Kim Stafford’s “Pandemic Poems” 

…many posted on Instagram at #kimstaffordpoetry…

All poems © 2020 Kim Stafford

3-7-2020 to 4-20-2020

 

Since the virus sent us home, I’ve been waking each morning 

feeling called to speak to our predicament with a poem, and 

here are some that have come to the page:

 

 

           Opening Up

 

In general, it’s a good thing to be 

open, gregarious in welcome, to be 

the life of the party even at work 

or in the streets, charismatic

bon-vivant radiating cheer.

 

But now, when some wear contagion-

bubbles, a six-foot radius swiveling

to rake with invisible aerosol a roving

perimeter of doom, do we wish the brave

to rule our chances?

 

We might weigh this bargain: to trade 

freedom of the eager against the chance 

some few unwitting stricken, bearing 

suicide chests of virus, will mingle 

as we throng again.

 

 

 

Differential

 

1.

From what I see, it’s spring.

By dawn’s early light, fireworks

in green spangle blossoms, neighbors

stay home snug, the city’s hum stilled.

 

But from what I know, it’s pandemic

distilling every fight for breath 

to a number in the news, while

politicians wrestle truth.

 

2. 

By what we wish, helpers would be

helped, money would follow need,

all would seek truth and tell it, and 

we would be one nation.

 

By what we do, Earth will testify

the long view through change,

many learning what we need,

each voice a vote.

 

                      Bird in Hand

 

Walking before dawn I found, under the streetlight,

a song sparrow hunched on asphalt looking about

unafraid or somehow injured where I crouched

to see the speckled breast and up-thrust tail, twig 

feet, pert eye sizing me up, then turning away.

 

Across the river, a train wailed south, and under lockdown 

the city hummed low, chastened, as in all our thoughts

statistics swarmed, predictions bristled, cautions ruled, 

and we all fed on morsels of warning as if on crumbs

until we were filled to bursting.

 

Under warm feathers I brought two hands together

to set down at the grassy verge, but tiny feet

climbed my sleeve whirring in a dusky blur

that brought the thought—if bats can have it,

pangolin, or tiger, why not you, my beauty,

 

fluttering along my arm to offer blessing

and fear in one light touch?
 

 

 

   Pandemic Press Conference

 

It’s classroom style—the flag, 

the lectern facing chairs in rows. 

Someone’s up front, in charge

of pupils with pens at ready.

 

A hand goes up, teacher points.

We see this scholar did the homework. 

Her question goes to the heart—but 

then she’s the dunce, shamed.

 

Sometimes it’s grad school—the fate 

of the world at stake. Sometimes it’s 

kindergarten, and we all get 

the lesson on bullying.

 

Recess never looked so good.

 

 

 

                        Introvertigo

 

They inflict an infection chart—zigzag line 

fevering a mountain that peaks somewhere you 

can’t see.Did the air grow thin, did light brighten

to halo everything?They feed you numbers, tally

beds in ICU, count breathing machines that cross 

state lines like contraband. When did heart so yearn

for touch, skin on fire?They say scrub your hands, 

go forth in mask and gloves, practice distance, shelter, 

lock and trust. Wasn’t I already invisible enough?

 

It’s no wonder, in the night your native introversion 

may be magnified, as in anguish you plummet deep 

into confusion, your bed turning slowly, an old LP 

the needle sips for song or whimper, secret shames 

and hidden loves. 

 

Friend, embrace this distillation, seek the winnowing,

seize the essential nub of character and verve you 

grew from. Shun the trappings you no longer need.

This world hungers for exactly who you are.

 

 

               Governor

 

In mechanics, an engine’s ‘governor’

maintains a moderate speed under

fluctuating load. A driver cannot

overrule the governor.

 

In politics, a state’s governor

maintains the welfare of the people

as conditions change. Can a president 

overrule the governor?

 

In life, each has a claim:

the commander commands;

the governor governs; we the people,

in order to form a more perfect union,

 

will moderate the two.

 

 

 

       Time on Our Hands

          in the Pandemic

 

Haven’t threaded through a crowd,

haven’t shaken hands in weeks.

Daydreams on the porch instead,

and seeds in garden ground.

 

Anyone seen the button jar?

Anyone seen the recipe box?

Think this record player works?

Wash this dish ten thousand times.

