A Quilt For Dietrich Bonhoeffer Read online

A Quilt for Dietrich Bonhoeffer

  By Anna Scott Graham

  Copyright 2014 by Anna Scott Graham

  All of these poems were first published on my poetry website, A Poem a Day, Thereabouts, during National Poetry Writing Month 2014. Accompanying photographs complimented these poems, which can be viewed on the site. Thank you for taking the time to ponder these verses, written from the depth of my heart, if not always from the edges of my gray matter.

  This volume is respectfully dedicated to Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Maria von Wedemeyer-Weller. And to my husband, with much love.

  Table of Contents

  Have You Seen Me?

  The Following Way

  The Non Sequitur Quilt (and its accompanying poem…)

  For Richard…

  Breakfast

  Better To Not Watch

  The Scrappy Quilt

  No Title

  Early Morning Poem

  Changes Are Inevitable

  Road Trip

  By Sheer Force of Will

  My Little Corner of the World

  When the Pieces Fall into Place

  Singing to Heaven

  If Dietrich Bonhoeffer Made a Quilt…

  One Month Ago

  Short Poem about Unknown History

  Ten Years Ago

  A Plethora of Meanings

  Nine Days of April Remain

  A Quilt for Dietrich Bonhoeffer

  This Is All I Have, This Is All I Need

  The Daughter of a King

  Rain and Hail and a Chat with My Daughter

  The Smallest Gifts

  Patches and Stashes

  Just Sew Baby

  Gone But Not Forgotten

  The Ties That Bind

  Have You Seen Me?

  Christopher Vigil

  From: Poudre Park, Colorado

  DOB: 08/24/68

  Sex: Male

  Age: 45

  Hair: Brown

  Eyes: Green

  Height: 4’8” (at age 10)

  Weight: 74 lbs. (at age 10)

  Date Missing: 04/30/78

  Christopher Vigil has been missing for nearly 36 years. A picture of him from 1978, as well as an age-progressed photo, caught my eye as I ate dinner this evening, reminding me of a poem a day in April.

  Is he alive, long dead?

  Regardless, people remain who remember him.

  My prayers are with them all.

  The Following Way

  Ah St. Paul

  and his letters;

  those Pauling treaties

  exhorting the Romans, Ephesians,

  Galatians, Philippians,

  Thessalonians and Colossians.

  To Timothy, Titus and Philemon,

  and to those at Corinth.

  Two letters to the Corinthians;

  Saint Paul had something to say

  no matter where he went

  or to whom he spoke.

  But even he noted,

  in 1 Corinthians 12.31,

  that they best way is the following way.

  Yet love, love; what does it mean to love?

  Paul denotes self-sacrifice, restraint, clemency.

  But those are mere phrases,

  for the underlying message is more subtle.

  Not about clanging bells or noisy gongs,

  nor the speech of angels.

  What is that which withstands all time,

  forever hoping, trusting, persevering.

  What sort of love is this?

  It’s the love of warm quilts,

  gentle smiles,

  tender hearts.

  It revels in simplicity

  soothing anger, calming fears.

  It rejoices in the smallest triumphs,

  and comforts with honest tears.

  It is the best way,

  Paul tells the church in Corinth;

  it is the only way.

  It is everlasting,

  regardless of technology

  and time

  and pestilence

  and disaster.

  Poems will come and go,

  even Paul’s many letters may one day pass away.

  But the best way,

  ahh…

  Let me show you

  the very best way.

  The Non Sequitur Quilt (and its accompanying poem…)

  Jack doesn’t know what Meg had for breakfast.

  I don’t know where the quilt on the wall

  is supposed to go.

  To whom, I should say,

  for every quilt needs a home,

  just like a boll weevil.

  For Richard…

  My hands hurt.

  I’ve been sewing, in one form or another, all day.

  I quit just ten minutes ago when yet again I was stabbed by an errant pin,

  with a mind of its own.

  Fine, you win, I muttered under my breath,

  wishing that pin had a burly cousin I could kick,

  preferably in the shins.

  Damn pins, but

  you can’t quilt without them.

  For Richard Brautigan

  Breakfast

  Grape Nuts and Special K (regular and some oat-honey flavor)

  in three-quarter cup 1% milk.

  And four dried apricots, on a separate small dish.

  Followed by

  half a small cup of

  cranberry juice

  washing down

  10 mg of Lisinopril

  and

  12.5 mg of hydrochlorothiazide

  to control my hypertension.

