Nancy Esther James
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Nancy Esther James has had her poems published in Time of Singing, Pivot, Poet Lore, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Her poem “To a Friend,” originally published in Christianity and Literature, was reprinted in the 2003 Poet’s Market. Her collection of poems, No Time to Hurry, was published by Dawn Valley Press in 1979. She edits The Upper Case magazine of the St. Davids Christian Writers’ Association, and writes a monthly book review column for the Contact E.A.R.S. Telephone Helpline newsletter.
To a Friend
for Mary B.
Yes, Time is my adversary, too—
but for you
he is an armed guard
patrolling the far end of a one-way road
various with sunlight, weeds, rare stones—
way to short;
while for me
he is a hefty wrestler
pounding me on the ropes
of one after another squared-off ring—
match too incessant.
And you believe
that someday—loaf and ramble how you will—
you must reach that black-barred roadblock,
and Time, awaiting no password,
gun you down—
while I believe
that someday—shove, wrench, throw me how he will—
Time must hear the last bell rung on him,
and I, loosed from his hold,
roll free.
for Mary B.
Yes, Time is my adversary, too—
but for you
he is an armed guard
patrolling the far end of a one-way road
various with sunlight, weeds, rare stones—
way to short;
while for me
he is a hefty wrestler
pounding me on the ropes
of one after another squared-off ring—
match too incessant.
And you believe
that someday—loaf and ramble how you will—
you must reach that black-barred roadblock,
and Time, awaiting no password,
gun you down—
while I believe
that someday—shove, wrench, throw me how he will—
Time must hear the last bell rung on him,
and I, loosed from his hold,
roll free.
appeared in Christianity and Literature and also in 2003 Poet’s Market.
And a little child . . .
Isaiah 11:6
her slender figure formed of metal,
stands atop a monument
rising in the heart of Hiroshima.
Her arms lift high
the wingspread of a bird-
classic origami form,
here forged solid, strong.
Heaped on the ground below:
Rainbow-hued festoons,
each one a thousand paper cranes.
Decades ago, a child named Sadako
folded paper cranes to fight off death,
a bird each day, symbol of health.
But the fallout from the Bomb
claimed her long before
she could make the lucky thousandth.
Little children after her
led the world to raise,
for her and hundred-thousands young and dead,
this statue in Peace Memorial Park.
Little children now,
in Tokyo, London, Sacramento,
fold paper cranes that fly to Hiroshima.
They learn Sadako’s story, her poem:
My hope . . . my prayer . . . peace in the world.
Isaiah 11:6
her slender figure formed of metal,
stands atop a monument
rising in the heart of Hiroshima.
Her arms lift high
the wingspread of a bird-
classic origami form,
here forged solid, strong.
Heaped on the ground below:
Rainbow-hued festoons,
each one a thousand paper cranes.
Decades ago, a child named Sadako
folded paper cranes to fight off death,
a bird each day, symbol of health.
But the fallout from the Bomb
claimed her long before
she could make the lucky thousandth.
Little children after her
led the world to raise,
for her and hundred-thousands young and dead,
this statue in Peace Memorial Park.
Little children now,
in Tokyo, London, Sacramento,
fold paper cranes that fly to Hiroshima.
They learn Sadako’s story, her poem:
My hope . . . my prayer . . . peace in the world.
Dormont Day
July 4, 1940
Breezy morning, booths in the park:
pink tickets from Daddy’s pocket
bought me a brown paper bag.
Cracker Jack, candy, prizes, and . . .
“All those peanuts!” Mother scoffed.
No one taught me how to crack the shells,
find out whether food lurked inside.
Blazing afternoon, pool bleachers:
I squinted at the water through blue glasses.
Grown-up boys flipped from a board,
spiraled through air, splashed out of sight
while a loud voice crackled names.
Daddy and I sat until he warned me
bare legs would burn from the sun.
Balmy evening, band in the pavilion:
Daddy and I, outside the chicken wire,
watched my brother, nineteen,
dancing two-step with Mother,
her hand firm on his shoulder,
her face framed by tight brown curls,
feet in perfect step beneath blue skirt.
Dormont Day twilight graying:
we spread our blanket early
on the hill where violets grew in spring.
The sky took forever turning black.
At last down near the pool, ka-pop.
Twenty minutes—we all lived in the glow
of starbursts red, blue, green, gold.
July 4, 1940
Breezy morning, booths in the park:
pink tickets from Daddy’s pocket
bought me a brown paper bag.
Cracker Jack, candy, prizes, and . . .
“All those peanuts!” Mother scoffed.
No one taught me how to crack the shells,
find out whether food lurked inside.
Blazing afternoon, pool bleachers:
I squinted at the water through blue glasses.
Grown-up boys flipped from a board,
spiraled through air, splashed out of sight
while a loud voice crackled names.
Daddy and I sat until he warned me
bare legs would burn from the sun.
Balmy evening, band in the pavilion:
Daddy and I, outside the chicken wire,
watched my brother, nineteen,
dancing two-step with Mother,
her hand firm on his shoulder,
her face framed by tight brown curls,
feet in perfect step beneath blue skirt.
Dormont Day twilight graying:
we spread our blanket early
on the hill where violets grew in spring.
The sky took forever turning black.
At last down near the pool, ka-pop.
Twenty minutes—we all lived in the glow
of starbursts red, blue, green, gold.
appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and also in the Dormont Historical Society newsletter.