 

Haven’t touched a coin forever.

Haven’t plugged a parking meter.

Car all dusty gold with pollen.

How long, my list of friends.

 

​

​

Happy Hour 

in Hard Times

 

What’ll it be?

     Saltwater.

Lime with that?

     Won’t stop you.

 

So, what’s up?

     So far, so good.

Everybody well?

     Far as I can tell.

 

Buck up, Uncle Joe!

     What do you know?

Just enough to slip a little gin 

     in your glass of tears.

 

 

 

                   Rise

 

Dandelion in sassy yellow scoffs

at concrete—seed a crack and thrive:

You gotta dig down to rise.

 

Knocked flat, laid low, scrawny 

kid holds a secret the bully 

doesn’t know:I’m gonna grow!

 

Salt sea struck a bargain with the moon:

Draw back, go slack, ebb deep

if you want to rise.

 

Tiny virus wears the crown?

Pandemic thinks it’s got us down?

We, too, will rise.

 

 

 

      Yesterday, Today, & Tomorrow

 

There was a time we didn’t say its name: Corona. 

Or its nickname: Covid-19.Remember the time we 

rambled forth, mingled, shook a stranger’s hand?

Now, behind our doors, we remember yesterday.

 

This is the time we scan the news for numbers—

so many stricken, so many dead. We study odds,

precautions, symptoms. We hunker down, tally our 

provisions, learn who to trust, as we survive today.

 

There will be a time all this is yesterday—

what we suffered, what we learned, how 

we chose to change. Then we will story

chronicles of kindness. We live for tomorrow.

 

Now’s our time to remember, live, and prophesy—

each asking, How shall we become a wiser world?

 

 

 

     Concentric Jurisdiction

 

When pandemic sweeps the Earth,

the W.H.O. holds the big picture:

what is best for the good for all?

The President prefers a national view:

what is best for my citizen voters?

The Governor guards the state:

what’s right within this boundary?

The Mayor sees to the city:

how can we be together here?

And I cling to my own sovereignty:

my yard is my domain, house my castle.

But my heart feels otherwise:

what is best for the good of all—

the children, the future, the Earth?

 

 

 

         Will We Go Back, after the Vaccine?

 

When I taught poetry, back in the day, we’d gather 

at a school parking lot after the kids went home, 

compare accounts of rush hour, delays, close calls. 

If the building was locked, I’d call the janitor, he’d come 

shuffling with keys, we’d get in, find our room, arrange 

a circle of desks, set out food and books for browsing 

or borrowing, and begin. We’d write and share—

voices, tears, and laughter.

 

Now we meet online. No food, no books. Instead, 

we’re all in gallery view, each isolate screen showing 

a grid of faces, then a poem on screen view. 

We talk, go mute, and write.

 

Fifteen cars don’t drive across town. Fifteen parents 

don’t leave their children. Some hold up a glass of wine. 

One plays her viola and we weep. The stories still

rise up in our good company. We relish the writing—

our voices, tears, and laughter.

 

 

 

Oregon Dawn in Spite of the News

 

Before I can get to our statistics—so many 

stricken, so many dead—I’m summoned 

by the birds raising a ruckus outside, crows 

and jays in festive outrage, trill, chirrr, and aria 

 

from the  little brown birds, the mournful

dove, the querulous towhee, rusty starlings

in their see-saw mutter, and a woodpecker

flicker hammering the gutter staccato.

 

On the porch, I’m assaulted by the merciless 

scent of trees opening their million flowers,

as I inhale the deep elixir of hazel, hawthorn, 

maple, and oh those shameless cherry trees.

 

And just when I’ve almost recovered 

my serious moment, I gasp, helpless to see 

the full queen moon sidling down 

through a haze of blossoms.

 

 

 

                New Deal

 

After the Great War, the Spanish Flu

of 1918, we hungered to forget, and roared

into the 20s in wild speculation, drowning

grief and caution in drink, dance,  and debt, 

until the Crash of ’29 shocked us down.

 

Then we humbled into new ways:

thrift, compassion, pulling together 

as Earth spoke in drought and dust,

and rootless refugees from failed farms

went wandering, wide-eyed in fear.

 

Now, a century beyond all that,

we have the Flu and Crash in one.

How shall we clarify the story problem

this time: Health, Money, Earth?

