Night before last (early 12 July), Pamela Fleetwood (Beaulieu) passed away. I met Pam my second quarter in college, in Bob Winter’s Introduction to Poetry, both the class and the Honor’s Seminar attached to it, where we not only studied poetry, but wrote some. The miles and years since then have stretched quite long, and there was no way then of knowing how significant and lasting that intersection of our lives would prove. At the end of the quarter, we put together a little chap book titled Cæsuras, and the following are Pam’s poems preserved there. I really haven’t much of anything of Pam that I can offer back to her family, but I have this. I hope it can be some comfort in this time of pain and sorrow.
Driving the Harbor Road
Slow dawn pushes the night’s gray lid into the ocean,
revealing tarnished silver morning clouds.
The time is coming in … or maybe going out;
wet sand and brown-green seaweed
infiltrate the air of my car.
screaming unheeded landing orders,
jump and flap from one piling to another.
(So, the pot-holes are gone for a time)
One of the largest of bare rocks —
watching and ignoring the gulls,
uncommon visitor from elsewhere
The fat harbor seal dining in regal solitude.
The Same Old Same Old
Feed the dog and feed the cat,
Feed the bird and after that
Clean the kitchen in a hurry.
(Clear the fridge of all that’s furry.)
Sweep the floor and vacuum the rug.
(Stop and tape the broken plug.)
Dust the tables, start the mending,
Do the laundry (never-ending).
Cook the supper, bathe the child.
(Comb the hair that’s looking wild.)
Just another Saturday —
I really need a holiday.
Just a nobody nothing —
Get him! Teach him
Stun gun dance!
Worthless punk —
Cut him down to
size and Prove that We
are Law. We are the
Power here tonight
stick and hit and
Again and again and again …
See him crawl?
the slime —
Heat-drunk insects drone.
A feather floats past the line
Where sheets hang drying.
Misty cold damp creeps
the smoky land encasing,
while my small child sleeps.