by Summar West

‍ ‍After Jane Kenyon


shows up when least expected,
almost like its first cousin (on both sides) Happiness,
who’s told to arrive three hours earlier than everyone
for fear they still won’t make it to the dinner on time.
It’s like that, my sober friend says
after she attempts a story to describe how spiritual
transformation happens: no, that’s not quite it,
and the inky nucleus erases us again.
Maybe that’s what happened this week
at lunch with your daughter—the first time we’ve met—
and while I’m tuned in to her, trying to ignore your presence,
the light from the window halos you. Love—
enters the room like some special guest
we gasp to see because she’s here to sing.

____________________________________________________________

Summar West's poems have been published in a variety of places, including including Appalachian Heritage, Appalachian Journal, Construction, Ellipsis, New South, Prairie Schooner, Still: the Journal, SWWIM Every Day, Tar River Poetry, and others. Born and raised in east Tennessee, she currently resides in coastal Connecticut.

by Summar West

It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!

______________________________________________________________________

(for Anya and Anne)


When you’re on the run
because nobody’s shown
in a handful of Sundays
and churches come and gone,
you sweat and listen with
earbuds blooming the whole
orchestra, waiting for the
salvation of what feels
like the godforsaken piano.
But wait, isn’t this
a piano concerto you’ve put
on for just this occasion?
Your feet meet pavement
and push off from one thought
to the next anonymous wave
and deeper into knowing
that August is dying and
all you smell is the sea
and all you taste are tears.
You remember that now
another poet-friend, sick too
long, has died too soon and
will not write again about a God
whose many names she called.
And you remember still more:
the pastor-friend whose grief
will go beyond every instrument,
every song for her son who
a year now is gone.
O Brahms or Bono,
Nina or Aretha,
give us some sound
from the pain suffered
down to the finest point,
where then we are asked,
who are you.
I run and remember
that autumn will arrive
and October will remind me
of when my grandmother died,
of all her lost words and letters,
and how inside my house
back then I played on repeat
an acoustic version of Losing My Religion,
or maybe I was listening for
the trumpet’s blaring,
Love Rescue Me.
This season, I’ll go out to run
that memory down and see another
maple flame out to ash, another
bag of leaves taken to the road,
and all the recyclables headed
for Redemption. Even then,
especially then, may I
remember, remember,
what she wrote to me
on a scrap of paper before
she died: being born again is
likened to the working of the wind.

______________________________________________________________________

Summar West was born and raised in east Tennessee and currently resides in Mystic, Connecticut with her family. Her poems have appeared in a variety of places, including Appalachian Heritage, Appalachian Journal, Construction, Prairie Schooner, The Indianapolis Review, New South, Still, and Tar River Poetry.

by Summar West

for Anya and Anne

When you’re on the run

because nobody’s shown

in a handful of Sundays

and churches come and gone,

you sweat and listen with

earbuds blooming the whole

orchestra, waiting for the

salvation of what feels

like the godforsaken piano.

But wait, isn’t this

a piano concerto you’ve put

on for just this occasion?

Your feet meet pavement

and push off from one thought

to the next anonymous wave

and deeper into knowing

that August is dying and

all you smell is the sea

and all you taste are tears.

You remember that now

another poet-friend, sick too

long, has died too soon and

will not write again about a God

whose many names she called.

And you remember still more:

the pastor-friend whose grief

will go beyond every instrument,

every song for her son who

a year now is gone.

O Brahms or Bono,

Nina or Aretha,

give us some sound

from the pain suffered

down to the finest point,

where then we are asked,

who are you?

I run and remember

that autumn will arrive

and October will remind me

of when my grandmother died,

of all her lost words and letters,

and how inside my house

back then I played on repeat

an acoustic version of Losing My Religion,

or maybe I was listening for

the trumpet’s blaring,

Love Rescue Me.

This season, I’ll go out to run

that memory down and see another

maple flame out to ash, another

bag of leaves taken to the road,

and all the recyclables headed

for Redemption. Even then,

especially then, may I

remember, remember,

what she wrote to me

on a scrap of paper before

she died: being born again is

likened to the working of the wind.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Summar West’s poems have been published in a variety of places, including 491, Appalachian Heritage, Appalachian Journal, Ellipsis, New South, Prairie Schooner, Still, and Tar River Poetry. Born and raised in east Tennessee, she currently lives in coastal Connecticut with her partner and their two daughters.