Poems & Poetry Readings

A celebratory poem written for University of Tennessee's 225th anniversary that was read at the gala on September 6, 2019.

By Marilyn Kallet


225, and Beginning!

The beginning of the future is everywhere at UT,
layered and mostly delicious, a tall wedding cake,
not a petit four. 225 years! 

UT kicked off as Blount,
a one-prof college in 1794.
Reverend Carrick opened his living room to

five students. Guv’ Blount’s daughter, 
Barbara, attended, 1804. Maybe that explains 
Barbara Hill, later called “The Hill.”

1806, William Parker, the college’s only known 
grad, nailed his finals.
His mother must have been so proud!

Blount reopened as East Tennessee College in 1807,
shut for eleven years in 1809. Be glad you missed 
that budget meeting!

Open to all denominations shortly after that,
but alas, not to women.
1892, thanks to Charles Dabney,

for Science and Engineering,
and for unbolting our doors
for women! It’s okay to look back, Euridice!

1879, we became University of Tennessee.
We got there! Well, some of us.
Open to all denominations, unless 

you were African-American.  
UT’s desegregation timeline moved 
like a dumb glacier for centuries,

pulling back even after Brown Vs. Board.
Tonight, among our guiding stars, we honor
Theotis Robinson. Gaze into his eyes for history!

Tonight we celebrate struggle and the stars,
Andy Holt, John Fisher, Paul Soper, 
who built UT Playhouse, 

now the Carousel.
Joan Cronan, Pat Head Summitt, 
UT Vols, so-named by the Atlanta Constitution

In 1902.  Peyton Manning, Bill Bass, 
John C. Hodges and another Hodges, 
Carolyn, who lifted us up. 

Marilyn Yarborough, first African-American 
College Dean, 1989, and coach 
Wade Houston. A banner year! 

Beauvais Lyons, Diane Fox, Cal MacLean, Misty Anderson,
Jeff Chapman, Teresa Lee––each of us holds favorites.
Personally, I adore Lou Gross,

Ecology and NIMBioS, 
more vital now than ever, as is
our connection with ORNL, 

all things considered. Praise
WUOT, transmitting since 1949. 
Praise our K-9 unit, especially Bruno,

Who tracks bad guys and lost children.
Praise top-mascot Smokey 
in all his incarnations. 
 
Yes, there were glitches in casting.
Beck’s prize-winning design 
for the Volunteer statue 

appeared middle-aged, 
until students 
and faculty complained.

1937, the senior class model
of the Torchbearer—a three-foot high
plaster version with built-in flame

malfunctioned and “completely destroyed
the outstretched hand.”
Oy vey! He’s no Peyton Manning, but

Today’s nine-foot torchbearer
towers, 
Made of firmer stuff.

The Native Peoples display 
in McClung Museum reminds us that
The People dwelt here 

in Paleolithic times, 
And the mid-sized dinosaur? 
No professor jokes, please.

Do explain that brass marker 
in Austin Peay––
for Cooper D. Schmitt, MA,

“Placed here by his co-workers and students”––
he’s not actually entombed 
in the stairwell, right?

Today we celebrate another chance
at beginning, with Chancellor 
Donde Plowman, 

whose door is open
to us all.
The French have a word for it:

Recommencer, to re-begin,
Start ‘er up again!
Time for cake! A large slice. 

From one living room to 294 buildings.
5 students to more than 23,000
and 6000 grad students.

From one prof to almost 5000
faculty and staff––a toast!
Big numbers don’t fit easily

into the living room of a poem.
But this is a love poem for UT, with 
a heart as big as Neyland–– 

thank you, Sports Illustrated, for naming 
our stadium Number 8, above the Florida Swamp! 
Cheers to all Vols, with a proud heart and a grateful bow!

---

On September 11, 2019, Marilyn Kallet posted her short poem from September 11, 2001

By Marilyn Kallet


Before (September 10)

The night before the end of innocence
the lights of Houston Street glimmered.

The firemen had not yet mingled with the ashes.
Now there’s Before and After,

stairwells, smoke,
relatives clutching photos,

buckets, hand over hand,
the smell of flesh.

Those on the highest floors had not yet
streamed into their ending,

unfinished, falling like love letters
they had barely begun.

The night before the air was shattered,
the watchmen had not begun to speak of war,

or revenge.


From the book The Love That Moves Me, Black Widow Press, 2013

---

Poem added to Poets.org on April 10, 2020.

By Marilyn Kallet


Beggar

Just one!
I begged the Muse.

You again?
Always the same

schtick.
If you want the line,

you’ll have to earn it.
How?

Write about something
besides younger men,

Muse said.
Think of Elizabeth Bishop,

who spent twenty years
on “The Moose.”

No! I won’t!
Too late. I was already

minding my 
mousse

au
chocolat.

---

Poem written for the U.T. Southeast Climate Science Conference set for March 27, 2020. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the event was canceled.

By Marilyn Kallet


Climate Elegy and Ode
           
Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness? Alas,
  more like seasons of withered
grass and wildfires,

seasons of flood, seasons
of drought.
When a 16-year-old is 

smarter than an elected
official, you tell me––
whom should I vote for?

And that “Ode to a Nightingale”––
when was the last time
you lingered in melodious trill?

In the age of humans, 
  in the anthropocene,
we’re the ones who must

save our planet, 
our children’s
future, reverse the burn.

Sunscreen alone won’t do it,
my friends. Listen to the 
zebra finches warble about warming.

They hatch smaller eggs now, that
hold a greater chance 
of thriving.

Like them, we must
build smaller, more
sustainable nests. 

The children are singing boldly,
hoping 
the adults will hear.

Listen, this may be our 
one shot 
at composing a score 


for them and theirs. 
Let’s sing as if
the air 

and life itself 
depends 
on our tender,

determined
voices.


Note: The opening line is from Keats’s “Ode to Autumn.”

---

Poem written during the COVID-19 pandemic as part of a "Comfort Song" series.

By Marilyn Kallet


Comfort Song in a Time of Peril

Sleep, little one,
Mama has washed her hands.
Daddy won’t touch his face

Again. We will keep you
From harm
With love and antibacterial

Wipes. We’ll scrub
Everything twice. 
Mommy will keep Daddy happy

With her tongue. Wait,
That’s a different poem!
Mommy will sing you a 

Powerful, germ-free lullaby.
Sleep, little one,
The President is an idiot,

But you will grow up
To be smart,
Empowered,

Fearless. 
And by then
There will be a vaccine

And a Democrat.

---

Starting with the COVID-19 pandemic, Marilyn Kallet started writing Comfort Songs each day. Below are just a few from the many she shared on social media.

