On the Edge
Two of a kind, a perfect pair,
many animals mate for life.
Famously, swans,
some penguins,
Waiting for Dad
Two of a kind, a perfect pair,
many animals mate for life.
Famously, swans,
some penguins,
Mating Games
Two of a kind, a perfect pair,
many animals mate for life.
Famously, swans,
some penguins,
Reverberations
Reverberations
A Pre-Eminent Art+ Poetry Exhibition
The Sebastopol Center for the Arts Gallery
JUN 21 - AUG 10, 2024
On July 9th, Robin read her poem, Jeanne d’Arc, Written after Joan Brown’s painting Anna.
Jeanne d’Arc
after Joan Brown’s painting Anna
Joan Brown
“Anna” 1971
Jeanne, so strong and lovely.
Sword arm still extended—
even in sleep you dream of battle,
of holy causes, long treks ahead.
Once just a girl, a youth, but
you saw visions, swayed
an army. You stood before a King
in boys’ clothes, ready to lead.
The people adored you.
Soldiers followed you into
battle, won many. You became
the Maiden of Orleans.
How many heroes are heralded
only to be betrayed?
The King allowed English
sympathizers and a jealous church
to put you on trial
claiming witchcraft and
the cross-dressing
he’d earlier embraced.
If only they had
seen you as I have—
without your armor
resting in repose, ribs bare,
eyes closed.
No. They let the fire lick
your virgin body, feared they
could not incinerate the
innocence held in your heart.
So, they burned your bones
three times to nullify you,
wanted no proof you existed.
Afraid that even one bone
might be deemed sacred
might dazzle the masses
might dilute their authority.
But, in the end, your story
was too strong to destroy,
the stuff of legend
already written.
You were, and are,
the brightest star
in the French night sky.
Robin Gabbert
Poem from the Delta Poetry Review
Posthumous Epithalamion for Ethel and Sid
Daughter of a blind Irishwoman, wide saucer eyes
bluer than her hair was black— she was
all shy smile and pearls in the faded Daguerreo,
but clipped off the extra thumb of a new-born baby
as a nurse trained by old Doc.
Sid broke his arm delivering messages
by motorcycle in World War I, then was
a brakeman on the B&O.
He rode the rails for days
before returning for doses
of her generous laugh, chicken-and-dumplings,
and nights sitting together on the porch.
The wooden swing creaked
till the children were a-bed.
Then, following fireflies
in the stairway windows,
he’d lead her upstairs quietly. She,
still prone to giggle like a schoolgirl.
Seventh daughter of the same,
Ethel had visions, prescient dreams,
and sometimes knew
undisclosed nightmares,
locations of lost keys, things still to occur.
Sid later turned gruff
as the TB ate his lungs—
afraid to share a sip of coffee with five-year-old me.
But he’d still smile and untie her apron,
when she was least expecting it.
Now, the porch swing
of the old house on Gallia Street
is gone. It’s someone else’s house now,
run to ruin, left to the ghosts.
But her blue eyes shine on
in grand and great grandkids,
her laugh still infects
all who will remember,
and sometimes, her whispers still,
give us chills.