Poems by Robin Schultz
Lucky Enough
to have lived in, if not Paris, here,
yes, in this age in this certain time,
to have known poets, the galleries,
the artists’ models, our straight steep streets
with the mountain view. Lucky enough
to have known upright leaders and found
trusted others weren’t, and luck enough
to be confused by, swept up by, love
or something like it, cherish its hurt,
be consoled by friends and to console,
lucky enough to watch the red sun
set at sea or rise in the east air
of our home land, our emerald burg
and hope for an easy passage on
be there luck enough for luck to hold.
An Ordinary Thread In The Native Cloth
The craft of the hands by which it’s spun.
The warmth of the smooth fingers, rightness
of its being in place with its mates
in a cloth, with lines of bright deep hue
sparse interspersed to give distinction.
Of its being in place with its mates
in the garment stitched, across the back
of a worker in the sun, the sleeve
of a storekeeper, and worn and washed
and strained by labor or play or growth
and washed and mended by caring hands
and handed on. Comes raveled, a tear,
greyer, that deep hue also dulled, and
come time torn in strips to weave a mat
or rags to clean the tile, wipe a brow,
or scrap some poor fool might wad and smooth.
Fantasy And Fugue
Part One: moon over bare ruined choir
and instant careen, the speed’s the gist,
to minds met and imagines fulfilled,
magic touches with the fingertips
and eyes and tongue and just-right phrases
under many future moons and climes,
glorious full moments into age.
No deft explication for later
trials of which there will be none, nor
promises of troth of which no need,
glorious full moments into age
or for that while that equals it. Cut.
Part Two: the moon’s moved nary a whit
nor cathedral dropped one loose stone more.
Actors pass unglancing on the street.
I, Traveling
Yes, it’s I again, another bench,
another town, noting how skirts move
around a body, swish of a flounce,
shimmer sway of diagonal stripes,
a staggered hemline trimmed in gold thread.
It’s I again, ’neath what kind of tree,
another fountain and more church bells,
more pigeons, more schoolboys at horseplay,
more pre-school tots round the berry bush
(to tire them out). Yes, it’s I again,
another bar stool, another beer,
same I, same eyes, what seen and what missed
by habits of notice and effort,
taking what one can from what one sees,
though taker’s always I, another
butterfly which is itself besides.
A Handful Of Brochures About
Attractions Down The Road
I came through here once before, remember
the Be Seen Clean laundry sign. Looks like
they got a new paper boy though, probably
different birds, and the fallen tree
is gone, but there’s another one close by
to take its place. Evidence doesn’t always
stay put, like pushing your tee shirt sleeves
up around your shoulders or the smell
of a mown hayfield on the curve into town,
the silver side up of cottonwood leaves
or why there is or isn’t business and
the barn with the caved in roof included
in the list under special circumstances.
Out here some questions are never answered,
but another mystery may be better
than a solution and if it doesn’t sell
at auction, we’ll just make a bigger pile.
Something Étude
Something in the way she walks. Something
in the way of each walk, each life and breath
and each private imagination.
Something in all the happy voices,
the pauses, the shrugs and admissions
on the trails of Eden here or paused
leaning against the adobe wall
in the faint stir of understanding,
in the thinkableness of new love
for even the broke and hardened heart.