Comfort Song in a Time of Peril Spiritual State of the City: Green, Greener - Knoxville, Tennessee Apology, to Lou

The Biggest Blue Jay Letters from Earth & Sky You Can’t Identify

March 20, 2020

Comfort Song in a Time of Peril

Sleep, little one,
Mama has washed her hands.
Daddy won’t touch his face

Again. We will keep you
From harm
With love and antibacterial

Wipes. We’ll scrub
Everything twice.
Mommy will keep Daddy happy

With her tongue. Wait,
That’s a different poem!
Mommy will sing you a

Powerful, germ-free lullaby.
Sleep, little one,
The President is an idiot,

But you will grow up
To be smart,
Empowered,

Fearless.
And by then
There will be a vaccine

And a Democrat.

---

March 24, 2020

Spiritual

What power has love during
a pandemic?

Ours was always
virtual.

Plato had it
right.

Kind love swells,
stronger,

like a muscle
that has been working

out, but lighter,
invisible,

like atomic
weights––

love that lifts us
daily without

hope of
gain.

We practiced
for this.

Virtual, virtuous,
Faut de mieux.

Write to me,
Buddy.

Plato, play dough.
Mixed metaphors

taste good.
Honey, words

are all we have
& hold.

---

March 24, 2020

State of the City: Green, Greener
        Knoxville, Tennessee

1.
We’re cloistered at home 
today, but our city

blossoms around us, and 
in us, love for home.

Other cities may turn envy-green 
When they glimpse 

Our flourishing greenscapes, our 
maples and sassafras, silky

dogwoods and blousy magnolias,
brazen you’re-not-from-around-

here-are-you? crepe myrtle.
Knoxville Botanical Gardens

Blossoms all the while 
We shelter. We persevere. 

Our Sunsphere, our views 
Of the foothills don’t fade.

“Knoxville is so green!” visitors say.
Mockingbirds and bluejays agree.

The sky has told them
Not to worry.

Follow city guidelines 
And you won’t be winging it,

But living long and well
In our town.

2.
Even when we sleep, our city grows 
Greener, with parks and 

Wilderness trailheads flourishing. 
“Keep Knoxville Beautiful”

Is a plan, not just a dream.
Ask those who won the orchid

Contest. Ask the artists
Who stir imaginations,

Lend their vivid colors
To the city’s alleys and outdoor spaces.

Market Square murals call our spirits
With their vibrant brushstrokes.

Dolly’s face brightens a brick wall, and the 
Augusta Avenue ensemble welcomes

Everyone. 
There will be more art and 

Innovation, 
As time rolls on, 

Past fear. 
For now, we’ll create 

Safely, in place,
Masterpieces at home,

Or laughing stick figures
In trailhead dirt.

3. 
Green is the bridge
Mayor Kincannon traversed

With Mayor Rogero.
Continuity lights the way.

The city aims 
To keep our community safe,

“From a Distance” 
Is our chorus, our necessary theme.

We know that Market Square will bustle,
Be the envy 

Of other cities again.
In the mean time (mean time!)

We stay hunkered down,
Cautious. 

Still, neighbors are helping
Neighbors. Maple Street Biscuit

Bundles emergency meals
For kids and families.

We’re good at sheltering
In good hands, 

With updated info
In a well-scrubbed grasp.

The state of our city depends
On all of us 

Using our brains.
Virtually, if we can. 

Good minds are hard at work,
Distancing, online.

Writing real letters
To our loved ones again.

4. 
All but vital stores
stay closed, 

For a time. Let’s take more 
Walks, keep six feet

Of loving distance    between us.
Canned beans, pickled ‘maters,

Grandma’s recipes
Will see us through this. 

The state of the city is smart
And kind, at home in us.

We’ll check on our elderly neighbors
By email. 

Wave to them 
Through the glass. 

We’re in this together, 
Not singing from 

Balconies, but from trails and
Laptops. Germs don’t know 

Who’s a Big Wig or a clown.
So we’re staying in, wiping 

Surfaces clean. 
Love is never having to 

Sneeze   
Near someone else. 

Consideration and tolerance
Are not quarantined. 

Our beloved Phyllis Wheatley Y
Won’t always be closed. 

Diversity is not for a day––
It’s a race for always.

Coda:
We love you, Knoxville smart,
Green.

Our daughter Heather was born at UT Medical,
Went to Bearden and West High, 

Then NCSA and Northwestern. 
Why can’t I brag? 

Didn’t she get her start
In Knoxville public schools? 

Heather judges the friendliness 
Of every other city 

By Knoxville’s tone. Today,
Our friendly arms are gently folded.

Yassin’s Friendliest Face
Stays with us, in spirit.

The dogwood trails
Shed petal 

Memos on the walks:
You are not alone, Love, Beauty.

The trees are rustling, 
Come back!

The state of the city is hope.
May it stay healthy and ever-green.

We love you, Knoxville, your 
Pervasive good will.

Toiling separately, 
At a mindful distance, we are

Working together, one strong,
resilient neighborhood!         

---

March 31, 2020

Apology, to Lou

Sorry for yelling
when I spilled the coffee.
Sorry for stains on the rug

that resemble squalling babies.
Sorry for the grey rain
that nails us.

Sorry for not trusting
that you would heed
my cry.

Sorry we re-watched
a half hour of “The Marriage.”
Adam Driver is dynamite,

though. Ferris Bueller
offered the cure.
Sorry made of coffee grounds

and mean rain.
Sorry made of wet grass
and heat rash.

Sorry made of I’ll-leave-you
the last brownie
and Ritter Sport Dark Chocolate

that will arrive in Some Day’s mail.
Sorry made of cheap
toilet paper with

no holes for the holder.
Sorry made of birdsong.
Thank the Carolina Wren

who pecks our smallest seeds.
Thank the Blue Jay
who doesn’t wait in line

for ancient grains.
Sorry made of blossoms
and better days.

---

April 7, 2020

The Biggest Blue Jay

Lives in the hedge next door.
I have hedge envy.

He swoops in once a day
on a non-bagel-crumb

mission. Four times daily,
if I have seeds or multi-grain

bits. Passover begins
tomorrow, so we’ll see

if whole-wheat matzo warrants
his bright blue flight.

I am in love with a bird,
whom Lou does not envy.

He’s a secure guy.
When I confessed that I write to

a poet once a week, the
Air Force dude, Lou

didn’t blink. 39 years,
and he’s serene about love.

The only thing we argue
in our suburban fort

is how to fold the
hand towels.

