When Freedom Stands

Babies are born and lovers lie;
We’ll make plans, when Freedom stands.
Do not let their stories die.

We teach the how, perhaps the why;
Teach to repeat, to ace exams;
Heart and truth would make them cry.

He stayed inside, in search of his brother.
The second plane hit, lens on his mother.

They put on their fire suits, knowing the worst.
They stormed the pilot; called home first.

Some got relief. Some got the wall.
Nine-thousand remains: nothing at all.

Heartbeats skip and minutes fly
like spy planes with capture plans.
And the dead cannot ask why.

It’s not the oil. Truly, we’ll try.
Allied lands, joining hands—
Empty space in our New York sky.

Babies are born and lovers cry;
We’ll make plans, when Freedom stands.
Do not let their stories lie.
Do not let their stories die.

The Twin Towers, by Heather Grace Stewart (2000)

Autumn Will

The great oak sways proud, stands high,
Then paints its final will against an autumn sky:
That is how I wish to live, and how I wish to die.

Its branches like a lover’s arms; its shadows where the lonely lie,
Where the old find shelter and the young learn to fly—
The great old oak sways proud, stands high.

Embracing change from day to nigh,
It bows to hold the children; uplifts all passers by—
That is how I wish to live, and how I wish to die.

Its last leaf falls with bright flamboyance,
A crimson battle cry! — and still
The great old oak sways proud, stands high.

Its branches have broken, its roots run dry,
Reduced to a stump, it asks not why—
Just comforts each friend that
comes there to cry.

That is how I wish to love, and how I wish to die.

copyright Heather Grace Stewart, from her poetry collection Where the Butterflies Go (2008)

"Autumn Will", photo by HGS, Sept. 29, 2008

A Note About This Poem
The leaves on the oak trees in our backyard are beginning to turn a brilliant orange and yellow. As I was admiring the colourful show through our kitchen window early this morning, it reminded me of one of my rare rhyming poems, and the only attempt I’ve ever made at a villanelle.

I’m really terrible at definitions, and also at following “rules” in poetry, but in brief, a villanelle, made popular in English-language poetry in the 1800s and based on French poems in this form, is always 19 lines, and has only two rhyming sounds. It also has a refrain that repeats. Here is a better definition: The Villanelle

I tried. I really did. But my attempt ended up being 17 lines, and I didn’t exactly follow the rules – though I think I came close. I didn’t want my rhymes or the meaning of the poem to suffer simply because I needed a certain number of syllables or lines. I think this was the most challenging poem I’ve ever written. After writing this one, I have even more respect for the great rhyming poets. In case some of you were wondering, some of my favourites are Blake, Tennyson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dickinson, and Frost. I think my favourite may be a little-known American poet named Sarah Teasdale. I adore her poem, “Barter.” I’ll have to leave my Canadian and modern influences for another blog, as there are several.