Sample Poems by Diane Schenker

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Double Black Diamond
Knowing the ski trail ratings are essential for mountain safety. Double Black Diamonds are used to mark very advanced ski trails that are difficult to ski and have expert terrain.

Frozen cabled chair bobbles up the mountain. You slide off
above treeline, face of the earth now faceless, dropping
off to nothing, leaving a bowl of sky and death.

In this mortal geography, the breath-suckingly steep
sings—ice music!—brutal, piercing. The world
sways, the gusting waltz pushes you sideways.

The gods of meanness and the gods of envy usually tap
dancing on your spine hold small sway here, everyday language
of deceit an inert jumble, piled, for once, somewhere out of reach.

Truth and death empty the black hole of your mouth; shot of fear runs
up between your legs, blade slipped just under the ribs.

Elemental terror runs its fingers through your hair. Thoughts
precariously piled, jambled and numb. Where are

the snows of yesteryear? Better not to ask or the gods
will tell you; undigested gristle sits lumpen, the price
of freedom amortized over razored years.

Wind-strafed and alone, like blood on ice, you finger
all the old demons. They sit, massive and taunting,
“I dare you,” they say. “Be without us if you can.”

It’s time: you grab the open mouths, squeeze them shut.
Lean down the mountain, Keep forward,
keep forward you pray to head off

the ignominious traverse or pathetic
slide on your ass, shaking and in tears. Paradox
grabs your loins—hairs and gorge rise.

In the end, it’s so simple. You are looking at your death.
Lean. Just surrender. Fall straight into its arms.

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Roadside Turnout—Scenic View Area
Ignorantia juris non excusat

I stand here creaking on the worm-eaten boards of my
mistake-riddled life. Themis, leaning on her double-edged
sword—those scales in her other hand—
looms. Acres sway in the balance.

Did-nots dot the landscape. The view ahead
drops off at the same speed I dare go towards it.
As bits of me quit, the bum knee, squinting at signs,
speed seems like a bad idea. I dither.

“Don’t look down,” I think. Spurned pork chop recipes—
all my thoughtless, unkind remarks—clothes-pinned
on the line, flap and taunt, the jurisdiction as inescapable
as the damp weight of my ignorance.
I have squandered my ration of excuse.

A young man making his way in the world is sent
on assignment to the Asian office. The girls there
fuss over him, take him to lunch. They only expect
so much of this Western white boy; they are astonished
when he picks up his chopsticks to eat.
How is this possible, they ask, you know
how to eat with chopsticks?

I look at the dotted landscape of did nots:
I did not teach them to shave
I did not teach them to rebuild a carburetor
I did not teach them to frame a house
or fix a toaster
Can anyone teach a boy to clean his room?
I did not.

Here in the nots, the spots and stains, things botched,
“My mother taught me,” he says,
a small point of surprise, a detail I had forgot.

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Passing

Footsteps in rain transmute passage from here to then—
it’s the sleeping bread, Mommy, he put it in my mouth.
Grasses yield to flesh yields to bone yields to grasses.

This is the spot. They stood here without calculating the angles
digging struggling unearth out of earth lost music—
trees churning sky despite our heedless, small artifacts.

There was touch once, buttery still,
the pair of them looking, still looking.

The box goes with, the box of words, of delights—
reach across to touch vanished annealings.

Breath times earth equals passing.

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Heirloom

Take Medea’s cloak of fire.
Put it on. To everyone’s great horror,
wearer burns to a crisp.

Take the crisp and crumble
mightily with axe and stone then
mix with shavings of mastodon.

Leave mixture out in the rain until
Time starts being counted, then count:
six epochs and an era or two,

to taste; then mix in a
portion of lake (the best are
too far away to get to easily).

Bring to a boil, then simmer stirring
constantly and with abandon; add
a nuncle and some foolscap sliced

into bite-sized pieces. When soft
and indistinguishable, let cool;
pour into molds, male and female.

When set, remove from molds being
careful to hide any lost limbs; paper
over longing that protrudes through the

surface. Leave adjacent on plate
overnight. The hills and valleys should
be fully populated in the morning; gather

relations together, grind to a fine powder.
Sprinkle over water, let settle then take
the passed-through liquid and spread

over the pasture. Graze the sheep
there, then shear them and make a cloak;
it should be pale in comparison. Do not
wash. Try not to sweat. Wipe up food stains
immediately. Do not dry clean. Hold
the cloak in your mind’s eye, in
a storm on the heath, during that bad
land purchase, while your mother is
in the home, during all avoidance of

the problem, then fold carefully making
sure contents do not spill. Put in a Ziplock
bag with moth balls. Tell some stories about it
and of course some jokes. Say
I want you kids to have this.