  I am writing this as I finish the Grape Nuts/Special K

  which were accompanied by St. Paul

  and those Corinthians

  (the 15th chapter).

  But I thought of this poem

  a couple of hours ago

  after making love with my husband.

  That’s my Saturday morning for you.

  Better To Not Watch

  I want to be a good fan, but I needed to take a break from quilting.

  That’s how I could explain my timely exit from the living room

  as Hanley Ramirez hit a home run, then another hit was made.

  And now Matt Kemp has hit his second homer of the night.

  Maybe there are other internet-based activities I could pursue.

  Better than watching my team get beat by LA.

  The Scrappy Quilt

  Just big enough for me.

  Well, me and one more, if they are suitably small.

  Some quilts are like that; intimate.

  Some are like Buicks,

  but not this one.

  The front is compiled of fabrics bought from different places,

  the back from a chain store.

  The front suggests boldness,

  while the back calls to a young heart.

  I made it while cool rain fell on California ground.

  I finished it as summer broke down the door.

  Started by hand, it was completed in the same manner;

  I hid most of my stitches fairly well,

  tucking threads between mitered corners.

  I even managed a practically invisible join,

  save a few lavender hints of thread

  if you look hard enough.

  But I doubt anyone will, for it’s a beginner’s effort,

  not that of an expert.

  It’s for staying warm,

  it was for practice.

  It was because I needed to fashion a piece of…

  What is it a piece of anyway,

  besides my heart and soul and the initial learning process

  of a woman who
hasn’t used a sewing machine

  in a very long time.

  It was to get my feet wet.

  And to keep them warm

  when this brief spate of hot temperatures

  has passed through.

  It was to rattle the door of a long corridor which I am just starting to explore.

  It’s for cool nights, snuggly cuddles, and…

  And a way to tell a story

  through fabric.

  I can’t wait for the next tale to begin.

  No Title

  Green light

  blue sky backdrop

  everything has gone wrong

  (or has it)

  smallest windows give the biggest light

  they don’t listen

  (they never listen)

  don’t trust him

  She told me a story like this

  on a particularly hot afternoon

  as both of us walked back from the park.

  I nodded, for what else was there to say?

  Before we parted, I hugged her tightly

  wondering why she tells me these things

  and what she tells others.

  I know she tells them something.

  I just never know what it means.

  Inspired by Endless Boogie’s “The Artemus Ward”

  Early Morning Poem

  In my living room

  fragrant honeysuckle

  blows through the open window

  courtesy of a precariously placed fan

  nestled between the wall

  and window’s edge.

  It’s 7.04,

  clouds not allowing

  shadows,

  only lush honeysuckle

  like memories of ancient days.

  A gentle buzz

  from the fan

  doesn’t impede

  on the quiet;

  nor does the

  ticking of a

  cuckoo clock

  on the other side of the room.

  Nor do planes

  stir a ruckus –

  early flights

  harbor no resonance

  into this peaceful morning.

  From where I sit

  I can see the white and pale yellow blossoms.

  My childhood was drenched in this scent,

  as if the sun itself

  smelled of this familiar sweetness

  from the core of its being.

  Of course the sun smells of honeysuckle –

  what other scent would it emit,

  what else is this correct?

  In a few moments

  this poem will end

  and I will move onto

  the next task of the day.

  But in this moment,

  honeysuckle reigns,

  as does the precious wonder

  of the beginning of another day.

  Changes Are Inevitable

  They thought they would never grow old.

  Yet in those days age swept over them like youth had never existed,

  or that’s how it seems, for in my memories they are

  creaky old ladies who never appeared so young.

  Women these days aren’t that much different,

  although they can delay time’s ravages.

  In the early 1900s, cosmetic alterations weren’t a consideration;

  there was a war overseas,

  then a depression,

  then another war,

  and so on and so forth

  until by 1944 my grandmother was a mother

  and twenty-two years later I was born.

  By 1966, my grandmother was going gray,

  even if she was in her mid-forties.

  My two aunts were bottle brunettes,

  which as a child never troubled me,

  but as I age, only a few white hairs weaving through my tresses,

  I wonder why they chose such dark colours.

  However, that is irrelevant, in the larger scheme;

  on that day, they were young women, my oldest aunt not even twenty,

  her younger sister in her early teens,

  and my grandmother a spunky, suntanned little girl

  who never wore dresses to my memory,

  preferring polyester pantsuits.

  She was their half-sister, born just enough years into the new century

  that decades later dresses were for old women,

  like her two sisters.

  Grandma liked pants,

  but Auntie E. wouldn’t have been caught dead in trousers.

