Beware the Ides of March

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Today’s the day we should look for betrayal, as in poor old Julius Caesar’s story, since this is the anniversary of the day Brutus took a dagger from his cloak and joined his fellow Senators to stab his emperor – his friend – in the back.

But, we don’t have to as troubled by ancient fates as all that! It’s a not too shabby March day here in Massachusetts, with promises of better ones in the days ahead. So, we should celebrate the anticipation of Spring rather than cower with the fear of Spring’s betrayal….something that happens all too often in these parts. A late snow storm is not uncommon. Rain, chill, and gray days often accompany the forsythia and daffodils. Forget that! This year will be perfect!

So, to get you in the mood, I offer a lovely poem by Peter Davison (1928-2004), from his 2000 collection, “Breathing Room,” which won the Massachusetts Book Award. But first, I will clarify something in my last post. Our Poetry Reading celebrating the Naomi Cherkofsky contest winners and National Poetry Month will be Saturday, April 21, 11 a.m. to about 1 p.m., at the Beverly Public Library. (The April 14 date was just a mistake, and the library is already booked for some other event that day, so there’s no choice.)

On with the poem, The Level Path, by Peter Davison

The Level Path

Descend here along a shower of
             shallow steps past the potting shed with
                           its half-rotted ironbound door

to reach the level path. It winds
             northward, high hat, girdling
                           the waist of a limestone cliff

beyond earshot of the clamorous village below. The
             squeezed access bears us vaguely along
                           shifting digressions of the compass, past

eye-level seductions of violet, periwinkle, primrose, and petals
             like lisping yellow butterflies. Naked limbs
                           of beech, haggard liftings of pine,

a hairy upthrust of cedar beside a
             curving stone bench, all hint at eruptions
                           into Eros. Yet another seat displays

a cushion of undisturbed luxuriant moss around its clefts and
             edges. Thick harsh leaves
                           of holly, ivy, even of palmetto

thrust up, pathside, between tender new petals,
             while other friendly shrubs reach down
                           from overhead to fondle our faces.

There is no escape from the dreadful beauty of
             this narrow path. It leads nowhere
                           except to itself and
                           the black water below.

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