Seeker Magazine

Vivian Cassina

"In a completely rational society, the best of us would aspire
to be teachers and the rest of us would have to settle for
something less, because passing civilization along from
one generation to the next ought to be the highest honor
and the highest responsibility anyone could have." Lee Iacoca

And so we teach and squeeze our lives
for what ever semblance of normalcy
that may be left at the end of the day
hoping our friends don't notice how obsessed
we have become with futures that are not our own.

And now, poetry too, has become a force
to press for time and space, and what's left
of this place called my heart and soul.
Someday, when there is time
I may find other loves.

I began working with troubled youth 20 years ago and soon discovered that I had the natural ability to communicate with children in a way that gave them confidence and perseverance. I obtained my teaching credential at age 40. I have taught at Huron Middle School for the last 11 years. Huron, California is a small rural town on the western edge of the San Joaquin Valley. If you had salad for lunch, chances are it was picked and packed from here. Huron is like a small piece of Mexico, picked up and dropped off in the middle of miles of open, sparsely populated farmland. I hope to someday write a book on classroom management that teaches self respect and open communication.
Late last year, soon after I first began exploring on the Internet, I received some mail that included a site for poetry written by Ron Haun. Through his poetry and many, many evenings of reading and listening, and listening........the words I heard began to come from the inside as well as out....and I have been living poetry every since. What you see here is a humble attempt to share some of this mystic experience.

A poem written in response to Ron's romantic poetry:

Poetry Painting
Turning the pages
I rest my head on your shoulder
and let you read your beautiful poems,
Assured they were written especially for me.

As I read
I set aside my own pen
And pick up a brush to paint your eyes
As seen only through your poetry.

Westside Fields
Spread for miles over Westside fields,
An immense earthen patchwork quilt,
A paisley picture of hues
Created as a labor of love
By man and God

Brocade squares of romaine
In purples, grays and blues,
Framed on a background of
Rich brown rows of corduroy.
Pieces of lacey endive and chives
Seamed between, in contrast.

This oversized comforter
Hand sewn with a hoe,
Plaids of lettuce and celery green,
Bordered by a gray ribbon
of asphalt, straight stitched
With yellow thread.

On a discreet corner
A white embroidered cross,
Solemnly cross-stitched with flowers,
Stands guard over thirteen
Candles burning,
Signifying the final union
Of creater to Creator.

Written in response to an accident that killed 13 farm workers returning from the Huron lettuce fields. The accident caused the laws about unsafe transportation of farm labors in California to be changed.

Garden Door
A cool summer breeze
rustles the curtains
of the garden door,
left ajar by your leaving.
Curled tight against the dawn
that I know heralds the reality
of the night before,
I weep silently,
and lie listening
for foot steps returning
that never do,
and sense the book,
half read and still waiting,
open
on the foot of the bed.

Lace Curtains
A veil of lace curtains,
gently billowing in a summer breeze
to soften the glow to passersby,
as they gaze wondrously
at the warmth of a candle light
gaily dancing across the window seal.

A lone armchair sits fluffed and stuffed
with little square pillows
to cover and fill the absences.
A solitary pen reclines on linen stationery
as a reminder of his might some days,
and some day's might.

As laughter bounces around
the richly papered walls at pleasant smiles,
always served with tiny sweet cakes,
Fresh flowers regale the tranquil serenity,
while warm soup masks with a fragrance of home.

The occasional visitor senses
that all is well, and life is bountiful,
As parcels of contentment
are perfectly wrapped to go.

A poetess' life, meticulously painted
in material symbolism.
While ghosts walk softly, on tippee toe
around richly clad books, encased for the show,
But whose enchanted pages were never read.

One for Slip of a Remedy
Center stage.
Standing tall.
All eyes turning my way,
Watching my turns,
How I walk away, how I then turn
And come back towards them.

True Beauty, I was.
Always ignoring their presence,
But always holding their attention.
Men would gaze with adoration,
Women envious of my long
thick mane flowing in the wind
of my every move.

Now, I am here on the sidelines.
Out to pasture, you might say.
Now I am passed by
with barely a glance.
Never a stare.
A nod might betray their disdain
for my swollen flesh.
Now passed by,
I don't understand.

I long to be there once more,
Center stage, standing tall.
Turning eyes, while making my turns.
True Beauty, I was.
Women envious, men adoring.

I stand here instead,
Out to pasture, you might say.
Looking down at this
object of my condemnation.
I see it move,
This bundle of bones, wet and weak,
And the swelling moves
to somewhere in my heart.

Now wobbling legs,
He tries to stand.
One knee at a time,
He tries to stand.
He looks at me standing
there above him,
First with envy,
Then with adorations.

He wavers, wobbles, falls,
Then up, up fast!
Standing tall!

Center stage, standing tall.
My eyes turning his way,
Watching his turns.
He walks away, then
turns and comes toward me,
Ignoring his beauty
in my presence.

I vision him center stage.
Men would gaze with adoration,
Women envious of his long
thick mane flowing in
the wind of his every move.
---If only he had lived.

Poet Laureate

He wore on his head a laurel
That only few could see
But it was immaterial
For he never sought
The applause of crowds
Or fickle history

Of what worth was fame
If only to entertain multitudes
His was to touch the heart
Arouse the flurry of the soul
To make a mark indelible

If no song were sung
If no pain endured
If the spirit never rose
In search of explanation
The work was lost, discarded
Left to lie in waste

He wore on his head a laurel
That only few could see
But it was immaterial
He woke a heart and soul
Then set the poet free.

Written in tribute to Ron Haun.

(Copyright 2000 - All Rights Reserved by Vivian Cassina - No reproduction without express permission from the author)

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Letter to the Author:
Vivian Cassina at Poemsbyviv@aol.com