I am indebted to John and his family for saving the poems, many of which I never saw until he put them on-line. He taught about her poetry in a college class, and his insights into Evelyn and her work are profound and loving. I almost feel a usurper to write about her when his experience with her is so much more rich and personal. But that I want to do so is further evidence of the powerful influence of this lovely woman whom I was blessed to call family.
Thank you, John.
Another poem that may refer to her lost sister and her experience of longing for her.
I pressed a rosebud to my lips
and drank the melody of rain.
The ecstasy was almost pain.
I pressed a rosebud to my lips
and lushed its fragrant, mellow tips,
Sheer-bubbled with a dewdrop chain.
I pressed a rosebud to my lips
and drank the melody of rain.
Evelyn Coffey
Evelyn in mind, I blush at the word "Tribute." It was Evelyn who encouraged me to write Poetry, she who made me feel the kind of courage you, Pat, are exercising in launching this blog. I include two poems I wrote that were specifically inspired by her. The first is named for the unfading flower, her sister Rose, whose name was always on her lips. The second was written, I believe, in her voice, written BY her, through my keyboard, when I learned that she had finally been welcomed into her heaven.
ReplyDeleteAmaranth
(for Evelyn)
What memory of the rose still
Animates so brightening a soul,
So whitening a frame?
What rune of rose-red
Splays mere matter
Into such Epiphany?
What rose-life,
Petal-freed,
Wanders, wonders?
Rose - not rose, but yew-tree!
Rose - not when, but now!
See, how she walks here;
Hear how she sings,
This morning's harbinger!
Evvie's eyes delight for her;
Evvie's ears rejoice!
Evvie's toes dance for her,
Fingers polishing chaplets
(Braiding her hair.)
Oh, what tenderness,
What gentle sorority!
See, this noble, solo pas de deux,
Rose in hand,
Toward western dawn.
Grant, sweet God
A home in the pith of my heart
Where rosy amaranth
May ever delight my eyes,
Rejoice my ears,
Dance my toes,
Polishing chaplets
(Braiding my hair.)
J.D, November 18, 2000
Larksong
For Evelyn
You’ve sung me your larksong,
Sweet Lord
For whom so long
I have been longing.
Dove, sweet Dove
I have strained
To hear your song,
From a distance,
For the heat of your flame.
Now I am drawn to you
As your song cools,
Refreshingly sung,
By Your Lark;
Your Lark, who sings my name
With the morning!
In purple dawn my song now begins;
Versed in valleys,
Sung from hilltops,
Danced in cloud-strung skies . . .
Thee!
Dawn’s rose, my rose now,
Our hands entwine.
My verse, my song, my dance,
Thine;
To hold . . .
Unfold . . .
Mold . . .
Thee!
J. D. July 12, 2001
I think that my poetry in those years was resonant with hers. She would often see me from her front porch and ask me, with an ingenue's smile, whether I had written anything new. If I said yes, she'd ask if I could read it to her. She loved me so much that I could have read her the ingredients from a Campbell's soup can, and she'd be moved to tears.
That last poem was written straight through, when in my office I had received a call from a friend letting me know that Evelyn had died. Instead of weeping, I went to my keyboard and just started typing. I felt then that in a way it was Evelyn's last poem.
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ReplyDeleteThanks so much for sharing all this, John. Your poems are singularly lovely. I delight that she and your family had such a blessed and intimate relationship.
ReplyDeleteI learned of her death in December when my annual Christmas card to her was returned. I called her church and got the news, plus your name as a friend to call. What a gift she left me in that!