Covid

Anita Mewherter was a chemist at General Electric; she was a high school chemistry teacher; she married a chemist. At some point, she said, she realized that her heart and soul were full of emotions which needed to be expressed. And so she started writing poetry. Here’s her poem “The Diagnosis” from Passager Issue 64. It wasn’t written about Covid. But it could’ve been.

Words that change your life 
should be pronounced in an ancient cathedral 
where faint shafts of light 
stream through stained-glass windows 
or 
a hushed paneled courtroom 
where great leather chairs 
stand in ponderous attention 
not 
in cramped sterile cubicle 
furnished in chrome 
with a lonely chipped sink 
and one red plastic chair 

And I . . . I, dressed only in paper 
with my heart in a knot 
and my feet cold and dangling 

“The Diagnosis” by Anita Mewherter. Back before Passager published this poem, Passager author Wilderness Sarchild incorporated it into her musical “Wrinkles.” 

The Covid quarantine limits our lifestyles in many ways. We can’t go on vacation; we can’t go to restaurants. We can’t visit and hug our new grandbabies. But that same quarantine also opens up new spaces. These next two poems are about that. 

Pilar Saavedra-Vela said that the quiet that came from nighttime with no traffic, and the awkward distances between friends no longer able to hug each other sometimes triggered memories of her childhood in Colombia. This next poem “On Covid Time III” is one of a series she wrote about those experiences.  

My friend Barbara, who just returned 
from Mexico, was told to self-quarantine. 
She called to propose a trade: my Meyer lemons 
for her banana bread. I love anything she bakes. 
So I agreed. We’d exchange the goods from afar. 
I put a basket outside by the door. A paper bag, too, 
so she could haul off the huge lemons. 
In turn, she placed a big zip-lock bag full 
of banana brownies in my basket 
and drove away. 

Then I remembered when Grandma 
would take us out on errands with her. At the convent 
down the block, she said, nuns mended stockings 
and embroidered beautiful cloths. 
Grandma would place her bag of stockings 
in a basket on a shelf 
which would then disappear 
into the convent wall. 

Pilar Saavedra-Vela’s poem “On Covid Time III.” 

Rex Wilder said that from his desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean, he’s seen ships, sailboats, jet skis, surfers, swimmers, dolphins, whales. But one day recently, he saw something he’d never seen before from that view, a sea lion, clearly enjoy¬ing itself. Here’s Rex Wilder’s poem “Beach Love.”

A wave curls its palm as if around an invisible chin-up 
Bar and – It’s a sea lion! Common enough on the wharves 
But I’ve never seen one in these waters. 

It’s happening around the world, a shift 
So pervasive it’s like backing out of nothing left. 
Animals are showing up in Yosemite 

That haven’t seen the tourist parts since artists 
Started painting them. Love is, too – like a cautious 
Beast that steps into the sun (Go, heart, go!), 
Lights up, looks around, breaks into a run. 

“Beach Love” by Rex Wilder. 

Those last two poems, by the way, were from Passager’s 2020 Poetry Contest Issue. You can purchase that issue, subscribe to Passager, and learn more about the press and its commitment to writers over 50 at passagerbooks.com. You can download Burning Bright from Spotify, Apple and Google Podcasts, and various other podcast apps.

One more thing. This coming Saturday, January 30, Passager author Roy Cheng Tsung will be reading from his new book Ox Horn Bend. The online reading will begin at 4:00 eastern time, 1:00 pacific time.