Sutterwriters

Jan Haag was in Long Beach, California, and as a child imagined herself as a young Louisa May Alcott, sitting in a tree, writing poems and stories. She found a career in writing and editing for newspapers, books and magazines. She now teaches journalism and creative writing at Sacramento City College, but she is grateful for the healing spontaneity of Sutterwriters, which has her once again scribbling happily in that metaphoric tree.

Jan's first book of poetry is now available through LAMP. Companion Spirit is a collection of Haag's poems chronicling one woman's path to healing and a relationship that transcends death.

Poems from Companion Spirit

What it comes to is this:   MP3 Audio

Though we appear to die, we do not.
Death is merely a change of address,
and loved ones wend their way
like turtles or salmon or whales—
by smell, by feel.
This mourning, we do for ourselves,
but when we raise our heads,
sniff the breeze, feel gaps of air
between our ribs—if we give them
space, the dead loved ones return.
Or maybe they never left.
We only think they did, when,
like snakes, they shed their only
skins and belly-crawled to the next place—
which is the first place,
which, when we think about it,
is home.

heartspent   MP3 Audio

it's the after part
when it's turned inside out
like the pockets of denim
jeans hanging upside down
on the line after the wash,
white ears waving in
mere air

it's the leftovers after
the gluttonous stuffing,
just the turkey ribcage
alone on the platter,
bits of meat carelessly
strewn about, so
gristley and stingy
even the cats walk away

it's giving everything
you had, spending it all,
not holding back,
loving for the sake of love,
trusting that somehow
it would boomerang
back just because
you had faith,
because that's what a
heart, well spent,
gets in return

From the front porch   MP3 Audio

New wisteria droops purple
from the trellis over the driveway,
sends long, curling tendrils
reaching for the ground.
The red postbox fades into pink
stucco, our names so long ago
set in type on the white card
now invisible.

Late spring mosquitoes, newly
hatched, dive-bomb my neck
as early evening light leans
into the drive. The next-door
neighbors' lilies bloom well
past Easter, and their sycamore
has just this week leafed out.

You would recognize this view—
little has changed—
the stop sign on the corner
topped by its cross streets-
Santa Ynez and I—
and Flo, the formerly feral
orange cat, nibbles her food
atop two stumps from the tree
that once lived outside my
office at school.

You made this our home.
I picked the color-adobe with
a hint of rose-and one ancient
summer, you painted. It turned
out sissy pink, and, because
you were half done, I didn't
complain. I thought-like the
sound of your ticking valve—
it would fade with time.

It hasn't.