BETHEL — Poet Richard Blanco, of Bethel wrote a new book of poems, “Homeland of My Body.” Because of the Lewiston shooting, he had to cancel a book launch event with Gov. Janet Mills that had been scheduled for Friday, Oct. 27 in Portland.
Via text, Blanco’s husband, Mark Neveu, shared “Boston Strong,” a poem Blanco had written following the Boston Marathon bombing and subsequent manhunt that shut that city down in 2013.
Neveu and Blanco offered the poem for publication to help the Bethel community heal from last week’s horrific events in Lewiston.
Remembering Boston Strong, by Richard Blanco
Years from now, you’ll wish all you remember was
how spring arrived just as you expected, the icicles
gone as magically as they had appeared, the snow
seeped back into the earth, just as you trusted
it would. The thawed Charles and the river of runners
ribboning that morning through the city that was
a city long before our nation was a nation, while
the ivy scribbled, climbed, turning green the red
bricks your great- great- great grandfathers laid–
memories mortar in every city wall and chimney.
But years from now you’ll still remember this:
the unexpected smoke that wasn’t a spring fog,
pink-purple blossoms mingled with the sparkle
of shattered glass strewn over Boylston Street
bursting red, red maples’ tiny leaves opening
like newborn hands to cup April’s rain, the lives
of two girls with names as pretty as May flowers,
who would never bloom, the irony of the race
ending with the mangled feet and legs of those
wheeled away by those who did not run away,
And the boy, the son — everyone’s son –his life
outlived by the budding tulips of window boxes
dressing-up the city suddenly frozen in spring.
Daylight each day a few minutes longer, but
baseball diamonds dulled and muted, the sky
each day a tint bluer, but stadiums abandoned,
every seat an empty nest. The wind each day
a hint warmer, but park benches cold and quiet,
swings like pendulums, stopped. Each night
crickets louder in your ears, but winter set still
in your eyes caught in the glow of television sets
casting shadows of the news across living rooms
and hollow city streets locked-down in silence.
And years from now, what you’ll mostly want
to remember is not the shoot-out that ended
the silent waiting, nor the bombers’ names, nor
the blasts, but the tender roses you laid across
the finish line, the thankful praise you gave for
the lives that saved lives in their arms, the brave
promises of those who vowed to walk, dance,
and run, again, the stadiums and ballparks again
filled with anthems sung by you, like a thousand
songbirds at once, a chorus into a second spring
you had not expected: dandelions still pushing
through pavement cracks, spiders still spinning,
Forsythia still bursting yellow, elms still growing
taller, and ivy still climbing the enduring walls
of the city, still a city, but a whole lot stronger.
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