Also, whether to watch
“All Rise” or

“A French Village.”
I gave him that rerun.

I’ll name the jay
Beau: “O les beaux jours

de bonheur
indicible…”

“Oh the fine days
of unspeakable joy.”

Hélas, Verlaine, these
unspeakable days

are not carefree.
Tell Rimbaud

I am thankful to be
cooped with a good man,

grateful that the blues
have wings.

---

April 21, 2020

Letters from Earth & Sky

The petals
on the earth
and William Stafford
say it best:
You are not alone.
The dogwoods
stand, jays screech
improv
with the hawks.
Yesterday,
the neighbors’
black Lab
came racing by
for a caress,
and you could hear
your own
shameless
heart.

So wrap yourself in
hope & a mask
and walk––greet
that family at
the end
of the block.

Silky
petals
drop
like divine notes,
& no one
gets
hurt––be
like that,
kind,
soft.

Read the tiny
ant-memo crawling
on your glasses
as you write:
You are not alone.

Rimbaud
was wrong: I
is not “someone else.”
I is all of us,
on a stroll to meet
the new, the guileless,
and the oldest
blossoming trees––

long-flowering ones
we yearn to sing,
become.

---

April 26, 2020

You Can’t

My horoscope says, “You can’t find love
by seeking it,

so go create
beauty.”

Sure, would you like a side
of Aeolian harp strings with that?

Or a Grecian urn-chip
stamped with well-turned

men? “Are you done?”
the stars hummed.

“Weave lines like ivy
wrapping the sycamore,

slips that don’t need
us, almost weightless,

like the crisp magnolia
leaf you keep near the dash

for company,
tan like Spanish leather,

like that boy in Seville (what
was his name?) Fifty years

back. I bet
he remembers.”

---

June 3, 2020

Identify

Can’t identify
With George Floyd?

He had a daughter,
Gianna. Age six.

“My daddy changed
the world,” she said.

Still nothing?
He had a pulse.

He had breath.

No breath.

He had a voice.
So do you.

Speak out.
Listen 

to Gianna:
“Daddy changed the world.”

---

One of the poems read at the John T. O'Connor Senior Center on October 9, 2018.

By Marilyn Kallet


Complaint

Surrounded by 
my designer 
products, how 
can I die? 
Decleor for my 
face, Coach 
for my credit 
cards, I’m headed 
for Eternity. 
Though yesterday 
when the pimply teen 
at the Johnson City 
Wendy’s offered 
me the senior 
citizen’s discount, 
I was crushed 
for a sec. 
Today in 
fleet Nikes 
& Adidas racing pants 
I’m back, 
outstripping 
my own best time. 
Only my 
downcast 
boobs 
toll an elegiac 
note. 

Poem from The Love That Moves Me, 2013.

---

Poem read at the Poet Laureate announcement on June 27, 2018

By Marilyn Kallet


Fireflies

In the dry summer field at nightfall,
fireflies rise like sparks.
Imagine the presence of ghosts
flickering, the ghosts of young friends,
your father nearest in the distance.
This time they carry no sorrow,
no remorse, their presence is so light.
Childhood comes to you,
memories of your street in lamplight,
holding those last moments before bed,
capturing lightning-bugs, 
with a blossom of the hand 
letting them go.  Lightness returns,
an airy motion over the ground
you remember from ring-around-the-rosie.
If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies
again, not part of your stories,
as unaware of you as sleep, being
beautiful and quiet all around you.

Poem is from Packing Light: New and Selected Poems. Black Widow Press, 2009. 

---

On June 30, 2020, Mayor Indya Kincannon asked Kallet for a poem that rallies Knoxville to wear masks and our Poet Laureate wrote Friends Wear Masks!

By Marilyn Kallet


Friends Wear Masks!

“Excuse me,” the moose tapped the goose,
“Why aren’t you wearing a mask?”

“Why do you ask?” replied the goose.
“Because these are scary times, bad germs

on the loose. So we protect each other
by covering our noses and mouths.”

“But I’ll look ugly,” said the goose.
“No, you’ll look like you’re ready

for a costume party,” said the moose.
“Your eyes are your best feature,

my friend!” But the goose was
clueless. “Real men don’t wear masks,”

he said. “They should,” said the moose.
“Germs don’t care who’s ripped, who’s

Dem or GOP. Real men protect their
fams, and we are one people, we are kin.

“Do it for me!” begged the moose,
“Or you will be a silly, sickly goose.”

“Okay, okay,” said the goose, “for you,
I’ll cover my nose and mouth.

Because we’re pals. And though
we’re different, we both

love Knoxville, that’s the truth!”
“Thank you,” said the moose, to his

healthy, wise friend. They stayed
buddies to the long-lived end!

---

Poem from November 2018 about Mister Clooney, a medical alert dog who lives with and is trained by Karen Armsey at Human-Animal Bond in Tennessee (H.A.B.I.T.) which is a program sponsored by the UT College of Veterinary Medicine.

By Marilyn Kallet


Good Dog Tales: Mister Clooney

Hi! My name is Mister Clooney.
Mom says I’m a good boy, 
A good-looking fur boy.

Mom named me
for an actor,
who is great to watch.

I’m a tawny
Australian Shepherd 
Poodle mix, a beauty!

But looks are not enough.
I’m smart too,
Well-trained.

I can save lives. 
Like a scientist, I can 
Predict

When someone will fall down sick.
I can smell the fall
Coming. They call me 

An alert dog.
I can warn someone
If one of my friends is going

To have a seizure, 
To get shaky. 
The disease is called epilepsy.  

I’m not a doctor, but you could 
Call me 
A dog-ter. 

And I’m friendly, too.
Too friendly.
My mom is trying to

Teach me not to jump on people
I don’t mean any harm,
But I get too excited.

I wag my tail and 
Lick people even after they 
Say stop!

Once I’m trained to be 
Calmer,
Less licky-sticky,

Less jumpy
And tail-thumpy,
I can visit hospitals and schools. 

Then anyone can pet me.
Fur buddies like me 
Cheer people, sick or well.

But when you meet me,
Don’t wear black pants.
I shed. 

Not my fault!
Is it the tree’s fault
When leaves fall down? No!

I’m a good, smart,
Fur boy, a good-looking 
Hero! 

Fur real.
I am not an actor.
Can I lick you now?

---

Poem written November 27, 2018 for UT's Faculty Award Ceremony held on Dec. 6, 2018.

By Marilyn Kallet


How to Reply to a Major General

“So, how did you end up
in Knoxville?”
Major General Lee Quintas
asked me. He was
my seat-mate on the flight
to Paris, en route to
history, to commemorate
the battle of the Somme. I
was flying to poetry, to
Auvillar, on my spring
pilgrimage.

