cemetery poetry at bear's den cafe in boyertown since rain kept us inside.

last wednesday, my traveling poetry class hoped to visit fairview cemetery along route 73 at the edge of the borough in boyertown, but alas, rainy weather diagreed with our goal.

so instead, we met at the bear's den café a few blocks away, notebooks in-hand, around some dirty chai, the regular kind, cinnamon bread swirled toast, and a grilled sticky bun.

and fortunately, sam traten ventured to the cemetery even in the mist of mid-morning to get some photographs of the graves, december's green grass, and the quiet history making its way up this particular hillside. he shared the pictures with us as we sat inside while it rained outdoors.

there are a lot of angles to potentially work from with cemetery poetry, and not necesarily expected ones are all the more welcome, next to ones which might seem more typical or anticipated.

one of the poems which we read to get ideas brewing served as ''willie metcalf'' by edgar lee masters from his book spoon river anthology, published first in 1915. despite being written so long ago, his writing is easily accessible and more akin to modern poetry.

his son, novelist hilary masters, once visited my college campus to speak and read in the early 2000s. upon a quick google search, i learned that he died last year at the age of 87.

below is sam's photography followed by what he wrote after his cemetery walk and then one of my own cemetery poems from a few years ago.

The Birds Will Sing Tomorrow

By Sam Traten

I walk here alone in existential funk

while friends await to meet in a small-town coffee shop.

My ancestors call to me in peace, away from economic and

geopolitical concerns they thought they struggled

with in life, now free to dance with their gods

and saviors.

Fathers, Mothers, Sisters, Brothers sing to me in silence, without even the hum 

of worldly traffic intruding. There isn't any.

Even the birds are hushed, quite unusually for them.

This late November day, awash in mist, rain, and

with no sound, none, has few defining characters:

Grey first. Quiet second. Tasteless, scentless follow.

In music it's the rest between beats that determines excellence.

Let's call this adventure in the cemetery a rest, a pause.

The birds will resume song tomorrow.

*

realizing this niece of mine is part fae

by jennifer hetrick

with a friday night of burger mania in our bellies,

i let my brother scott's family know i have to leave 

soon so i can get to the top of fairview cemetery 

in time to watch the sun go down. at six, lillee grace 

squeals that she wants to watch the sunset with me. 

she announces with zeal that running up the steep hill

will give her energy, begging her

request to tag alongside her aunt.

given permission, once in my car,

she puts on my floppy straw hat

and waves goodbye to her parents

through the backseat window.

making our way up to those final graves where we'll perch 

and sprawl in the grass, she bolts between tombstones 

and tells me to run with her. once we find just the right

spot, we pull the poetry books and journals out of my bag. 

she finds a package of butterfly cards with orange envelopes 

and begins to write me a letter. soon, she stops, bumps up 

from the green blades and chases 

lightning bugs. she tells me 

how big the moon will be 

tomorrow night, a supermoon 

in the sky. we notice it moving up 

into the trees, out of sight. 

her red dress flails as she skitters, and when i tell her 

how the people up here are so much better at peace 

than those down below, in my town, and in all towns, 

i can tell she understands—she nods her head that 

there is no fighting, nobody upset, nobody being mean 

to anyone up here. she writes a letter to her sister, sydney, 

who is studying frogs in wallops 

island, virginia, drawing her view 

of the cemetery in blue ink 

on the back. she gets up and chases 

more lightning bugs, jumping 

in the air to reach them. as she whirls 

around between these graves, saying she doesn't want 

to leave even though we're in the dark, i suddenly grasp

that she is part fae, too. only a few months ago, i learned 

that my mother's middle name meant fairy, of the fae people. 

lillee grace & i have conversations about what it is to be 

an old soul. we have talks about always being close to art. 

she glitters 

around these graves like she is home, 

where i know i am home. eventually,

i will tell her we are from the trees.