  I didn’t know Aunt B. very well, but she was a part of that trio

  that over the years drifted apart,

  although you wouldn’t know that from photographs

  that fill ancient albums

  tucked away in plastic tubs in our back bedroom closet.

  In those snapshots the women are close,

  captured in various poses throughout the years

  often alongside their mother and my grandmother’s father

  who was considered as Dad by all three girls.

  That’s how it was in those days, a strong male figure

  becoming papa to fatherless girls

  who weren’t going to be girls for that long.

  Auntie E. married young, divorced, then married again, but never had children.

  Aunt B. married four times, had two daughters, who were my dad’s only cousins.

  Grandma married Grandpa, my father their only child.

  Grandma was the little girl, Toots they called her,

  adored by her father,

  loved by her mother and sisters,

  loved by me.

  I’m the age she was when I was born,

  no grandchildren of my own (yet),

  but memories butt up against experience,

  making me very aware that time is fleeting,

  change is inevitable,

  life is fragile.

  My grandmother was born in 1919;

  her centenary is just five years away.

  In 2019 I’ll be fifty-something,

  maybe standing by a car with my sisters

  dreaming dreams that will be passed along

  to various children and grandchildren.

  No longer young, but youthful at heart,

  as if time is ethereal,

  and life never ends.

  A hundred years

  or a few seconds;

  what’s the difference in the grand scheme?

  This poem is based upon a photograph from the mid-1920s of my grandmother and her sisters, and other women, standing near an old car in the warm Northern California sun.

  Road Trip

  My bum is so weary;

  over six hours in the car

  to hang out with my parents

  while Dad gets another round of chemo.

  Today we took my husband’s car,

  which while sporty and possessing a working cruise control,

  is somewhat uncomfortable.

  Yet, I’d go another three, four hours even

  to hear Dad’s stories

  about ranchers and cowboys

  long since passed into ethereal lore.

  Dad has a way with stories,

  perhaps I get my love of spinning yarns from him.

  He told of an old man named Ivy

  who admonished the boys they were working too hard;

  just harrow the field, plant the seed,

  then wait for the rain.

  Wait for the rain,

  my father intoned,

  as if channeling Yoda.

  Instead he was hearkening back to Ivy,

  who’s been dead for probably forty years.

  Yet to Dad, Ivy was alive and well

  as if no time had passed.

  Later I told my husband that next time

  I wanted to write down these details

  because when Dad goes,

  so will the tales he so rel
ishes to tell.

  Sitting with my father

  during the anti-nausea meds

  then the chemo

  is just as much for me

  as for him and Mum;

  today’s inclusion of my husband

  gave the men time to chat

  while we ladies spoke about zucchini recipes.

  Mum has many,

  which is good for they still need to plant some zucchini

  although the Early Girls and volunteer cherry toms

  are in the ground.

  Dad still farms,

  but the crops are strictly for personal use,

  veggies that until this spring went in with ease.

  This year, he takes plenty of rest in between,

  getting the crops into the ground

  on his good days.

  Those will last through the weekend,

  but by Easter, he’ll be feeling the effects of today’s spoils.

  On Easter, our next visit north,

  my husband I and will drive my car

  to my sister’s house,

  but we won’t be the only ones making the road trip.

  I’m hopeful Dad will join us;

  wild horses probably won’t keep him away.

  Old Man Ivy will be filling Dad’s head,

  more stories spilling from his tender gums.

  But chemo isn’t the killer;

  it’s cancer,

  and so far

  Dad’s staying one step ahead.

  I’d drive all night

  to hear one more tale.

  Thank goodness Dad’s got them to spare.

  By Sheer Force of Will

  Piecing quilt rows is sort of like a Jedi mind trick;

  you really want to meet up at every corner.

  I had to rip out the first two rows I did,

  and still less than three quarters were meeting at their respective corners.

  By the third row, I was wondering just how this quilt was eventually going to appear.

  It needed to go home and rethink its life.

  By the fourth row,

  which will be all I sew this evening,

  I decided to bend those fabrics to my will.

  I didn’t realize I was Jedi

  until I had sewn about a foot, which was about three blocks’ worth.

  All the corners were perfect.

  I continued another foot or so,

  checked those meeting points;

  all were correct.

  I kept sewing, until I reached the end,

  but I didn’t check it immediately.

  I had a drink of water,

  walking into my quilt/writing grotto,

  then laid the sewn blocks into my table.

  Then I opened the newly added strip,

  amazed that by sheer force of will