Tribute to Ellen Kort, First Wisconsin Poet Laureate, & Three poems by Ellen Kort
Guest Edited by Fabu
When you look at Ellen Kort’s extensive biography, you read about an accomplished poet who has shared her work world-wide. Her bio is the mere bones of Ellen, and to know her really is to experience the warm flesh of her poetry. Ellen Kort is truly loved by all of us who have written these poems of tribute. We appreciate our kind meetings, her life affirming words and steadfast encouragement to continue with poetry. I thank the Editors of Verse Wisconsin for the opportunity to return to Ellen a little bit of the honor that she has always shown me and my work.—Fabu
A Poem About Ellen Kort
Gentleness floats in circles
around her spirit.
Kindness wets her mouth
to comfort, yet challenge
with words.Ellen saw me and smiled
shared her poetry about
our Wisconsin.
I have loved her from then
until now.—Fabu, Madison, WI
Forty-three poems by forty-three poets are included in the current print issue of Verse Wisconsin as a “Tribute to Ellen Kort.” We are also pleased to publish two new poems by Kort in this issue and reprint a favorite of the contributors.
The Long Continuous Line
When eating fruit, think of the person who planted the tree.—Vietnamese Proverb
When I was nine my grandpa gave me an apple tree
in his orchard This one is yours he said
It breathes the same air as you and me Every time
you touch a tree you become part of the story of the earth
I didn’t know what it meant to own a tree
There was something overwhelming about a gift
that belonged to the earth but I loved that tree
and the past into which it has gone The nurturing
fragrance of apple blossoms bees wild with delight
my touch-and-know of branches blessed by wind
and rain moon and sun My tree My very own tree
giving its fruit without me even asking Grandpa
and me sitting in the grass leaning against my tree
listening to the rustling murmur of leaves watching
a flock of geese measuring the sky distant sounds
that could be words I loved the quiet unfolding
between us each of us taking a bite into the sweet
sacrament of an apple its tight red skin
hugging a generous white heart and tucked inside
a little star-house of seeds The only smell better than
those first white blossoms was the autumn tumble
of windfalls the warm smell of pie baking
in grandma’s oven and applesauce spiced with cinnamon
I knew that tree the whole taste of it and all of its
luminous gifts like seeds in my pocket So much gets
lost in the echoes and loneliness of memory
our hunger for roots our need for steadiness the promise
of tomorrow Even now when I hold the round red
universe of an apple in the palm of my hand I can still
lean against that apple tree and the man who planted it
The Stream of Life
To be great, art has to point somewhere.—Anne Lamott
Point and shoot is what I told my sons
when they were little Lift the lid
and they did circling it in rhythmic yellow
One floated a toy plastic boat in the toilet ocean
a perfect aim could make it spin One tried
writing his name on the wall stopping
and starting in a valiant attempt to dot the I
I caught them peeing yellow rivers in their sandbox
watering my flowers the oak tree in the backyard
My Uncle Pete said some of the best conversations
he ever had some of the best business deals
he ever made took place while standing in front
of a urinal He liked the simple sense of truth
the zipping up the closure the handshake
I dressed as a man once for a Halloween party
Trench coat hat and shoes from Goodwill
a Richard Nixon mask and one cut-off leg of pantyhose
stuffed and sewed to the front of a pair of trousers
After the party we went to a bar and my friends
dared me to go into the men’s restroom I took the dare
I pictured all the men I’ve ever known standing
in front of those urinals Mr. Success and his perfect aim
full stream ahead The jokester who talks non-stop
I stayed long enough to read the carefully printed sign
above the row of urinals
Please do not splash
The guy next to you might be barefoot
If Death Were a Woman
I’d want her to come for me
smelling of cinnamon wearing
bright cotton purple maybe hot
pink a red bandana in her hair
She’d bring good coffee papaya juice
bouquet of sea grass saltine crackers
and a lottery ticket We’d dip
our fingers into moist pouches
of lady’s slippers crouch down to see
how cabbages feel when wind bumps
against them in the garden
We’d walk through Martin’s woods
find the old house its crumbling
foundation strung with honeysuckle
and in the front yard a surprise
jonquils turning the air yellow
glistening and ripe still blooming
for a gardener long gone We’d head
for the beach wearing strings of shells
around our left ankles laugh
at their ticking sounds the measured
beat that comes with dancing
on hard-packed sand the applause
of ocean and gulls She’d play
ocarina songs to a moon almost full
and I’d sing off-key We’d glide
and swoop become confetti of leaf fall
all wings floating on small whirlwinds
never once dreading the heart
silenced drop And when it was time
she would not bathe me Instead
we’d scrub the porch pour leftover
water on flowers stand a long time
in sun and silence then holding hands
we’d pose for pictures in the last light
from If Death Were a Woman (1994)
—Ellen Kort, Appleton, WI
