Since 1996 Volume XXI
Judy Wells
JUDY WELLS is a San Francisco Bay Area poet, writer, and teacher whose work has often been influenced by her Irish heritage and love of storytelling.
Since 1979, Wells has published 11 books of poetry and had her work represented in numerous literary journals and anthologies.
AFTER READING GALWAY KINNELL’S “OATMEAL”
Like Galway Kinnell,
I eat a bowl of oatmeal
every morning.
Unlike his, mine is not glutinous,
lumpy, or slimy—
It is a sublime concoction of oatmeal,
raisins, cranberries, almonds, walnuts,
and fresh fruit: blueberries, apples,
raspberries, or strawberries.
I make it myself.
Nor do I need an imaginary companion
to eat with me,
but today, in the spirit of Galway Kinnell,
who breakfasted with Keats,
I choose one: Emily Dickinson.
“Yes,
I will sample your oatmeal,” she says.
“My
Irish maid Maggie Maher often
made it for herself and the hired hands
though
I much prefer my own cake.”
She daintily eats two spoonfuls
of my elaborate mush.
“I’m Irish too,” I say to Emily.
Her eyes pierce my soul.
“I
could tell,” said Emily,
“though you
do not resemble Maggie as much
as the Irish washerwoman who
lives down the street.”
“I’m also related to you, Emily,” I say.
She eyes me suspiciously.
“I’m your 6th
cousin twice removed.”
She snorts.
“Please say that in plain English.”
“My great-grandmother is Phebe Dickinson
from Northfield, Massachusetts,
just up the river from Amherst.
She was born four or five years
after you were.”
“Oh, a
descendant of our northernmost Puritan ancestors.”
Emily sighs.
“I
suppose they were farmers.
Not our sort really,
We became lawyers and college builders.”
I’m getting a little hot under the collar
of my blue synthetic robe as she
sits
coolly crisp in her white cotton housedress.
I counter, “Phebe’s first cousin Elijah Dickinson
built a magnificent stone library
in Northfield. He made his money
in shoe manufacturing in Fitchburg—
sent his shoes worldwide.”
Emily looks down at her dainty feet.
“I
suppose we all need shoes.
Tell
me who you are, other than
a hybrid Irish Dickinson.”
“I’m from 21st
century California,”
I say. “Phebe Dickinson wasn’t a stay-
at-home like you. She took the boat
to California, was a cook on board,
and met her husband, a seaman,
on the voyage, or so the story goes.
I’m a 4th
generation Californian, and I humbly state:
a poet. Not a genius like you, Cousin Emily,
whom I admire intensely.
But you might be amazed to know
women can now get Master’s of Fine Arts
in Poetry
at universities all over the U.S.A.
“I
approve,” said Emily.
“I had
several Masters
though
I never did reveal their names.”
“And we have machines at home that
instantly send our letters around
the world if we want.”
“I
approve,” said Emily.
“The world never
sent a letter back to me and secretly
“And you can conduct a love affair
solely by these machines,” I said.
“I
approve,” said Emily.
“I
confess
I was erotically attracted to both men and women,
but I never wanted the mess.
A
letter is much more erotically charged
than a body, at least in my opinion.
My mind is not a mess.”
“And
what form do you choose for your poetry?”
Emily asked.
I had to admit I did not know
for it varied day to day
and all I could say was
“Story. I want to tell a story.”
“Well, that’s not very spiritual,” she said.
I took several large spoonfuls of my oatmeal
and thought for a second.
“I don’t want to hear a fly buzz when I
die,” I said. “Do you?”
She did not reply.
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