Dane Cervine Writes

SIN shows up yet again!

My poem entitled "Sin" shows up every once in awhile in various venues. This time, Edwina Trentham used the poem as the basis for a writing workshop she taught. I'm grateful it is taking on a life of its own!

Here's the poem again....

Sin

 

The worst part is failing to kiss the ground each morning.

Or the cold pot of resentment stirred and simmered

well into the evening. Everything else comes from this,

grows.

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if such immense portions of good fortune

weren’t squandered each hour, minutes the long dead

would ransom their lives to regain.

 

Even now, ripe apples lie rotting casually about the floor,

single bites taken from each—there is

no worm, no snake…

 

only this failure to praise.

 

 

The poem first appeared in the journal Freshwater.....the editor Edwina Trentham had done an interview citing this poem as one of her favorites, which was posted next to her computer as a reminder of gratitude. Glad it gets picked up every once in awhile. 

IMPERFECT BEAUTY Wins 2nd Prize in Caesura Contest

A poem about my father entitled Imperfect Beauty took second place in the 2009 San Jose Poetry Center's contest, and will be published in the upcoming issue of Caesura.

You can enjoy the poem below:

Imperfect Beauty

I think of my father while waiting

at the City Planning Department—

only one person in line, still it takes an hour

to finish this permit business. Details,

payment of fees, plan-checks for plumbing,

fire, electricity. He would have liked

this pamphlet entitled Green Building Glossary,

about flow-reducer fly ash, pressed earthen blocks,

straw bale, bamboo. The country is crowded,

he knew, every inch governed, cross-checked,

built to survive earthquake, hurricane, loss.

So he found his own patch of ground,

thirty-eight acres bordered by national forest.

I remember him waking sleepless nights

with a design in his dreams—hexagons—

which he built by inspiration, irregular,

marvelous. A small village, with rooms

scattered across the hill like mushrooms.

That winter when the inspector came,

eyed this assembly of queer huts,

no house in sight—he had no clue

what to do. But hand on red-tag form,

hesitating as snow began to fall,

my father winked, said I’d sure hate

for you to get snowed in here. Anxious,

the inspector closed his pad, nodded,

headed back down the hill never to return.

Years later, when my father too had gone,

I considered the efficacy of grief’s

permissions, plans, the effort

to bolster sagging foundations,

rotted stairs. If he had built better

grief wonders, but what then?

All things end, there is no blueprint

for loss. But in the hexagon of my heart,

I still build his way—sturdy enough

for dream, for imperfect beauty.