“I didn’t end up 
there, Sir. I chose
Knoxville. The University 
of Tennessee offered me
a great job. 
Never looked back.
I’ve worked with some
of the best poets
in the country, including 
several on active duty,
and our alums
have composed more
books than I have time
to note!”

UT has always
supported my work––
well, almost 
always.
“Ode to Disappointment:
Dear Marilyn, 
We have decided not to fund
Your professional development 
grant. We think you are already 
developed.”
So, what did I do? Wrote
a poem about it, of course.

A bump in the road, 
a pothole, no need to dig
a canyon.
I owe my writing life to UT, 
15 books published here, 
but who’s counting, 
besides my mother in 
the afterlife?

And my best prizes?
Met Lou in town, then Heather
arrived. 
At our house, two bodies
were not a problem, 
but a love song.

I didn’t wind up
end up
fold up
here––
I chose Knoxville!
And each day I thank UT 
and Knoxville
for choosing me.

“Yes, but why 
is Marilyn spending so much time
with the campus police?”
Chris Cimino asked Lou.
“She’s writing a dog book about
K-9 Officer Bruno,” Lou
replied. A canine call also sent me 
to San Bernardino PD this fall, to 
interview their Spokesdog, 
Sherlock.
No sir, Mr. 
Vice-Chancellor, I didn’t apply
for UT funding for that flight! 
Though I swear some of those K-9’s 
are smarter
than at least one big shot
publicity hound
in the news
these days.

---

Marilyn Kallet was honored by the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts as one of of the "Women Artists of Influence" on May 2, 2019. She read this poem for the event.

By Marilyn Kallet


I Want You Here

So badly my fingertips ache
roses droop against the thorns

the green light of the Garonne 
stuns my eyes

I talk to dogs   to my chair
listen at the neighbor’s door

The old stones of the village are too smooth
The stubble of your chin would do 

I want you here so badly
I can taste your salt

I’ll find a place or two for your mouth
listen hard to your tongue 

we’ll coo like mad doves
become ballads   legends

climb to the centre ville 
devour the first May cherries

pilgrims 
at home in each other

beneath the blue sheet 
of sky.


From the book The Love That Moves Me, Black Widow Press, 2013

---

Poem written for the Inauguration of Mayor Indya Kincannon on December 21, 2019.

By Marilyn Kallet


Inauguration Ode

For the Honorable Mayor, Indya Kincannon
Bijou Theater, December 21, 2019

The Bijou was packed, humming. 
All the neighbors arrived, old friends,
new––to wish our mayor well.

“Knoxville gives me hope!” someone 
cheered. “I know!” chimed
the veteran reporter, next row.

“There are two ways to do this,” Yassin began,
“the easy way 
or the hard way.” Our emcee poked fun

at his own accent. We laughed with him.
Yassin Terou didn’t know the word 
“homeless” when he first 

arrived, tattered, in the U.S. 
Last year he gained a million, with his
super-friendly Falafel House. 

His warmth dissolved barriers,
made each difficult syllable delicious,
welcoming. 

Reverent Buice 
offered an invocation,
spoke all denominations.

The Honor Guard stirred us. 
Get up! Democracy is participatory,
never easy or sitting still.

Beaumont Magnet Choir 
Third Graders 
turned the velvet balcony sonorous.

Beloved Mayor Rogero spoke of
what she had learned in eight years:
above all, listen. “Listen

to all sides. Make room
for your critics.” No single way
to govern a growing city.

She welcomed
Indya Kincannon, sworn in  
by the Honorable Sharon Lee.

Even the Suffragists
in Market Square must have beamed
through their bronze casting!

The Mayor’s husband, Ben
Barton, stood by her, 
with daughters, Dahlia and Georgia.

No glass splinters crashed
at our feet, but we felt it,
that old ceiling, 

shattering!
None of this was easy.
Like jazz improvisation,

the place where everything
sounds simple must
include the memory of

how hard it was 
to get there,
to the welcoming shore,

where smooth sounds 
lift us. The Vine Middle
School Choir proved this.

You don’t believe in angels?
Look up at the young.
Or close your eyes,

and listen. 
“I will listen,” Mayor Kincannon pledged.
She walked door-to-door 

during her campaign. 
Her listening is our hope.
Her promise to strengthen

programs for affordable housing, 
better schools,
Urban Wilderness

and sustainability
will enhance us. 
Her degree in Urban Planning

reminds us that all of this 
is studied, earned, 
hard-won. Kincannon,

plannin’! We stand with her, 
our Honorable Mayor 
Indya Kincannon.

“Knoxville is the antidote,”
someone called out.
“We know!” we chimed.

Tonight, tomorrow,
everything 
spells us––community 

and diversity
in action,
with our new mayor,

hard at work!

---

Poem read at the Festival on the Fourth in World's Fair Park, July 4, 2018

By Marilyn Kallet


Knoxville Love Song

Knoxville, you unfurl 
When dogwoods burst 
Like jazz hands in the April wind.
You explode our skies in July
When America came to be.
No easy birth, so
Each July we renew
Our vows, here
In the cradle of magnolias
And maples, 
In the garden of poets: Nikki G., 
R.B. Morris, James Agee.

Knoxville, you gleam in every
Season, and we adore your
Buds and brazen
Crepe myrtle. 
We dedicate these song-
Blossoms to our mothers 
And fathers, to
Our children who will
Tend them.
Knoxville, you lend perfume
To sultry summer evenings,
You promise a symphony of fragrances
And blooms. You offer the 
Knoxville Symphony,  
Fired up each July. 
You are playing our proud love song, 
Knoxville, Tennessee.

---

A poem written to honor Dr. Arthur Smith (1948-2018). Smith was a mentor to thousands of UT students and an award-winning poet who taught at UT for more than three decades.

By Marilyn Kallet


Last Words

“Whoa Nellie!” was the subject line
of your last email,

asking me to take your classes.
“I’ll be in hospital, five days.”

“Acute leukemia,” you wrote,
apologized for

distrupting my retirement.
Five days, sure, I said.

Your students cried
when I told them you

were stuck at Park West.
We were writing love poems

to you at the hour
you died.

Our starter line: “Art,
You can’t hear me, but…”

“Thank you for listening 
when no one else did.

You can’t hear me, but 
my poems will thank you 

for the rest of my life,” 
your students wrote. 

You can’t hear me, 
but I miss you.

You and I weren’t always friends.
When your sister died

we grew closer.
When we read together

at Vanderbilt, 
you said you were scared. 

