Poetry by Diane Walker

Diane Walker ‘71 is a writer and a self-described contemplative photographer who takes her inspiration from meditation and nature. She majored in English Composition but spent almost 40 years not writing poetry. In 2009 she began producing a daily blog of poems and photographs as a New Year’s Resolution, and though the results have been decidedly mixed, she continues the practice as a spiritual discipline. A former Seattle marketing executive, Walker is now exhibitions director of ECVA.org, and has just completed a degree program in Organizational Dynamics at Antioch’s Center for Creative Change. She is a resident of Bainbridge Island, Washington.

Entr’acte
The stage is set
for some new entrance;
the dark descended full.
Back from drinking intermission,
we watch the flames of past desires
toss sparks of possibility
through the lantern’s eye,
into futures yet unknown.
Waiting, breathless,
We grip each other’s hands
in anticipation:
what new act,
startling in its ingenuity
will hurl itself from the balcony of stars
into our hearts?

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Three Poems by Anne Hohenstein

Anne Hohenstein ’76  lives and practices law in upstate New York. She has published poems, short fiction and translations from Spanish and Catalan.

I Cannot Remember What
We were sharing a cup of coffee
and a heel of soggy bread
when we were dumped
deep into the Atlantic
where the blood ran slowly out of our bodies.
We were the escort
for a destroyer full of men,
the officers’ dining table
deployed for surgeries.

Last Suppers
My husband declines sustenance from me.
He eats alone sitting with the family,
laughing some at the children’s conversation
with me.
I still feed them, the children.
They are hungry often
and this exchange is one I cannot relinquish.
I will need help standing fast
watching his starved frame fatten
in solitude, absent from me
and my strong arms,
my dying love.
His face these days is ghostlike even when he shaves,
laughing some at the children.

This Edge, the Shore
I am going to the shore tonight to let the wind blow through
my heart, to let the sand reset my footing, to let the water, that
enormous, beckoning blackness pull my tears from salt
to salt, egg to egg, bone to bone.

Copyright 2011 Anne Hohenstein