"To Keats"

With pen touching paper,

I watch the gray shadow float.

What mystery is this—

This writing?

Thoughts of Keats’s imagery

flow through my crowded Mind.

How could he write with such

tingling beauty?

Each metaphor stings with perfection.

Every allusion, Spring water clear—

Fresh, sweet air,

almost the bitter sweetness

of a deep Red Wine.

Can our vineyards produce such a tasteful red?

Could I, or any other wondering

Bard of this century—

Ever create such subtle horizons—

such mystic hues?

No, Romantic as I may be,

there will be no more virile

poesy such as Keats’s

No Grecisms forever alive.

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

“Ice Sculpture”

         Every day, I try to imagine the final months with my mother’s decline. In a way, running through this scenario protects me from drowning in daily grief. I tell myself that she hasn’t entered the finals stages of Huntington’s disease. Things will progress to a different level eventually, so I should feel grateful relief that Mom’s surrender into this disease moves so slowly.

         When trying to describe Mom’s illness, I floundered for the precise metaphor until the other night. My mother is a wonderful, beautiful, unique ice sculpture. Her strength and courage, carved in cold crystalline perfection, gleams. Light reflects and refracts from her surface and shimmers with splendidly unexpected shine. The striking sculpture, though, cannot last. Hour by hour delicate and almost imperceptible changes occur. A first droplet manages to roll unnoticed down her leg. Then another trails down her throat. Before long, a small pool of my mother’s essence forms around her. She slowly shrinks in size—not just her physical body, but the spirit within her fades. Her personality retreats into the core so deeply that we have to search for her heart and soul.

We stand by helplessly as she melts.



Michael Gottschalk/AFP/Getty Images

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Swimmers"

        The sun dappled lake entices swimmers with coolness after a long, hot summer. One bather cautiously tip-toes to the edge, tentatively dipping into the coldness. She retracts her foot, shoots a glance over her shoulder, and eases back into the water. Another swimmer, grabs the tree rope, swings apelike over the lake's mirror, whoops with glee, and cartwheels into the depths with the careless abandon of joy. A final swimmer stands poised on the dock. In one flawless motion, he dives and cleaves the water's surface with barely a splash. A few feet away, he emerges and boldly slices his way across the lake. To everyone entering the lake of life, no matter what your approach, may you remember the unexpected currents and drop-offs. Swim safely and don't drown!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Water Nymph" by David Chapman

Pen and Ink

“Tightrope”

the littlest exclusion   

draws my attention from the tightrope   

of my life—   

pulls my concentration   

from the next step   

forces me to waiver   

as my attention perceives   

something wrong in my periphery   

one misspoken word   

one invitation unsent   

one empty promise   

pushes me off balance   

makes my steps falter and fail   

Where are you?   

under me with a net?   

beside me with encouragement?   

ahead of me with assurances?   

your disembodied voice   

carries concern   

yet you never come   

you never have time   

you never share my heartbreak   

beyond an obligatory phone call   

as you unthinkingly   

plunge me into an abyss of loneliness  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"A Field of Flowers"

The seed    

planted deep into the warm womb     

protected by shell and earth     

softens under ground     

as skies weep and weep     

it feeds upon itself     

drawing upon stored energy     

until a fragile spout forms     

roots, like fairy hair, seek purchase     

security    

they hold tightly to the nurturing mother     

confident of her care    

the shoot breaks into sunshine     

unfolds tender leaves     

trusting in the gentleness of spring     

when killing frosts    

die    

sheltered from whips of wind    

buds bloom    

into the glorious promise of life     

sprinkled with morning dew     

blossoming with hope     

for a field of flowers     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Ironing”

I wish I could iron out   

         the wrinkles of my life   

                     Use a little heat   

                     Apply a little pressure   

         to smooth out the imperfections of my day   

              neaten up cuffs and collars and puckering button holes   

                                the little irritations   

                                             gone   

                                                         with a touch of heat   

                                                                     a little attention   

But   

         Those Natural Cottons   

                     long forgotten in the dryer   

                                 Require more heat   

                                 Demand steam and starch   

                                             Pressure   

                                                         to reach perfection   

And I always get burned   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"To Keats"

With pen touching paper,   

I watch the gray shadow float.   

What mystery is this—   

This writing?   

Thoughts of Keats’s imagery   

flow through my crowded Mind.   

How could he write with such   

tingling beauty?   

Each metaphor stings with perfection.   

Every allusion, Spring water clear—   

Fresh, sweet air,   

almost the bitter sweetness   

of a deep Red Wine.   

Can our vineyards produce such a tasteful red?   

Could I, or any other wondering   

Bard of this century—   

Ever create such subtle horizons—  

such mystic hues?  

No, Romantic as I may be,    

there will be no more virile   

poesy such as Keats’s   

No Grecisms forever alive.   

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I found this piece tucked into my freshman composition journal from my first semester at Texas A&M. I'm presently skimming this spiral, rediscovering the unpolished, enthusiastic writing I composed.