You’ll be great! I assured. 
You were perfect,

understated, funny, 
showed what poetry and its poet

could be. 
 “I am no longer frightened

When I think of the scene
without me,” you wrote.

“Children, squalling, and in my seat,
someone else.”

Whoa, Nellie!
We’re saving that seat, 

my friend,
don’t go!

---

Poem written for the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr Commemorative Commission Interfaith Prayer Service on January 15, 2020.

By Marilyn Kallet


Let Freedom Ring

For MLK Day, 2020

Let Freedom Ring from heaven to earth,
Resonate roots and branches.

Let Freedom sound a symphony
That blots out fear.

Let Freedom drown out tyranny,
Amplify hope and justice.

Tikkun Olam! Repair
The world.

No one promised us easy.
Each time we invoke the name

Of Martin Luther King,
Let us vow to be braver.

Let us commit good deeds
In his memory.

Let Freedom Ring in our days,
Nights and legacies.

Let us earn our good names––
Our best names: Freedom,

Justice, Equality,
In action, not just words.

Let Freedom Ring and
Let its sweet sound overpower

Dictators and small, self-
Serving men. Tikkun Olam!

Repair and rise to our best selves!
Together, united, 

We shall ring in The New Day 
Symphony Of Freedom!  

---

One of the poems read at the John T. O'Connor Senior Center on October 9, 2018.

By Marilyn Kallet


Love Poem for the Ageless

Listen to Kallet read Love Poem for the Ageless

If we were ageless and wore no bodies, we could rendezvous on a slip 
of light, a firefly’s back—no one would begrudge us,
and my face wouldn’t crack––

No more death mask jokes, no 
punch line
blows.   

Who crumbles from them?  Not Ozymandius,
not any object, present or past.  
Me, my pretensions, who did I think I was?

I’ll be out of time
soon enough.
Stick to that, that time of year,

bare.
If we were ageless, bodiless,
outside ourselves,

we’d meet like this, in words,
pinpricks of light––
this other real

almost-flesh.


Poem from The Love That Moves Me, Black Widow Press, 2013.

---

Poem read at the Founders Day Luncheon at the East Tennessee History Center on October 3, 2018

By Marilyn Kallet


Ode to Knoxville and its Founders

Near the center of our green valley,
The Muscogee hunted deer,
Rabbits, turkeys, 
And gathered herbs,
Harvested corn, squash and beans.
They fished our teeming river for
Catfish and bass.
The Cherokee wove the fabric of
Their lives into our heartland, 
Before the Trail,
But this is not a political poem.
This is a song of Thanksgiving to the 
Native people, then to James White,
William Blount, John Sevier, 
Francis Alexander Ramsey,
John Lutz and the Mabry-Hazens,
To their families and 
Neighbors, to the elders and children, to
The nameless women we will not find 
In histories.

Knoxville, I am no kid, but I 
Was not here in 1786, when James White
Built the Fort, I was not here in 1791
When Knoxville became the capital of
Southeast Tennessee.
I worked at UT for 37 years, but I
Was not here for the founding of Blount College
In 1791.

Knoxville,
You have always been a prize.
Your homes were divided blue and grey
In the Civil War. They say
You were a house with many eyes.
Mine were not yet open.

I was not here for Lizzie Crozier French and the
Suffragettes, but I will never forget to vote.
I was not here for your birth, Knoxville, 
But you were here for the birth of my daughter,
Heather, in 1985,
UT Medical Center.
You were here for her wedding, too.
You offer wedding flowers every spring:
Dogwoods, azaleas, peonies, crepe myrtle,
And in the fall, spectacular asters
Line the driveway with tall stalks, blue stars.

I have come late to your beginnings,
Dear Knoxville, but never too late to sing the praises
Of your founders and your bounties, of the 
Rich earth we stand on, the gleaming river that rushes by,
The stones that are older than we are, the artists  
Who carve them. Praise
The earth and its greenery, the bards and their
Songs. James Agee, Nikki Giovanni, Cormac McCarthy,
RB, thank you for showing the world in words what 
Knoxville can do! 

Praise Mayor Rogero, who does not easily accept 
Praise. She has helped to build our city, its roads
And greenways, to nurture 
Diverse populations, listening
To citizens.
Praise the mayors before her who have built on the 
Work of the founders.
Praise our green home. 
Let us tend her well for the next generations.
Praise everything that gives us heart and birth.
May we be worthy of our foundations, 
Acknowledge our flaws and mend them.
Dear Knoxville.
May we honor the ancestors, and remember
The names.

---

Poems inspired by time spent with University of Tennessee Police Department Officer Jeffrey Quirin and K-9 Officer Bruno starting July 18, 2018

By Marilyn Kallet


The Poet Meets Bruno

Poetry is my thread 
through the labyrinth. 
Like Bruno, the K-9,
I persist. His reward is a slice
of hot dog. Mine, 
a taste 
of song.



Doggerel

I know someone smarter than you know––
his name is Officer Bruno.
He's K-9, 
this new friend of mine.
His Alpha is Officer Quirin
who is also not fearin'
any bad guys of any size.
I feel protected from foes,
long as I'm near fearless Bruno.
(And as long as he gets his toy back!)
He dreams of hot dogs and so do I.
of picnics without politics, in mid-July. 



Fur Real

Bruno likes to lick
the long arm
of the law
through the half-open
partition 
of the patrol car.
Whoever told us that
humans
and canines
could not be family,
never met Bruno
and Jeffrey,
whose bond is
strong enough to 
leap brick walls
and penetrate haunted drug
houses. 
Nein!
Officer Jeffrey shouts
Platz!
And Killer Bruno
becomes a Buddha
with no hard feelings,
no animosity
toward that cat that
swatted him, 
or toward brave Corporal Cameron,
who played
“the bad guy”
in the “apprehend”
training drill.
Bruno is smarter than
some prominent
politicians, we agree.
Smarter
than those who aim to
divide good people
and good dogs.
That “dog” is God spelled
backwards
has been proven
consistently
on campus 
by the canine squad.
Pity those
who have never been
licked clean
by a loving dog,
like our Brother K-9,
Bruno. 

---

Poem written for the January 19, 2019 YWCA Diversity Day & Race Against Racism event.

By Marilyn Kallet


Race Against Racism

My Montgomery mother had tickets to hear Martin Luther King 
at an interfaith dinner.
I found them in a basket, years later.

“Ma, Why didn’t you give those tickets
to someone else?”
 “Well, who would want them!” she sneered.

My Brooklyn-born dad used the “N” word 
smugly, like a private joke. 
Neither thought they were racist.

