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Poetry Written by James Donahoe

The poetry is in the archieves of Xavier University in New Orleans

GREENHOUSE

lizards bask
on rafters
in the filtered sunlight

as I sprawl
on the grass
they drop
among the ferns

green on green

Reading “French Quarters Poems”

I sort memories
like string of Mardi Gras beads
saved in a cigar box

Maybe it as you
who hugged me on Royal Street
to escape a drunken tourist.

Maybe we crossed paths
at Salle d’Arms
that bar with Paris newspaper walls
sprinkled red by a shotgun blast.

Maybe it was my candle
that cast your shadow
at the Napoleon House.

I still visit the Quarter,
to run through the rain,
to dodge back into old doorways.

Nothing there
ever seems
much older.

PHALAENOPSIS

This orchid
breeds best
on nights
of high tides
and full moon
see how
the white blossoms
attract the moth

lean closer

the moon is full
and the tide is rising

THIS SUNDAY MORNING

We drive along saint-named bayous
winding through Louisiana towns
resurrected
by crude oil prices.

We ride in silence
past dead animals
lying spaced
like Stations of the Cross.

THE TRUE FAITH

The last three pews
on the left-hand side
were for the colored families
who lived near the Basin

at Communion
they always waited
until last
to walk down their aisle

for the Offertory collection
no one ever knew
if we should
pass them the plate
and it never
was really
decided

Jim on the right at a New Orleans Poetry Forum Meeting

PUTTING UP THE TREE

I remove boxes of Christmas
ornament from the top shelf,
from behind stacks
of sheets and pillow cases,
and place them carefully
beside the tree.
I save newspaper wrappings
as ornaments are unspun
from their crinkled cocoons.

It takes much longer to repack
ornaments on the Twelfth Night,
smoothing out pieces of paper,
thinking about the tree
and unfaded words.

THE NINTH LIFE

Sister Patricia tottered
through retirement
and the dark halls
of the convent

She fed her cat
in secret places,
but even the incense
smelled of sardines.

She toppled the Holy Water
font to the floor,
leaving poor Susu
baptized to death.

Midnight

I sit
staring at the schefflera
looking
for the right word

my son lets loose
the cage of ferrets
who hop and bounce
across my feet

Kevin
talks to the ferrets
and I
talk to myself

The Making of a Politician

When my father
went to Baton Rouge
to serve the whole Third Ward
I went along
with knickers and a grin
to play in the halls
of the Capitol

when summer ended
I came home
alone on the bus
with a stray cat

to this day
I am certain
it was my best smile
that got me past the driver
with my wiggling knitting bag

The Last Dance

She has saved
her corsages
from past proms

and now
her mother gathers
the dead flowers
with their bright ribbons

and places them
gently
in a green garbage bag

July

the smell of rain
lingers
on a summer sidewalk

and the fingers
that dug stones
from spring soil

pick roses

Jazz Fest

Brother, I sit listening to you,
thinking we are of one blood,
colored by chicory and day-old beans.

I, too, played in Jane Alley
where Loie Armstrong was born,
heard the sounds from nearby streets,
grew up to the same gray-haired songs
seasoned with hope.

We are closer than you know,
and there never was
a “second line.”

“Where’s Your Respect?”

Some New Orleans children
learned of death
cleaning family graves
for All Saints Day.

While aunts and mothers
pulled grass and painted
cousins met to play
hide-and-seek
among the tombs.

Supper time drove
the women home
with the children
who would always
hereafter
demote death
to a lower grade.

Retired Longshoreman

Sometimes he watches
ships on the river.

The cat sits,
still and silent
licking memories
of spent lives.

The cat strokes
its throat
against his hand.

Giants

heroes
of our youth
grow larger
till we need
Jack’s beanstalk
to find
wrinkles
in their face

The Trespasser

Susu is a cat
that lives
in the convent

she is famous
for her fertility

the old nun
chases her
with a broom

“A Striving After Wind”

So patiently my son and I had built the kite
of tender strips and paper-
The boyhood lore machined from memory
on a shaft of spring sunlight.

The birds could find no gust to float or flutter.
What chances had we -
scuffing our shoes with the abrasive sand.

The crows preened atop the pole,
and jeered
the ritual mating of kite and wire.

Southern Spring

Soon
I will borrow
a bow saw
to trim the yews
that run my yard,
and soon
I will hunt stakes
to brace my plants,
but now
I must sit
in the shade
and watch
the four-o’clocks grow

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