Tag: Brooke Herter James

AROUND AND AROUND by Brooke Herter James

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

AROUND AND AROUND

My mother died on Thanksgiving Day,
my father had his own November departure.
A close friend exited in mid-December,
soon after the birthday of my now deceased sister.
Let’s just say this is not the side of the game board
I look forward to. Starting with Halloween I roll for doubles
to hurry me past all those costly stops,
maybe a Chance card to get me to free parking,
better yet a railroad station where I can climb aboard,
chug safely past all those avenues of grief.
Christmas Eve is where I want to disembark
with packages under my arms, a roast tied with string,
a jug of eggnog to pour for my grandsons
as they set up their favorite game at the kitchen table
in the warmth of the busy-ness all around—
dogs underfoot, supper cooking, Santa coming—
I’m okay being the top hat, the scotty or even the iron.
Hell, I made it through another year. I’m ready to play again.

*

Brooke Herter James is a Vermont poet. Her poems have appeared in ONE ART, Rattle, Orbis and other online and in print journals. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks and the winner of the 2024 Fish Poetry Prize.

Two Poems by Brooke Herter James

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When Everything Everywhere Seems So Grim

along comes the tatted-up guy
who beckons me into bay 2 at Jiffy Lube,
waving rag flags in both hands,
sleeves rolled high, cap to the side,
grinning and whistling to the tunes
rising from the well below.
The way he asks which oil I prefer
and How your wipers doin’?
makes something turn over inside me
like a hard tug on the rototiller
that’s been rusting in the barn all winter
and suddenly, surprisingly, restarts.
Anyway, that’s how I feel
when he shouts to his crew
No extras in Bay 2,
let’s get this lady through!
And now there’s three of them
hovering over my engine with hoses
and dipsticks, banging and clanging,
like the pit stop crew at the Indy 500.
Ten minutes later, just like the sign says,
they clunk shut my hood, give the thumbs up
and wave me out into midday traffic
amidst the smell of burgers, hot tar, and lilacs.
It’s the first Saturday of summer.
I think I might just be feeling it.

*

How My Father Taught Me to Wade Across the River

The trick, he said,
is to be afraid—
first of moving forward,
then of turning back.

*

Brooke Herter James’s poetry has appeared in online and printed journals, including ONE ART, Rattle, Bloodroot Literary and Orbis. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks and one children’s picture book. She lives in Vermont.

One Afternoon in Maine by Brooke Herter James

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One Afternoon in Maine

When my sister tells me
she needs therapy because of me,

she is lying on the old green sofa.
I thought we were talking together

about the northwest breeze,
the rosa rugosa, the possibility

of a lobster roll for lunch.
When my sister tells me

she needs therapy because of me,
I can’t think of a single thing to say.

I look out the window at the ocean,
wonder if it’s dead low tide,

if there is still time left
to get outside

and dig for clams.

*

Brooke Herter James is the winner of the 2024 Fish Poetry Prize. Her poems have appeared in ONE ART, Rattle, Orbis, Tulip Tree Review and other publications. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks and one children’s picture book. She lives on a hillside in Vermont.

One Poem by Brooke Herter James

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THE GREAT REVELATION MAY NEVER COME, VIRGINIA WOOLF REMINDS ME

           Instead, there are little daily miracles

The poppy petals that drift
this morning over the lawn
after winds troubled the night
and set them free—

there can be no earthly reason
(when simply pink would do)
for the raspberry peach coral tangerine
floating over this emerald sea.

           Life stand still here

for the poppy petals, yes,
but also, for you – cartwheeling
across summer’s open palm,
your five-year-old self –
“Watch this!” there, in midair.

           Then the old question which traverses the sky of the soul…
           What is the meaning of life?

This morning, perhaps—
Honeybees in the rugosa,
hummingbirds in the petunias
(there is that pink, again!)

           matches struck unexpectantly in the dark

And you, always and no longer five,
a brushstroke of exuberance
certain to fade. But look, here, now,
between the inhale and the exhale.

*

Brooke Herter James’ poems have appeared in Rattle, Orbis, Tulip Tree Review and other publications. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks and one children’s picture book. She lives on a hillside in Vermont with her husband, two donkeys, a mess of chickens and a dog.