Daddy sold pinball machines to
Baby Doc Duvalier–who ordered them
for the palace children––despite

my young, activist sister 
screaming, “No, Daddy, 
don’t do it! He starves his own people.”

Here, in public, I can’t tell you 
what my father 
replied.

My mother said no way, she would
lie down and die, when I told her
I wanted my roommate Lila

for a bridesmaid. 
Lila was too brown for Mom.
My friend attended anyway, stood tall in ivory linen.

Mom and Dad blew it, by sending
my sister and me
to liberal colleges––Tufts,

Berkeley––we came home thinking.
Thinking strangers. “Vipers in the nest!”
My mother said. “We spent all that money…”

We ingrates marched the streets of Boston
and Berkeley––protesting wars
and police dogs in Alabama.

Daddy died young and never
turned around.
But Mom migrated back to Bama 

with Daddy’s urn.
My eighty-year old Ma protested 
in the streets of Montgomery 

about the cancellation
of downtown buses. 
“It’s not fair!” she said.

And when young black men picked her up
for the rally, her white-haired friends
teased her. “What are you not telling us,

Cecelia?”
She held her head high. For years
she volunteered to tutor lineman Curtis Green

in reading, so he could stay
in school, on the team.  
I’m here to tell ya’

It’s never too late to stand up,
never too late to open a mind.
But why wait? 

In the race against racism
everyone wins when we
speak out, even––if need be––

against our own.
Let us love harder, wider, 
faster, then.

---

Poem read at the Flenniken Landing Residents' Inaugural Art Show July 31, 2018.
By Marilyn Kallet


Saying Goodbye

We embraced, there in the parking lot
of the ordinary.
How could I know your arms were arguing last things?
Your cheek in my hair.
For a moment, I pressed against you.  Goodbyes can be vast.
In a breath, we traded lives.  I didn’t know you
were a cliff I had reached the edge of.
Your touch echoed.
I simply followed it like song.


Poem is from Packing Light: New and Selected Poems, Black Widow Press, 2009.

---

A poem written to honor Dr. Arthur Smith (1948-2018). Smith was a mentor to thousands of UT students and an award-winning poet who taught at UT for more than three decades.

By Marilyn Kallet


Sometimes

“Sometimes nothing helps,” you wrote.
None of us believed that.
We thought love, good dogs,
modern medicine, those cuttings
that stayed crisp.
We thought poetry, and we
were right about that.

I think no, you can’t be
gone. Some cuttings
are too cruel.
The terror
you felt was
swept by love, swifts,
great loss––
ours, now.

---

Poem written on March 24, 2020 to reflect closures and guidelines in Knoxville during the COVID-19 pandemic.

By Marilyn Kallet


State of the City: Green, Greener
        Knoxville, Tennessee

1.
We’re cloistered at home 
today, but our city

blossoms around us, and 
in us, love for home.

Other cities may turn envy-green 
When they glimpse 

Our flourishing greenscapes, our 
maples and sassafras, silky

dogwoods and blousy magnolias,
brazen you’re-not-from-around-

here-are-you? crepe myrtle.
Knoxville Botanical Gardens

Blossoms all the while 
We shelter. We persevere. 

Our Sunsphere, our views 
Of the foothills don’t fade.

“Knoxville is so green!” visitors say.
Mockingbirds and bluejays agree.

The sky has told them
Not to worry.

Follow city guidelines 
And you won’t be winging it,

But living long and well
In our town.

2.
Even when we sleep, our city grows 
Greener, with parks and 

Wilderness trailheads flourishing. 
“Keep Knoxville Beautiful”

Is a plan, not just a dream.
Ask those who won the orchid

Contest. Ask the artists
Who stir imaginations,

Lend their vivid colors
To the city’s alleys and outdoor spaces.

Market Square murals call our spirits
With their vibrant brushstrokes.

Dolly’s face brightens a brick wall, and the 
Augusta Avenue ensemble welcomes

Everyone. 
There will be more art and 

Innovation, 
As time rolls on, 

Past fear. 
For now, we’ll create 

Safely, in place,
Masterpieces at home,

Or laughing stick figures
In trailhead dirt.

3. 
Green is the bridge
Mayor Kincannon traversed

With Mayor Rogero.
Continuity lights the way.

The city aims 
To keep our community safe,

“From a Distance” 
Is our chorus, our necessary theme.

We know that Market Square will bustle,
Be the envy 

Of other cities again.
In the mean time (mean time!)

We stay hunkered down,
Cautious. 

Still, neighbors are helping
Neighbors. Maple Street Biscuit

Bundles emergency meals
For kids and families.

We’re good at sheltering
In good hands, 

With updated info
In a well-scrubbed grasp.

The state of our city depends
On all of us 

Using our brains.
Virtually, if we can. 

Good minds are hard at work,
Distancing, online.

Writing real letters
To our loved ones again.

4. 
All but vital stores
stay closed, 

For a time. Let’s take more 
Walks, keep six feet

Of loving distance    between us.
Canned beans, pickled ‘maters,

Grandma’s recipes
Will see us through this. 

The state of the city is smart
And kind, at home in us.

We’ll check on our elderly neighbors
By email. 

Wave to them 
Through the glass. 

We’re in this together, 
Not singing from 

Balconies, but from trails and
Laptops. Germs don’t know 

Who’s a Big Wig or a clown.
So we’re staying in, wiping 

Surfaces clean. 
Love is never having to 

Sneeze   
Near someone else. 

Consideration and tolerance
Are not quarantined. 

Our beloved Phyllis Wheatley Y
Won’t always be closed. 

Diversity is not for a day––
It’s a race for always.

Coda:
We love you, Knoxville smart,
Green.

Our daughter Heather was born at UT Medical,
Went to Bearden and West High, 

Then NCSA and Northwestern. 
Why can’t I brag? 

Didn’t she get her start
In Knoxville public schools? 

Heather judges the friendliness 
Of every other city 

By Knoxville’s tone. Today,
Our friendly arms are gently folded.

Yassin’s Friendliest Face
Stays with us, in spirit.

The dogwood trails
Shed petal 

Memos on the walks:
You are not alone, Love, Beauty.

The trees are rustling, 
Come back!

The state of the city is hope.
May it stay healthy and ever-green.

We love you, Knoxville, your 
Pervasive good will.

Toiling separately, 
At a mindful distance, we are

Working together, one strong,
resilient neighborhood!

---

One of the poems read at the John T. O'Connor Senior Center on October 9, 2018.

