Three Poems by Arthur Turfa

 

Islands

 

We all have had an island on which we

greedily clung after a career shipwreck

or some other setback, like Odysseus

or less-famous mariners. Our hands grasp

the sand, our feet rejoice to touch solid ground.

 

Surcease from sorrow we find on those shores;

whether we remain there long or not. All

we require is respite from our conflicts,

safe haven from troubled lands and waters.

 

Exploring the island’s hills and woodlands,

I think of those still on raging seas or

seeking escape the struggles they face.

For them I send a prayer, and to them I

cry “Courage!” May they hear me o’er the din.

 

For me islands offer me temporary

sanctuary. Outfitted anew the

tide takes me onward to new destinations.

Offering thanks, I feel the wind at my back.

 

 

The Ball Field and the LA Club

As soon as the grass was dry we would cut

through neighbours’ yards to a ball field where once

 

a meadow was. No uniforms, more than

enough for teams. Younger kids backed up the

 

catcher, then joined others out in right field.

Southpaws like me were limited- so what?

 

We played, we learned the game, we had some fun.

Sometimes older kids sneaked a cigarette

 

under the trees at the Lazy Ass Club.

But no one messed with us. We were safe then.

 

A break for lunch, then another game or

two, until our dads came home from the mill.

 

The generations after us never

savoured the summers that we did back then.

 

 

The Young Pretender in London

 

How was it to at last see the places

long-heard of, not even remembered by

 

your exiled father? Seeing palaces

that should or might be your residences,

 

mingling with the crowds under an alias,

recognized by a dwindling remnant

 

as you urged them once again  to rise up?

You changed faiths as effortlessly as one

 

changes clothes for dinner. I wonder if

as you surveyed the Tower, concocting

 

another desperate try for the crown,

you remembered Culloden’s dead, exiles

 

you refused to receive, months spent  hiding,

unheeded, the Highlands’ flower fading?

Arthur Turfa is a Lexington, SC-based poet/writer and leads the Poetry Chapter of the South Carolina Writers Association. His poems have appeared in The Petigru Review, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal, was in the Top Ten for the 2019 Poetry Prize of The Pangolin Review, as well as in other publications. His most recent poetry collection is Saluda Reflections from Finishing Line Press, © 2018.The Botleys of Beaumont County on Blurb, © 2021, is his first novel.

The concept of place figures prominently in his writers. From his native Pennsylvania to Germany, and locations in between, Turfa draws on them to discern how he became the person he became. His careers as a Lutheran pastor, educator, and Army chaplain provide inspiration for his writing.

Currently, he is semi-retired, working on short stories, more poetry, and enjoying life with family and friends.