06/08/2021
I am saddened to report the death on August 4 around midnight of Ruth F. Harrison, one of the central Oregon coast's premier poets and an editor at Turnstone. She was 92. Ruth was mother of a full family of sons and also earned her doctorate in Comparative Literature from the University of Oregon. She and her husband, Fred, taught at Portland State University until they retired and moved to Yachats, where Ruth found her heart's home. In 1990 Ruth founded the Tuesday Writers of Waldport, which was one of the longest continuously-running groups in the state. She is author of several volumes of poetry, including "Namesong," "Bone Flute," "How Singular and Fine," and "West of 101." Her poems appeared regularly in journals like "Harp Strings," "Tiger's Eye," and "The Lyric." Her books are well-worth revisiting. She inspired new writers, helped judge many contests and manuscripts over the years, and herself won several poetry awards. She was named a lifetime member of the Oregon Poetry Association for her long service to them. Our literary community will remember her for inspired, surprising poems, always with a foundation in traditional forms--which she breathed into a new life. Here are two of my favorites:
Night Lights
It’s 2:13 and she is not asleep
but trying. She’ll go warm herself some milk,
sit with the quiet, and look across the waves,
inhale the pine tree scent, and pause before
returning to her bed, take Christmas in:
plug in the lights, enjoy the silence, night,
the distant sound of surf, here near the glass.
The pane exhales a cool light essence, fresh
against her face.
She seems the only one
alive, awake here long before the dawn,
and watching the deep waves she knows are there
only because it’s west—that’s where waves are.
Across the black... nothing alive in sight.
And moments pass in solitude and dark
But now a spark appears and disappears
appears again. A crabber out there in
December’s endless night, his worklights bright.
On impulse, she unplugs the Christmas tree
and plugs it in again, to say hello
to light that speaks to her across five miles.
Three times the light blinks back, and she repeats
her greeting to the worker in the cold
before the boat is hidden by a surge
and swell of waters. She lets go that breath
when light appears again, and sparks in sign
of living presence in that larger earth
the darkness opens.
A repeat flash says:
We’re all right here because the land is there
And every soul’s alone, but that is how
life is for all of us who’ve had the luck
to be born, and will have the luck to die.
We know you’re there, the only spark in sight
this holiday. And thank you for the light.
AND
dark hour and light
I've not yet put my morning spirit on
nor thought in words, nor stretched a dormant leg
but one red cloud insists that it is dawn--
just one-- against a sky of robin's egg.
Under that sky, dark mountain, where the sun's
first rays will break, to cast long shadows down
enfolded slopes, and green-dark forest runs
from mountaintop to rim our sleeping town.
How can I lie abed when all I see
and know exults in its return to light?
The fresh shore spins its foam, the open sea
like a white snow believes in living bright.
And my live heart chants off its one small rhyme:
Hurry up, please-- it's time. It's time. It's time.