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Poetry: another way of seeing

Poems by Mary Ann Allison

The Ukraine Cycle, Patterns of Change, and Living in This World.

The Ukraine Cycle

Fiddler on the Roof

Mary Ann Allison · January 2026

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When you throwa stonewith care,intoa large lake,ora riverthat flows,eventually,intoall the oceans of Earth,it may bedifficult to seethe ripplesreachthe far shores.It was alocal,small townproduction.And,therehe was,the fiddler on the roof,an actual fiddleronan actual roofona small stage.I came with my sister’s family.Willing suspensionof disbelief, I wantedthe songsto reach me,the playto be well done,to bring mefullyinto the story.Indeed,I am transportedto Anatevka and the story ofTevye,a peasant,a devout Jew,a poor milkman,andhis daughters,who,contrary to tradition,andhis expectations,want to choose their own husbands.I have seenseveral versions ofthis musical story.I know it isaboutJewish pogroms,traditions,forced change,wanted (by some) change,andthe persistence of human spirit.I understand itto be a play aboutRussia.In time, the second soon-to-be suitor, Perchik, arrives in Anatevka. He tells Tevye that he is ateacher and that he wants to teach Tevye’s daughters in exchange for food and lodging.Tevye askswhere he’s fromand Perchik replies:“From Kiev. I was a student there.”My whole bodyresponded.I could hardlybreathe.Tevye askswhere he’s fromand Perchik replies:“From Kiev. I was a student there.”The small theater,andmy whole worldspun,revolved,evolved,triedto settle.“From Kiev. I was a student there.”Suddenly,this wasn’tabout Russia;it wasabout Ukraine.It wasabout Ukraine(and Russia, noescaping history).It wasabout Ukraine.It wasabout Kyiv,whereI have been.And the playwright Sholom Aleichem’simagined village of Anatevkamight have been Borodyanka whichI also visited.More intense than universal,the storybecamepersonal.There, on the stage,werethe families of my new friends in Kyiv,their grandparents,who livedin geographic Russia..The ripples spread and intersected.There on the stage weremy grandparents, living at the same timeas their grandparents.It wasvisceral.I wasconnected.Later I learnedit wasn’t just me.My sister.My brother-in-law.My nephews and nieces.All of themfelt the shockandthe impact.Even thoughthey had nottraveled toKyivwith mein person,they had been therewith mein spirit.My experiencechangedall of us.When you throwa stonewith care,into wateranywhereon Earth,eventually,even if you do not see it,the ripplesreach allthe watersof the world.—Mary Ann Allison, January 2026A note on the use of Kiev and Kyiv. The old spelling, Kiev, comes from the times of Russian occupation.Ukrainians, today, use Kyiv.

The Ukraine Cycle

My Pilgrimage Thank You Letter

Mary Ann Allison · October 2024

I’ve never met a world leader before.

Yes, of course, I’ve shaken the hands of
many institutional leaders,
who, guarded by gatekeepers, come briefly in front of their desks, for a picture intended to show
something that
didn’t happen.

In the Emerge Ukraine Pilgrimage,
there are no desks in sight. No gatekeepers.
There are witnesses.
planners, joiners, individuals connectors, thinkers, artists, timekeepers and coordinators, leaders of the heart, mind, and soul,
all of you fully present,
even—no, especially—the wounded.

Thank you. All of you.

Steeped in tradition, I think of bowing. Instead,
I, here, say I see you.
Hand on my heart, I see you.

I am forever changed
and
may we dance?

Next time I am in Borodyanka or Kiev, will you dance with me?
Will you dance with me?

May we dance as an act of defiance, yes. Living life fully in a time of war.
May we dance in celebration, yes. Celebrating dignity and freedom.
May we dance in invitation, yes. Calling in everyone.

Next time we meet, anywhere, will you dance with me?

—Mary Ann Allison, 2024

Patterns of Change

From the Inside

Mary Ann Allison · March 2026

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Always before,as far backas my genes remember,these timeswere timesofforced adaptation.Mostly,we died.Some of usdidn’tdie.We changedinstead.Weadapted.Some of uslived.We werereshapedbytoomuch rain;toomuch rainand floods;ornorain at all.Some of us,mouths parched,legs shaking,lived long enough.Without choice,in chaos, we changed. Andour children and grandchildrenchangedeven more.Eons before,new life separatedits selves,our selves—living selvesbeing a new thing,here, anyway—building cell walls.Our selvesmoved apart.Perhaps painfully.Eons later,our selvescame together,giving upour freedomandisolation, fora larger unity.Perhaps painfully.Time passed.Conditions changed.Insideour larger selfs,we separated again,becomingdistinctsystemsin a whole.Perhaps painfully.Openingand closing,separatingand joining.Chaos breaking usapart,forcing,enabling,growthinan expanding universe.In a rhythmnot of our choosing.We didn’tchoosethis timeeither. But,we might choosethe next.Whatwould it be liketo choosechaos to grow? Or,to choose,to choose,to growwithoutchaos?—Mary Ann Allison, March 2026