By Marilyn Kallet


That Chicken

Was a senior citizen
an octogenarian
the oldest one in Valence d’Agen.
That chicken’s skin was so thick
it couldn’t be insulted.
Nothing could hurt it, not even a knife.
That chicken was so old it knew my Grandma Anna in Minsk.

That chicken was so tough
even the boiling water complained.
That chicken wasn’t worth 15 Euros.
15!  That chicken was tougher than the pot,
tougher than the teenage boys who rumbled last night by the dock,
and much less sexy.

That chicken was one of two on Noah’s ark.
I ate it because I paid for it.
Each bite was an insult.
That was the chicken they saved for the American.
That was the chicken that broke détente.

I made a soup of it,
and with enough hours and white wine
even the oldest clucking citizen of the republic
gave way to my teeth.
With a loaf of olive bread to distract me
I polished off that beast.
But was it a chicken or a buzzard?
Je m’en fous!  For fifteen Euros I’d eat a hedgehog
if it landed in my shopping bag.
I’m no spring chicken
but I’m livelier than that old bird.

Poem is from The Love That Moves Me, Black Widow Press, 2013.

---

Poetry reading for Girls Inc. Elite Awards set for April 17, 2020. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the event was canceled.

By Marilyn Kallet


The Girl I Carried

I carried a smart girl within
me for nine months,
a tiny baby, a bit more than four

pounds. Her best friend
as a toddler was a stray,
Mama Kitty, 

And in the high chair she
loved the notes that
opened NPR’s “All Things Considered.”

She flapped her arms and cooed
when the chimes heralded
the evening news.

Reader, she became an editor
and a musician.
But was she bold?

One day she came home
  from West High School
and said, “I can’t get a music education

here! I need to go away to school.”
She was fifteen.
At first I said, “You’re not going

Anywhere.” But she insisted.
And so began the
North Carolina School for the Arts,

And then Northwestern.
  She knew what she 
Needed to do.

Strong, too.
She practiced marimba
For hours on end,

Building the strength
In her arms
That made the music.

She drummed on snare
And bass, 
Cymbals

And congas, 
  At a time 
When girls were

Not supposed to
Play drums.
Leave the rhythm 

To the men.
Be nice.
Um, no thanks!

And she also studied
Journalism,
Worked for Columbus Alive

And then CNN news.
She corrected everyone’s
Grammar.

No mistakes on the names
Of world leaders.
The news was clear, thanks

To her. And to many women
Like her, like you,
Who stand up for their own

Music and that of others,
Who tell the news straight,
Get the names right every time.

So listen to the rhythm of your
Hearts and stand up
For smart women and girls

Everywhere. So that all of us
Can keep learning,
Young and old. 

Be bold enough to
Tell the truth, speak out
When something’s wrong.

We have each other’s back.
  I’ll stand up for you 
Any day, every day.

Sisterhood is powerful.
Never doubt it.
Strong women carry

Each other when
    We need to.
Smart women stay in school.

Bold women don’t
Let their voices
Get stifled. 

When I got pregnant,
  Another woman
Told me I would never

Have another carefree moment,
        Never write
Another song. She was wrong.

All the love in me grew
And grew,
Bolder. Together

We are stronger! 
Sisterhood is
One of the smartest,

Boldest 
Words 
We know. 

---

Poem written for the Phyllis Wheatley YWCA's 25th Annual Diversity Day and Race Against Racism on January 16, 2020.

By Marilyn Kallet


The Marathon

So get out of the road  If you can’t lend a hand.
(Bob Dylan)

We’re going too slowly, I 
whined. Then someone sang,

“Give those folks a hand,
they’re blocking the road!”

One of them was my dad.
But now he understands.

And those bad-mouthed dudes from
the corner of my childhood,

move them aside!
No need, 

they’re dust now. 
Let’s go, then! This is not a sprint.

It’s a marathon. 
We seem to have lost some ground.

We’ll need a truck to move
that giant orange squash in our path.

“Just vote!” Someone wiser 
called out. Ah!

We’re back on track,
passing the torch,

passing our old selves,
and forgiving them.

This race is a team sport. 
And way up ahead,

is that Reverend King?
He doesn’t have wings.

He’s all light now, but we
can still hear him.
“If you can’t fly then run!”
“Keep moving forward,” he said. 

Let the Reverend’s words
lend us a hand.

There are no trophies 
at the end, just love. 

In the race against racism,
hate loses. Justice wins.

You’re tired?  
Not tired enough.

Run like fierce wind.
Everything depends on us.

Our brothers and sisters
and our planet rest in our care.

Up ahead the finish line
shimmers, 

gossamer, like the netting
on a baby’s cradle, but finer,

porous, 
welcoming, like the sail

to a better world.
The path that beckons

runs wider than we dreamed.
Room for everyone!

Let’s go, quickly now,
faster, 

kinder, all in,
my friends!

---

City of Knoxville Poet Laureate Marilyn Kallet presented a poem at Mayor Rogero's State of the City Address.




Poem for Mayor Rogero's State of the City Address
by Poet Laureate Dr. Marilyn Kallet
Professor Emerita, University of Tennessee


The State of Our City
Knoxville, Tennessee, April 26, 2019

I’ll admit, the words “urban wilderness”
made me sweat. “Trailhead”
didn’t help. 

Then, at Ijams, a Box
Turtle in the back room
met my eye, and blurted,

“You’re part of nature, too,
Sweetie!” A zombie beaver
laughed aloud. (Might have been

my pal, Cindy Hassil.) Then
Rebekkah M. escorted me
around the trailheads–– 

and we spotted a “play forest” 
that made me yearn to be
an elf, and miles 

of trails––ah, 
a green wedding ring springs
around our city! Friends,

the state of our city 
is wider and more varied
than we dreamed!

Yes, we know Fourth & Gill,
and now we meet the cleaned-up South––
60 truckloads of trash hauled

from the wilderness sites!
We know Lakeshore and 
Sequoyah Hills, gardens out West.

We know Fort Sanders,
every inch history––
General Burnside still laughing at his ruse.

Thank you, Knoxville, for affordable housing and
our beloved Phyllis Wheatley Y.
Thank you, Freedom Schools, 
thank you to all our hard-working schools, 
magnet, public, private,
teacher-inspired.

Thank you, city leaders, for 
less soot and smog.
Friends, your state of the city address

may be a bit different from
mine, but my, how we’ve grown,
together!

We are the state of the city,
poets, mountain bikers, neighbors 
and mayors uniting to stop 

the highway from spoiling our Urban
Wilderness. Did you know that Mayor Rogero
threatened to strap herself

to a tree if developers tried to plow through?
Baker Creek, Fort Dickerson,
Burnett Creek, all the Forks of the River

High Ground, Ijams, River Bluff,
William Hastie, Marie Myers Park and 50 miles of trails,
all thank you for blocking bulldozers!

