Krikor Der Hohannesian
AT THE 50TH
Harvard College Reunion, Class of 1958
Adrift between symposia and seminars,
a drizzle of reverie on Bow Street,
aimless nostalgia graying in droplets of fog.
At the corner of Arrow the campanile
of St. Paul’s looming through the mist,
Italianate monolith, blood- red brick.
this was where you fell, Marco,
a bluster of a June day, 1957, the day
the scaffolding betrayed you, left
you hanging to mock gravity, the split
second of wonder before the inevitable.
I stare up, watch the swallows and wrens
loop and hover about the belfry clock,
the minute hand inches toward the hour,
the bells toll three, the birds
whoosh off at the plangent peal.
that was when you fell, after sweaty
hours sandblasting the brick,
flailing the humid air, wingless
against the corkscrew dive.
I stare down at the concrete
where your blood once pooled –
so where were the winged angels
to waft you safely to ground?
they said your head hit first,
that the sound was one nobody
would want to hear again.
And tonight we will be dining and
dancing – a cloudburst of reminiscence
for us who have survived the thunder
of a half century, the one lost to you
in a heart’s single beat,
a rogue gust of hot wind.
in the class book an asterisk, a terse footnote:
Mark Brennan - died June 17, 1957
The Day Approaching
in memory of Mara Stevenson
As sudden as a summer squall
the prognosis eclipses the sun,
a cloud of surety that your days
will never again be the same.
Of a sudden, life is rudely finite and
the question “if you knew tomorrow
was your last day…” isn’t the grist
of cocktail party chatter. Instead,
days of suffering
days of hope
days of despair
counting down
against the allotment,
loosening the fierce
grip on days now
precious as pearls.
New Year’s Eve and
oyster bisque - no
one could make it
better than you- “My Old
Kentucky Home”, loud,
soulful at midnight.
Krikor Der Hohannesian’s poetry has been thrice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in many literary journals including The Evansville Review, The South Carolina Review, Atlanta Review, Comstock Review, Louisiana Literature, Connecticut Review and Natural Bridge. My first chapbook, “Ghosts and Whispers” (Finishing Line Press, 2010) was a finalist for the Mass Book Awards, which also selected it as a “must read” in their 2011 poetry category. A second chapbook, “Refuge in the Shadows,” was released in June, 2013 (Cervena Barva Press).
AT THE 50TH
Harvard College Reunion, Class of 1958
Adrift between symposia and seminars,
a drizzle of reverie on Bow Street,
aimless nostalgia graying in droplets of fog.
At the corner of Arrow the campanile
of St. Paul’s looming through the mist,
Italianate monolith, blood- red brick.
this was where you fell, Marco,
a bluster of a June day, 1957, the day
the scaffolding betrayed you, left
you hanging to mock gravity, the split
second of wonder before the inevitable.
I stare up, watch the swallows and wrens
loop and hover about the belfry clock,
the minute hand inches toward the hour,
the bells toll three, the birds
whoosh off at the plangent peal.
that was when you fell, after sweaty
hours sandblasting the brick,
flailing the humid air, wingless
against the corkscrew dive.
I stare down at the concrete
where your blood once pooled –
so where were the winged angels
to waft you safely to ground?
they said your head hit first,
that the sound was one nobody
would want to hear again.
And tonight we will be dining and
dancing – a cloudburst of reminiscence
for us who have survived the thunder
of a half century, the one lost to you
in a heart’s single beat,
a rogue gust of hot wind.
in the class book an asterisk, a terse footnote:
Mark Brennan - died June 17, 1957
The Day Approaching
in memory of Mara Stevenson
As sudden as a summer squall
the prognosis eclipses the sun,
a cloud of surety that your days
will never again be the same.
Of a sudden, life is rudely finite and
the question “if you knew tomorrow
was your last day…” isn’t the grist
of cocktail party chatter. Instead,
days of suffering
days of hope
days of despair
counting down
against the allotment,
loosening the fierce
grip on days now
precious as pearls.
New Year’s Eve and
oyster bisque - no
one could make it
better than you- “My Old
Kentucky Home”, loud,
soulful at midnight.
Krikor Der Hohannesian’s poetry has been thrice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in many literary journals including The Evansville Review, The South Carolina Review, Atlanta Review, Comstock Review, Louisiana Literature, Connecticut Review and Natural Bridge. My first chapbook, “Ghosts and Whispers” (Finishing Line Press, 2010) was a finalist for the Mass Book Awards, which also selected it as a “must read” in their 2011 poetry category. A second chapbook, “Refuge in the Shadows,” was released in June, 2013 (Cervena Barva Press).