmers now fading into far murmurs
amid lined up banana branches.
Stork cuts across as in childhood painting
of a wish for a distant world.
December 31,1990 Columbia, Maryland
New Year’s was never my favorite holiday –
until I had children of my own. As a child.
my own parents would give my sister,
brother, and me pots and pans to take out
to the front porch at midnight to celebrate
the new year by banging them together.
Loud noises were never fun for me, so
I usually sat inside. But years later, when
I had children of my own, I didn’t want
to deprive them of their own fun
and gave them pots and pans
and let them bang their hearts out on our front
porch. I have to admit, it was wonderful to hear
them laugh and ring in the joy that the New
Year is supposed to bring. Then they came back
inside with my pots and pans bent out of shape,
some crunched like they belonged in a modern
art museum, and one piece that looked a bent
spatula. What could I do but laugh at their joy?
The following year, we took them out for a quiet
dinner, with only a muffled noise of cookware
when the kitchen doors opened. I loved the quiet.
I treasured the dinner conversation with our boys.
But my favorite memory is not the New Year’s dinner.
It’s the banging of the pots and pans – a memory of
their childhood that the tides of time will wash away.
Last Night, New Years 1995, NYC by Marianne Szlyk
I thought of the desert we drove through that fall.
We could have been happy in a cinderblock
house at sunset, the fat, black cat our child.
We were visiting New York, so I did not
mind the hubbub and crowd in these narrow rooms
an upright piano pushed up against the wall.
I didn’t mind drinking tap water, talking
to that short man, watching you flirt with that girl.
We were tourists. None of this was real. Not to me.
But I thought of the ice-green river, Douglas fir
we sat beneath, metal-blue sky without words
for once, another place we could not belong.
Originally published in One Art as “Last Night”
Jan. 1, 1998, VacaValley Hospital, Vacaville CA
the peace on your face
this new year's eve
says nothing of the storm
that led you to this excess
uncounted pills
phone call announcing your decision
running from demons
only you could see
running from those who came
until you ran out of room
tonight
i will watch over you
counting pulse and respiration
poised to intervene
if they fade or fail
wishing you a better year
knowing i will not see you again
and you will never know
of my quiet concern
as i stood watch
over your holiday retreat
Jan. 1, 2008
Corner of Hall Road and Old State, Erieville, NY
The clouds pause in their endless rush
and tearing their hair to rest on my mountain
this late year’s morning.
They ease the belly down.
Sigh like a pregnant woman
in her last months.
The fabrics from her dress drift and
fold in layers around each branch
and pine needle.
Everywhere, look!
It is a crowd of heavy women
dressed in white.
My back aches for them.
-Previously published in “Slideshow in the Woods”
-First prize winner NLAPW writing contest CNY branch
Poet’s note: We often wonder as poets if our messages resonate and we probably never know a lot of the time. This time for me though remains special when I was able to help a blind 95-year-old man see a beautiful place he remembered well, with my words.
Wishing all a wonderful new year! Thanks for sharing! I especially loved Penny Santry's painting!
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