The Box Turtle looked me in the eye:
“We are one body,
one state of the city!

The zombie beaver warned,
“Don’t call me ‘Badger!’
Poet, learn the names of things!”

The name of the city is sweet,
green, Knoxville, Tennessee.
The Urban Wilderness

invites us: 
nothing to fear, 
everything to explore!

---

Poem read at the Arnstein Jewish Community Center during the October 29, 2018 vigil held to honor those who passed during the mass shooting at Pittsburgh's Tree of Life Synagogue on October 27, 2018

By Marilyn Kallet


Tree of Life

The blessing of an infant should be
Wrapped in joy.
The body of a congregation 
At worship should 
Be swaddled in 
Peace.

We have come this far
To comfort one
Another.
In the time of our ancestors
We journeyed
Farther for peace 
And prayer––
From Germany, Russia,
Latvia, Poland
And beyond.
We have come this far
For peaceful worship and we
Will not be deterred.

Tikkun Olum.
We cannot piece together
Lives that have
Been shattered.
We cannot undo bloodshed.
We continue the work of 
Brotherhood and repair,
Speak out against
Injustice in all forms.

We have come this far to comfort
Each another, to remember
Eleven of our kin.
May their memories be a
Blessing. May we be worthy 
Of them, continue the work
Of loving, teaching, healing,
Praying, blessing the babies,
Respecting the elders,
Mourning the dead. 

Praise God 
And every creative act. 
The Tree of Life was
Made of people who tended it,
Peacefully,
Like us. 
Repair and remember.

---

Poem read for East Tennessee PBS, “The Great American Read,” on September 13, 2018

By Marilyn Kallet


This Green

Green, I want you green, Lorca
crooned. Verde. He never dreamed
East Tennessee. Here, he could have 

dived into  
green songs gathered in 
magnolia leaves, sycamores.

The oaks would have waved, 
Green wind. Verde viento.
No one would have shot him

here. Well, not unless
he stepped on private property!
Then Dolly would have

belted a ballad for him,
Jack Neely would have
written his secret history!

Every leaf is a scroll
from our land, a letter
from its roots and branches.

No, I am not from here, 
East Tennessee, 
I am a humble scribe.

My girl Heather 
was Knoxville-born,
so I have my own little roots in

sidewalk crevices. Ivy 
climbs a swing set that we will
not take down, though she is 33!

My love is planted in Tennessee, so is
Mister Lou, Ecologist, Sound Doctor, Love
Machine. But this is a family poem,

A postcard to
green green Tennessee, to all those
who tend it.

Bring the jug! Wait! That’s water, 
right? The moon shines bright 
on water like that!

Here’s an ode to the green that
makes us yearn for home, when we 
roam Paris, or New York City.

Green, I love you green!
No, not money.
I’m a poet! I mean the sap

that shoots through the bowers,
the gardens, the men! Verde carne.
Wait! This is a family poem, right?

Yes, M’am!
A love song for East Tennessee!

---

Poem written for the University of Tennessee annual memorial service to honor students, faculty and staff who have passed away during the current academic year.

---

Poem written for the January 4, 2019 ribbon-cutting of the Violins of Hope exhibit at the University of Tennessee Downtown Gallery. The exhibit displays restored violins played by Jewish musicians during the Holocaust. The unique Violins of Hope initiative uses music, art and education to facilitate a citywide dialogue about hope, resilience, tolerance and justice.

By Marilyn Kallet


Violins of Hope, Knoxville

1.
I don’t blame you for hope,
For wanting violins.

For the Schwarzes of Horb,
There were no elegant sounds,

No quivering long notes.
Deportation came 

Crashing & swift.
But for Hedwig, there was air.

The nameless angel who rescued
Her broken body from the

Transport car hurried her to
Marienhospital, where

The Sisters treated the only Jew
With silence.  

The Just man who lifted her 
From the rails 

Offered hope, the key
To staying human.

Each violin reminds us
That silence is no remedy 

For persecution.

2. 
My maiden name was Zimmerman.
This first violin is my kin.

Thin and hungry, it calls 
From another country.

Its wood remembers the forest,
Does not tremble

The way humans shook
In ‘38, in ‘41.

Each violin is a cradle
For one voice, for millions.

Each seasoned instrument
Resounds with  

History––shtetls and ghettos,
Liberation. 

This violin was a lifeline
For awhile, a coin 

To feed the family.
For another, a ticket out.

Torn, one violin 
Awakens others,

Replanted here,
A forest of sounds.

3. 
Of all instruments, the violin
Comes closest to the human voice.

I hear the Schwarzes of Horb
Praying, right before 
 
Rifles fired through the Black Forest,
Through Bikernieki.

These violins were witnesses
All over Europe,

Where string sections were growing thin,
And the musicians, thinner.

Each violinist is a witness,
Sorrow pouring through a lyrical body.

Gripped by these sounds, 
We too bear witness

To hope thrust from a train window,
Stirring in the pit

Of the orchestra, 
Rising above strife.

This harmony is not easy.
We must continue to speak out

Against graffiti, strains of hate.
This violin was filled with ashes.

This violin was restored
And handed to a young musician

Who practiced hope daily,
Who learned to wake the world again.


Coda:
Perlman
Mintz
Heifetz
Menuhin
Stern
Zuckerman

Names
The poem breathes–– 
In them,
Heaven. 

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Read poem entitled Why Not Blossom Instead? for WDVX's inaugural show for their new series on March 22, 2019

By Marilyn Kallet


Why Not Blossom Instead?
The natural world is a spiritual house...

intimate as skin,
dawn, evening light, purple stars,
invisible poets whose voices reach me
through tiny petalled mikes.
I’m speaking with William Stafford again.

He says what I need to hear.
“It’s okay that you didn’t win.
Why hang your ego on that hook?
Why not blossom lightly 
from a pink dogwood?” Dutifully
I protest that I’m Jewish,
the dogwood is linked to the story of Christ.

“Trees are non-denominational,”
he laughs. He’s as real to me as this
bed of wildflowers, this late sun
a goblet of apricot liqueur.

A river of violets answers 
when I look for more of him.

I turn to the flowers for advice
an old friend might have offered.
An unusual animal chirps from the grass:
“So, your husband wanted this
victory for you? Whisper the truth
over him. Make corsages
of it, make mutual sprays
of untamed blooms.
Call the wildest orchid Losing.” 

From the book How To Get Heat Without Fire, 1996

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