Paul Freidinger is a poet residing in Edisto Beach, SC, U.S.A., where the ocean continues to rise. It keeps him awake at night. He grew up in central Illinois, taught school in suburban Chicago, and now lives in the deep South of the U.S., where he also has a long history. He has published widely through the U.S. and abroad for forty years. Poetry continues to be a guiding force in his life. At this point in time, he is grateful to be writing every day with a sense of purpose.
Like Water at the Tip of the Roots
Listeners crave the story,
to be lost in it, the storm
fed by winds and dreams
of doppler radar scalding
retinas, raising temps
inside the body, not
the language, though words
may enhance the effect of
a coming climax, the way
an Igor Levit cadenza
leads to a denouement,
yet the sentence is a mirror
the listener cannot do
without, pricks a memory
and wish, and the wish
is a way back to childhood,
not explaining how
a love of Bach could be
there when no one ever
told those ears it was
part of the narrative,
as estranged species
sensing something else,
not realizing the text
is like water at the tip
of the roots tantalizing
ears to soak it all up,
lost, off the path but
in it, and don’t forget
the voice or how the
music underneath carries it
here, now, this impression,
its primacy, its final note,
aftereffect travelling
through space forever.
To Be Free of Time
To be unfettered, finally
alone, outside live oaks
sway gently in the breeze,
everyone gone now for
a week, two, to be in tune
to silence, light piercing
the glass, displacing
shadows, ripples on a lake,
the phone turned off,
thoughts rising like oxygen
from the depth of the sea
to breathe fresh air, aware
of everything I am at this
late date, paucity of tears
in morning’s dew, to feel
faces recede, a glimmer,
capacity to erase a history,
to be free of time, to let
time wash over me on
the dawn of a new hour’s
birth, pulse of a star.
As Night Settles over the House
There are the lulls
and interruptions, leak
in the roof that leads to
work, return to schedule amid
disruption, thirst for order,
repetition, ten thousand
hours, illusion of mastery.
End of the year, return
to what we know, a break
of tenderness, interruption,
intrusion of tides, worry,
a gentle hand, touch,
hibiscus still blooming, quiet.
Last night at the restaurant
among the drunk crowd
who made it impossible to
talk, to think, leaving,
we were grateful, in the car
the woman said to me,
How strange life turns out,
things I never imagined,
and I’m convinced this is
a grace period, time, the age,
our age, the house serene,
egret squawk carries over
the lagoon, full moon bleeds
through an overcast sky,
and the island is dark, future
dark, the hand reaches for
the lull to preserve the lull,
to be lost in the work, to revel
in silence, to become gentle
and to stay that way, to be nonviolent,
as the poet said, one more
day as night settles over
the house, roof still leaking
to remind us, to be resolute
in our repairs, to mend, to focus,
to find how we can endure
one breath at a time,
to let the soul squeak out
this part of memory, how
we survive in the dark hours,
how I kiss the shoulder
next to me, how I bless
the end and expect to wake,
how the sea softens the dark
sometimes, bestows peace,
how the morning waits for
its audition with patience,
how we assume patience by
breathing slow, how the scars
smooth after years, decades,
centuries, how love endures
when we’re not looking,
how the drops of water flow
even as the night masks
everything we don’t know.
*quote from “Waking This Morning” by Muriel Rukeyser
Buzzing By
It seems night needs to brood about
the respite it provides, cool currents
through the woods, crickets chirping past
their span, so-called silence, action
absent equals stress, reminds life is
buzzing by with one single endgame.
The veil will be lifted soon enough,
don’t the egrets know it, the deer,
early risers, drivers driven to aim
their cars down the highway, work
waiting to squeeze the juice out of them,
light winds up to be released on earth-
bound souls. Burden-broke with smoke
in a drought that singes the eyes. My
demise will be missed by most, I’m sure
of it, don’t be alarmed, dark claims
my extra minutes for itself. I breathe
because I can. The President preaches
tariffs, the only thing he knows, which
proves Lao Tzu again. It seems light
leans toward getting in the way as the
leader shoves his big belly into the sun
to cast a long shadow, creating subterfuge
to last more than one generation. This is
medieval, I muse as Lao Tzu laughs,
knowing night comes round like a tide,
the moon making fun, thirsting for relief.
The President brings down earth, brings
down birds, brings down the sea. Let it be.
Grief shares its own slow decline with me.
Unlunar Intrigue
The eye itself
not quite a metaphor
or slim analogy,
a little like the moon,
telescope or
magnifying glass,
a point of view,
angle, bracket
that’s part of
the whole,
the cosmos, so
much more, blue,
I suspect, there
to plant desire
like a seed,
and the sky a sea
in which to let
the moon float,
a kind of body,
in a way, that allows
the lens to scan
from one pole
to another until
it meets the dark
side, unlunar
intrigue. I think
it is imagined
stillness that I
want, walking
around the house
at 3:00 a.m.,
no lights on,
bare feet, drip
of a faucet, breeze
outside pushing
against glass,
houses next door
asleep, a universe
there, touchable,
how to get closer,
not closure, a bb
vantage analogy,
copper-tinted,
removed from
the sun, self-
reflective. The eye
itself won’t work
here, but the inner
eye goes on forever,
and those astronauts,
what were they
up to, hearts of
voyeurs, maybe, never
seeing what they
dreamed of, always
dreaming weightless
of where they were.
The Galway Review 