Mary's Poetry

Mary's Poetry

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Mary R. Shefferman

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The Ferrets

Mary R. Shefferman:

I started writing poetry when I was 10 or 11 years old. For some reason, I stopped and started again when I was 14 or 15 years old. In between and throughout I've also written some other things — short stories, (bad) plays, essays, articles, a book (two actually) — but the force that most drives me has been my poetry.

This is an old poem. I don't remember when I wrote it. It might have been when I was in college. Certainly it was after I had learned dangerous little about Taoism.
My friend Jay (a very talented artist) painted this poem on the back of my leather motorcycle jacket that I used to wear when I went clubbing back in the '80s and early '90s. He signed it "Asylum Works."

I also asked Jay to paint the words "Poeta nascitur non fit" on one sleeve and "This above all, to thine own self be true" on the other.

I've never been on a motorcycle.

Words

I have broken the universe.
It stalls intact for seconds
as I wait
for the thrill
of the crash.

What have I done?
Will everything fall
from the frame—
the shards of
a smashed mirror?

And who will sweep it up?
I am now a splinter—
small and sharp—
ready to slip

under black leather
night's skin
to infect it
with light.

—Mary R. Drews (Shefferman)

©Mary R. Drews/Mary R. Shefferman

I wrote this poem on my birthday in 1999.
It isn't a very happy poem, is it? I don't often write happy poems. Happiness leaps out unattended; it is the darkness that needs deliberate expression.

The rabbits are fine.

But I haven't seen that cat...

Unnatural Is Mercy

The rabbits are gone
from the backyard — or
at least I have not seen them
today.

Earlier I watched a blackish cat, white
on his throat like a bib
wander with purpose,
deceptively alert,
across the lawn.

—Mary R.D. Shefferman

© 1999-2000 Mary R. Shefferman

I wrote this in May of 1999.

[no title]

The birds outside sing —
a reminder that the depth of life is
more shallow than a hasty grave.

Each breath recalls
the next
may not come
or it may.

The sun’s simple warmth
cannot spark life,
only heats the air coming through
the window to touch the bones
alive enough to feel it.

How arrogant to believe
any part lives
forever.

How sad to fail
to believe.

—Mary R.D. Shefferman

© 1999-2000 Mary R. Shefferman

This is an old poem.
To be clear, I have nothing against God. I'm concerned sometimes that perhaps God has something against me.

That was a joke.

A friend recently related an experience where she was in a frustrating and difficult situation. She took a few moments and prayed. Almost instantly she came up with a suggestion that resolved the situation completely.

Hunger

I eat these
bones of sadness
one by one
knowing this
will not fill me
with wisdom
or immortality —

I slake thirst
with blood
sucking and smacking
the life down
to quench the death
in my stomach —

I pray
and God lies
down
next to me
but rises
with the sun
and leaves
me ignorant
as before —

—Mary R. Drews (Shefferman)

©Mary R. Drews/Mary R. Shefferman

I have nothing to say about this poem right now.

Gift

A single rose waits
on my desk.
What have I done now?
What mediocrity is rewarded
with one of those things that die?

I try to be pleasant —
but sludge lingers
in morning air.
I breathe it in
like good oxygen —
holding it until I'm high.
I exhale only
the expected.

This rose is open now.
Another day and the petals
will droop, then drop off
onto the blotter.

I'll pick up each one,
roll it between my fingers,
and bring the dying scent
to my face.
For a moment — hope.

8/31/87

—Mary R. Drews (Shefferman)

©Mary R. Drews/Mary R. Shefferman

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