Patterns of Change

Footprints of the Now-Future

Mary Ann Allison · September 2026

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At Craters of the Moon,I spenta long,dry,hotdayin the desert,searchingforfootprints:enoughfootprintsto be atrail, arealtrail,apathhome.I didn’tfind them.I didget home.The hard way.Nofootprints.Instead,I broke my own trail,literallypushing my legsthrough sagebrush,carefullynegotiating the deep fissures and ravinesofonce-molten lava,now, hard,broken, sharp, and jagged.Scraped arm and legs.Four-point contact.I can’t afford to fall.I’m far offA broken legthe trail.could,over time,be fatal.I am hoping, but not knowing, thatI am going toward people and safety.Here,as the old maps say,here there be dragons.With all this focusonfinding footsteps,finding the trail,finding any trail,an odd knowingcame to me.It floated insideways.It wasnot aboutmy hope offinding footstepsin the rugged terrain of the butteI was climbing.Although I surelywanted them.The image, so clear in my mind,was aboutall of our plans,especially mine.Our fixed planscreateheavy boot prints.We walkall overthe footsteps of the emerging future.Obscuring them.So fixed on our intent, we seeonly our projections,only our planned footsteps,notthe richesourworld,ourecosystem,are offering.Notthefootprints of the now-future.Of course, we matter.Our footsteps belong.Our trails, too.Butwe are not the whole.And,our world asks us,asks me,to walk with what is emerging,joining all fellow travelers,leaving soft and flexible footprintson a trail that only comes into being,as we move forward together,open to all.Here we can seethe footprints of the now-future.—Mary Ann Allison, September 2026.

Patterns of Change

Old Woman

Mary Ann Allison · 1992

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Imaginethe lonelinessof an old woman.Imaginethe lonelinessof an old woman who callsthe bank's automated voice response machineto hearthe balance in her checking account(which is adequatenot morenot less andnot the point).Imagineand listen:the machinewelcomes herrepeats patiently and politelywhen askedeven more than onceand saysthank you for calling.Listen carefully now(close your eyes)it saysthank you for callingit saysthank you for calling methank you for listeningthank you for being.e. e. cummings wrote once about loneliness in a leaf falling. I don't think he lived to try automatedvoice response technology.Imaginethe lonelinessof an old woman who knowsthe bank's young people will spendless than two minutes with herand thenonly ifshe has a real problemsuch asa bounced check.Loneliness isn't listed on the trouble shootingforms.Imagineand look:see her strength:she'stoo proud and sensibleto bounce a check every week.She'snot incompetent.Shelearns the new wayswhen she must.Sheknows what buttons to pushto talk with the machinethatwelcomes,repeats,and saysthank you.It's odd. She never imagined speaking with a machine by pressing numbered buttons on atelephone. Her nerves and blood carrying messages from her brain to the electrons carryingmessages to the computer's brain.She only lets herself call every other day.And, at the end,every time,the machine says thank you for calling.—Mary Ann Allison, 1992

Living in This World

In the Last Calm and Exquisite Moment

Mary Ann Allison · 2010

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In the last calm and exquisite momentbefore sleepwhen we arewithout thought,in the translucent spacebefore nightwhen the color leavesbut light remains,with focus,without form,on a slate that is, without images, not blank, butholds the space of existence,we write ourselves and our universe. We listen.Then, taking care,we look.We see beauty,shaped again and again,patterns,iterations of forces and fields:the dunes on Mars,the petals of roses,the spirals of galaxieslight years away,the swirls in riversseeking an ocean.We see beautyand,by our seeing,we participate,we precipitate,by our seeing,particles from wavesorder from energybeauty from being.Joiningthe forces that formed us,we see beauty.—Mary Ann Allison, 2010

Living in This World

Ear Bone

Mary Ann Allison · 2010

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In conversation with Mary Oliver’s poem, Bone.This is for Cath.If the ear bone is something like the soul—so hard, so necessary—so that it lasts longer than any other bonein the body of a human being,in the body of a pilot whale, lyingaloneon the beach,long after the body is gone;and, if the musicof the spheres and, therefore,of the universeis literal,as it must be,despite centuries of explanations asmetaphor(all the universe moves and sosings);then, is the ear bone,like the soul,a connecting rod,a way of knowing,directly,therhythms of our origins,still expanding,spiraling,singing?The ear bone,and the soul,—so hard, so necessary—endureandsynchronize therhythms from the farthest galaxieswith therhythms of our heartbeats.Our ear bones andour souls resonateand,even when we are silent,we sing.—Mary Ann Allison, 2010