What can our 2020 vison see?

 

 

 

      For a Daughter in Quarantine

 

It’s all so like a dream as in my mind I drive 

the empty streets to find you across the river, 

then east and north, all trees in wild blossom. 

In my mind, I descend the steps to your 

basement den—with food, drink, music, 

we sit together, your stories and mine.

 

I’m old, may catch it, be gone. Or you…

or both of us. It was always possible, but 

now we live in acceleration of the possible. 

I always wanted your independence, and 

now we have it—I here writing this,

and you there, in danger, brave.

 

Child, girl, woman—it’s okay. 

From far, we live this day.

 

 

                    Training Ground

 

Many will die, orphans and survivors

going on in company with the spared. Against

this heavy darkness, how can we see virus trouble 

as our school? See that our enemies are small and many, 

so our remedies are small and many? We each become 

a patriot of the simple life, moving less, spending less,

doing less, all loyal to the future. Each a seed in the garden 

of change, we savor a breath of sky, a cup of rain, 

a loaf of earth grown into sustenance.

 

Maybe twelve months, maybe eighteen, they say, 

until vaccine becomes our graduation day, and we 

go forth to build a new reality. How many lessons 

will we learn by then, how many easy habits 

will we no longer need? By then, we’ll need to know 

how to quench our smoke, clear our sky, and not 

let our old friend sun become our enemy.

 

This is our difficult good chance, in school 

together all around the world, listening 

to the children tell us:

Learn to change.

 

 

                Mingling

 

Remember how we used to do it—

weaving through the crowd, brushing 

shoulders, fingers touching a sleeve, 

adjusting a lapel—first an old friend here, 

then turn to banter with a stranger, finding 

odd connections—“You’re from where?...You

know her!”—going deeper into story, leaning 

back in wonder, leaning close to whisper, secrets 

hidden in the hubbub, as if in the middle of this

melee you have found a room and lit a lamp…

then the roar of the crowd comes back, 

someone singing out a name, another 

bowing with shriek of laughter, slap

on the back, bear hug, void

of fear? Imagine! 

Just imagine.

 

 

       Spring Fever in Lock Down

 

School never looked so good—even waiting

for the bus in the rain. Give it to me! No seat?

I’ll stand, I’ll stumble at the turn, even fall

in someone’s lap—anyone, okay? Touch

elbow, knee, shoulder, it’s called being alive.

The warning bell? Music to my ears. Math,

history, bio lab? Love it. Backs of heads

while teach gives a power point? Beautiful.

The hall at break, lockers slamming, 

every body bumping into every body?

What’s better than that, I mean really?

Better than these walls, this window.

Wish I was in class right now, staring

out the window wishing I was home.

 

 

     Vaccination Day

 

We will lay a wreath

below the statue of the nurse

with the improvised mask. We will

all sing from balconies, and dance

like Iranian doctors feeling the music

in spite of all. At Arlington—flowers

on the grave of the unknown homeless

refugee, found alone in an alley in L.A.

At evening, we will gather to shelter

in place, grateful to share the simple food

of those days, looking into each other’s 

eyes to tell our legends of kindness,

generosity, connection, and of

the research team who gave

their patent to the world.

 

 

Tasks of the Laid-Off Worker

 

Stay home. Lie low. Get by.

Sleep in. Watch news. Brew tea.

Hang tough. Call friends. Make plans.

Cinch belt. Pay bills. Count down.

Cook rice. Wash dish. Lick spoon.

Bow low. Pray hard. Breathe deep.

Have hope. Lose hope. Make hope.

Watch rain. Check clock. Lie down.

Hold on. Hum song. Have dreams. 

Trust time. Let go. Keep faith. 

 

 

 

          Pandemic Zoom

 

For Happy Hour, we clink our glasses

to the tiny eye above the screen—

white wine looming into view:

“To your health!”

 

Twelve little windows gather the family 

like Thanksgiving for a sweet cacophony 

chorus in our babbling flock all at once:

“What’s going on for you?!”

 

In gallery view, we wear funny hats

for grandma at 97  locked down

in the care facility, and all together:

“Hats off to you!”

 

For Layla, age four and three

thousand miles away, who can’t help 

dancing with her young verve, we sing—

“You got me on my knees, Layla!”