“Target: Peacock”

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I was inspired to write this piece after reading Bright Wings: An Illustrated Anthology of Poems About Birds, edited by Billy Collins and illustrated by David Allen Sibley. This poem captures a scene I witnessed in July while visiting Victoria, Canada. This version of the poem benefits from the feedback of local first readers JG and JH.

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TARGET: PEACOCK

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On a stretch of grass in Victoria’s public park

not far from the statue of Queen Elizabeth

once beheaded by vandals, I watch as a little boy

suddenly bolts from his strolling parents to hassle

one of the resident peacocks, a mature male

with a long lavish tale trailing behind him,

an armada of steadfast eyes. The boy aims one

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of his sneakers to stomp on feathers, misses, so spits

at the rump of the bird who sidles away quickly

in peace, but the child follows and spits again.

In silence the peacock scuttles off, perhaps

too accustomed to insurrections to cry out

or claw or peck at an ankle, or perhaps seeking refuge

in those trees I passed in front of The Empress,

soft weeping sequoias, imported, limp like flags.

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by Therese L. Broderick

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“Euphoria”

This sonnet-like poem is dedicated to my daughter, with whom I went to Paris in spring 2009. My first trip to Paris was on honeymoon; my second trip was with my MFA program.

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EUPHORIA

That first time in Paris, I was deep in love

with my new husband. On a second stay, I adored

the poets who taught me Beaudelaire.

Now here for another visit, one spring week,

I come to arrange some daily trysts

between this dashing city and ma fille jolie

charming and clever, not quite seventeen.

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Walking beside her along the courtyards

of the Louvre, on bridges across the Seine,

around the Rodin busts within the d’Orsay,

or standing on the Eiffel Tower with a birds

eye view of all her prospects, I feel elated.

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May she be lifted by Romance, Myth, & Destiny

into that daring woman she yearns to be.

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by Therese L. Broderick

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“Vandal”

I wrote this poem after reading Donald Revell’s The Art of Attention: A Poet’s Eye, a book which inspired me to try to write effortlessly, paying close attention to nature and to my own awareness. (Alas, I couldn’t help but revise this poem with much effort.) This poem is autobiographical, based on my regrettable procrastination in transplanting a young tree.

VANDAL

I let a maple sapling grow past June

underneath the porch’s flag pole.

By August its roots will snarl

our basement pipes and plumbing.

Squeezed between concrete and the junipers

and waving bug-tattered leaves,

the thin tree tilts out of shadows.

I hope there is some law against

allowing branches to touch the stripes

of a hanging flag. I almost want

my patriotic husband to call the city.

Then I will have no choice

but to sharpen the saw

and grapple with such liberty.

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by Therese L. Broderick

“That Tuesday”

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This poem is a re-working of a villanelle I wrote years ago about the September 11, 2001 attacks. The form and sound of these syllabic, 14-line stanzas were influenced by Seamus Heaney’s poem “Casualty.” This version benefits from the feedback of my two local first readers JG and JH. I fact-checked the details by reading Wikipedia, by consulting with my husband, and by emailing an early draft to the teacher Mrs. White; however, the “doing sums” is a plausible fiction. This poem is one of many in a book I’m compiling as a surprise gift for my daughter.

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THAT TUESDAY

I.

You were doing sums

With pencil and paper

In Mrs. White’s classroom

And I was miles away

At the State Street bank

Making my deposits.

Before I could get

To the teller’s counter

The lobby’s TV

Switched to a station

That broke the story:

Burning cockpits,

Flaming engines,

Two New York towers.

raising and dropping the flag

II.

You were in second grade

That cloudless Tuesday

When back home I made

Your father check the news.

I dialed your school

But couldn’t get through.

All across the nation

Thousands did the same —

By cell phone or land line

Countless calls were placed

To children, husbands, wives.

Then, terrors again:

The south building falls;

A crash in Arlington.

fast and nimble-footed

III.

You were eight years old

And I was guessing

As best I could

How long it would take me

To drive to your school

Through slow traffic lights

Down Woodlawn streets

To that left-hand turn

By the parking lot.

I was listening

To the car radio

Fearing I wouldn’t reach you

Before roads closed

Or one more missile flew.

for a mother’s end game:

IV.

You had finished your sums

When I rushed up stairs

To the front office

And saw three women —

Teachers — speaking in hushed

Voices; though I could swear

I heard “Pentagon”

And pictured that word

For five sides and angles,

For agencies of war.

No one at Reception

Asked for my ID.

They knew my face

And my daughter’s name.

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V.

They knew my face.

They knew your name.

That morning I was first

To claim a boy or girl.

One teacher walked straight

To the lower school

And right up to your chair,

Led you out of the room.

In your plaid uniform —

Blue and green squares

With a thin line of red —

You left second grade

In my arms. My two arms.

My one child. That Tuesday.

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by Therese L. Broderick

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