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The Light Under the Door
for GGG, in lieu of roses
On school days, dark on winter mornings, my mother rose
Before us all and in her quiet way imposed
Rough order on our little world. I’d lie listening
To kitchen sounds—the kettle filled, the openings
And closings, porridge bubbling volcanically as though
In answer to the rumbling, screaming kettle blow,
My mother softly singing, and her light, barefoot tread.
Such times dispelled the sinking thoughts that claimed my head.
I felt such peace as settles at night when downy snow
Falls lightly, when you nestle in the afterglow
Of some wild play as, lagging with stick and skates or sled,
You trudge your way lead-legged home, to food and bed.
Outside, the huddled spruces swayed in the wind below
The shifting stars, the grace, the burdened lift and flow
Latent with dialectic. —Thus to look at things
Would ease, in time, my skeptic fears, at last to bring
Meaning to light from under a door, to things composed
As to suggest the wonder latent in a rose.
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The Gleaner
When, in November, I set out to face
An icy northeast wind, I saw her squat
Down, up ahead, as though she had to lace
A shoe. But something else detained her, what
I could not tell. And she just squatted there,
Intent on some essential enterprise,
On my path, dead ahead, her long brown hair
Disheveled, dangling before down-turned eyes.
She heeded nothing: both the stares and seeming
Oblivion of the bus-stop crowd, the wind,
My approach—all seemed not to touch her dreaming,
As though in dreaming she had never sinned,
Never known anything that led her here,
No brutal treatment from a loved one’s hand,
No choices to regret, no single tear
For hope in anything she ever planned.
So much of life forever out of range,
She seemed undaunted, this small figure dressed
In a light top and nylon sweats, this strange
Domestic bird who’d fallen from a nest.
Then I saw practicality meet need:
She’d gathered ends of cigarettes; with thin
Red fingers pinched and rolled them for the weed,
A ziptop bag to catch her winnings in.
As I came near her, she took out a leaf
Of paper for a cigarette: though scattered
Flurries began to swirl, some scant relief
Beneath the wintry sky was all that mattered.
As snowflakes lit upon her tangled hair,
I passed her, moving to the right, at pace,
And glanced her scarred and ravaged face, an air
Of bitter knowledge in a bitter place.
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Domestic Scene
Wind roars this sunny winter day,
While sitting by the window they
Drink coffee, read—sometimes to one
Another—and enjoy the sun
And peace and the inflections of
Their ways, their lifetime spent in love.
Even the ticking clock, the dust
Motes in the air, the waning fire,
The certainty that all expire
Deepen the beauty of their trust.
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Tiree MacGregor began publishing verse with The Epigrammatist in the early 1990s. Since then his poems have occasionally appeared in print and online journals. He taught university English for many years in three Canadian provinces and now works as a freelance editor. Born in Scotland, he lives in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.
All three poems are beautiful and filled with a loving observance of humanity. Thank you for a warm start to a stormy day.
And thank you, jd, for your kindness. It was stormy here yesterday, too, with sleet, then snow flying — seemed fitting, as far as the winter theme in those poems goes.
These three melancholy poems have a lot to say about living, life, and love. The first one is a precious tribute. The second is an observation of one who is downtrodden, yet thankful for the small things that have meaning to her. The “Domestic Scene” is one of tranquility, love, and satisfaction. You seem to have a kind heart conditioned by those who cared for you.
Thank you kindly, Roy. You have made me think about the heart, which, though it must avoid hardness, ought to be a tough organ. But I’m not sure how tough mine is.
Very different and very enjoyable poems. In the first, the title and epigraph lead the curious reader to discover the latent wonder finally blooming in the last lines. Along the way, porridge bubbling volcanically makes a memorable sound. “The Gleaner” brought up a long-hidden memory of my own, of seeing someone glean tobacco in a similar way. Again, it is a step-by-step story enticing one to discovery. “Domestic Scene” is rather like a painter adding strokes to complete a warm scene quickly, with a proverbial flourish at the end. All masterful.
Thank you, Margaret, for your generous poet’s-eye comments. You remind me of how, in order to satisfy a reader like yourself, one has to hold to a high standard. I’ll try!
Lovely poems. You are up, over and around the subject at hand. Please, keep on
Thank you for your appreciation and encouragement, Sally.
The Light Under the Door brings back memories of those innocent childhood days with the protective mother-presence ever present. I loved the tectonic imagery of the porridge and the kettle.
The Gleaner is a fantastic study of a homeless, mentally vulnerable person, very sympathetically and unpatronisingly written. Hats off to you – a poem with great heart.
Domestic Scene I found a bit depressing. Surely we should have more to look forward to….
Thanks for the reads, Tiree.
Thank you, Paul, especially for “very sympathetically and unpatronisingly written” and “a poem with great heart.” Not to patronise is vital, it seems to me, in writing about anyone, let alone someone broken, vulnerable, or approaching destruction. Actions of the heart necessarily demand respect for the subject.
Tiree, all three poems are striking and a pleasure to read. You have a gift for painting scenes with words to give this reader just enough to fire the imagination and mull over intriguing characters and situations with interest. “The Light Under the Door” is exquisite. It engages all the senses as it tugs at the heart. I love the subtlety of the internal rhyme and alliteration… it adds to the poem’s beauty without detracting from its substance. Thank you!
Thanks kindly, Susan. I’m glad the internal rhymes and alliteration of “The Light under the Door” seem to work, that they are just there, contributing without distracting or detracting. While “exquisite” might come from too generous a heart, I think I’m feeling tempted to think it is spot on, sister! In any case, it is very kind.
Both “The Gleaner” and “Domestic Scene” are like paintings — great imagery!
Thanks for the comment, Cynthia. I remember that NYC poet Frank O’Hara and an artist friend produced what they called “poem-paintings.” The two would sit staring at a canvas until inspired, then dash up and write or splash, brush, or throw something onto it. I have preferred a less literal approach.
Tiree, I think that you are the real deal. I have rarely read such a trio of excellent poems And I think that you damn well know where you are going with this kind of deliberative searing verse.
Well, sir, thank you very much. There can be no higher praise than genuine appreciation from a true colleague. It means a good deal to me.
Tiree, these are three excellent poems I am fortunate to have come across. I have a penchant for works on home and parental love, so your first poem was a pleasure to read. Lines that talk about the kettle’s blow, your mother singing, the porridge, etc, make the perfect initial setting for nostalgia to hit and settle in with a reader, in addition to the later imagery as the piece progresses. As for your second, piece, it’s all that an ageing couple needs while sitting by the hearth.
Your second poem, although on a unique topic, was relatable for me because I had encountered a similar experience. A ragpicker to whom a friend of mine had donated money for food, ended up buying cheap and readily available intoxicating drugs. It shook us, and we could do nothing but stand and watch. The future of such people knows nothing else but stark darkness. Sad, but true. I’m glad you wrote on such a topic.
Thank you, Shamik, for your kindness. In comments such as yours (and I’m fortunate to have received more than a few) I find encouragement and cause for reflection. And from reflection I will hope to write something new.
The Light Under The Door left me the sense that I was there. Oh wait, I was there and you’ve sparked nostalgia from deep within. Bubbling porridge indeed!
The Gleaner also called to mind childhood memoties of a woman such as this, although my “Gleaner” invoked fear in my young heart.
And lastly Domestic Scene, isn’t that what we should all strive for? Thank you brother. I love you and your poems dearly.
Hi Tiree, You are a modern day Mayhew. “The Gleaner” reminds us of the price of romance. Arresting, the imagery. Thank you for sharing.