Judith Tate O’Brien

February 9, 2023

“Second Wife” by Judith Tate O’BrienPosted by

Judith Tate O’Brien

SECOND WIFE

I keep drawing the first
one from the cemetery
into the house
and pose her
perfect as a mannequin
at the kitchen table
where, chin resting
on a long-fingered hand,
she surveys
the bran muffins
and finds them crumbly.
I imagine her coming
to their bed
smooth-bodied.
I arrive bone tired,
half a century
etched in my flesh.
She gave him
babies. I, a notebook
filled with poems.
 

—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004

_________

Judith Tate O’Brien: “When I was in 10th grade, the visiting Catholic School Superintendent, a stern priest, recited Francis Thompson’s The Hound of Heaven, stepping the cadence across our classroom floor—and I was moved to tears. To think that language could soften so hard a man! I became a convert to poetry. That’s why I write.”

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February 16, 2021

“Sawdust” by Judith Tate O’BrienPosted by

Judith Tate O’Brien

SAWDUST

There are many ways to kneel
and kiss the earth
—Rumi

At his workbench, my Catholic husband
becomes a Buddhist practicing mindfulness.
As if entranced, he attends the hammer’s
rhythmic up-and-down. He feeds the planer
a plank of cedar. Beside a Folger’s coffee
can of nails on the windowsill, the clock
ticks the present tense: is, is, is. When he
walks to the table saw, he moves deliberately
like an egret stepping into its own watery
reflection. There he contemplates the sawness
of saw. He doesn’t brush off the sawdust
film falling all over him like a coat of serenity.
Sometimes he makes a rocking cradle,
sometimes a porch swing for us to sit in.

—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004

_________

Judith Tate O’Brien: “When I was in 10th grade, the visiting Catholic School Superintendent, a stern priest, recited Francis Thompson’s The Hound of Heaven, stepping the cadence across our classroom floor—and I was moved to tears. To think that language could soften so hard a man! I became a convert to poetry. That’s why I write.”

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August 3, 2017

“A Little Sermon” by Judith Tate O’BrienPosted by

Judith Tate O’Brien

A LITTLE SERMON

My advice to you is this: Commit
some bright, brave sins
while you have time. I admit
that most of mine
are timid, and now, confined
to a wheelchair, if I decide to go
where deviltries invite me,
I’d have to have my husband drive me.

—from Rattle #18, Winter 2002
Tribute to Teachers

__________

Judith Tate O’Brien: “I am a retired teacher and psychotherapist, who married widower with five daughters, and lived to tell about it. I find that humor helps me cope with a stroke, which left me wheel-chaired. I read and/or write poetry every day partly because I can do it sitting, mostly because I love to.”

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July 6, 2017

“Home” by Judith Tate O’BrienPosted by

Judith Tate O’Brien

HOME

for Gene, turning 75

Bring me all the synonyms for husband but don’t
expect me to find the one I need. It’s buried

in a medieval story I once read about Bede,
the monk who fell asleep and dreamed a sparrow

flew in a window facing east, swooped across
the room, and out a window west. Glide and gone,

the Irish poet put it, calling the little space
between dawn and stardust our brief home.

Home—the private journal where we learn who
we are by recording who we love. Home—

where we are cozy breathing silence, and where,
growing old, we grow easier to see through.

—from Rattle #18, Winter 2002
Tribute to Teachers

__________

Judith Tate O’Brien: “I am a retired teacher and psychotherapist, who married widower with five daughters, and lived to tell about it. I find that humor helps me cope with a stroke, which left me wheel-chaired. I read and/or write poetry every day partly because I can do it sitting, mostly because I love to.”

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