I no longer even remember when or how I first encountered Gail's work. This likely has less to do with my mental faculties than it has to do with the fact that Gail has become one of those rare feeler/thinker poets of whom I think, "She was always there." She is a lover of truth, and to experience her poems is to say -- "Yes! Of course, but why didn't I think of telling it this way?" Gail has the ability to craft a phrase which "rings in the mind like a silver coin."
Partial to her, I'm sure, because I am a fellow Louisiana stateswoman, I live a scant 45-or-so minutes from her home in Breaux Bridge (the very name of her home is poetry), and in my opinion, she "does us proud."
As assistant editor to the journal Iambs & Trochees, I looked forward twice a year to receiving possibly another White poem in my printer's "blues" -- the preliminary copy of a publication which must be examined and corrected, prior to its final fate at the press.
Here are two poems we had the privilege of publishing, from Journal IV Issue 2 of Fall/Winter 2005. I trust Gail won't mind and somehow, I don't believe there would be any objection from Bill Carlson, my former editor, may he rest in peace.
To My Lover, After Our Discussion Of Poetry
When you came in last night and said, "What's that
you're writing?" and I answered, "Poetry",
you told me that I couldn't feed the cat,
much less indulge in truffles and Chablis,
on what I'd earn by that. So now I know:
you need a higher income in your bed,
a lawyer or a lady CEO.
The worst you think of me has now been said.
While you're at work tomorrow I'll clean house,
pack luggage, do the laundry and my hair.
When you come home you'll find that I've moved out,
taking my unproductive life elsewhere.
We're through, my love. But since you knew no better,
I've left this poem and not a Dear John letter.
Crouching Female Figure: Pompeii
At first they were not much afraid,
but through the hours the ashes fell,
layer on layer overlaid --
the soft gray snow that falls in hell.
When panic came, her mistress said,
Lucilla, take the child and run.
But when she stumbled, both were dead.
Ashes had eaten up the sun.
Now, in an iron carapace
of ashes, here she crouches still,
trying to shield the baby's face
while tourists photograph their fill.
Could God explain in layman's terms
what vices necrotized Pompeii,
when urban gods and rustic herms
were ashes in a single day?
No law, no logic eases pain
or stops the tidal wave of death.
Sinai and Etna both can rain
ashes that suffocate our breath.
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