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      June 23, 2011StellaElizabeth Chapman

      for my daughter’s daughter

       

      We’re on a far shore
      near the manta ray’s
      rock where she folds
      and unfolds herself
      The stars burst forth
      Before the bright hotel
      was built the Southern Cross
      glowed visible

       

       

      April in three weeks
      you’ll more or less swim
      yourself out from the darkness
      that still flecks the iris
      of your eyes like black salt
      from Molokai

       

       

      The astronomer
      loops the naked Pleiades
      and through his lens
      we can glimpse hidden
      as you are still
      hidden the cloud
      of your bright burning

       

       

      If I knew how to paint
      a guardian spirit
      I’d brush an ama kua
      right on your crib
      A honu in Pacific green
      who would hear
      every sob and quirk of you

       

       

      There’s a gate at home
      that will not close
      missing a latch
      I’ve left it open
      Some day when you come
      seeking riding through
      the miles of night
      holding onto Leo’s
      generous mane
      I will wait for you
      Stella by starlight

      from #34 - Winter 2010

      Elizabeth Chapman

      “I like to think that three elements conspired—literally ‘breathed together’—to bring about my poem, ‘Stella.’ Some planned, some serendipitous: a trip in March to the Kona Coast of Hawaii’s Big Island, an evening of stargazing there on the beach, and a birth. At the time, I knew a grandchild was expected, a baby girl, but did not know, until she was born some two weeks later, her name, which of course means ‘star.’ How could I not write this poem?”