Poetry
Some Days…
Some days, I would rather wait tables.
Or stay home and bake pies
And ride a bike through the woods.
But if I am here for too long
I stare at planes crossing the sky.
And if I haven't heard the fiddles and harp
Whistle and drums whirling around the gamba
I yearn for them.
If it were only the instruments
But it is not.
It is closed eyes and bowed heads
The twisted fingers and ringing strings.
It is not the music, it is the making of music
That courses through us, feeds us,
And drenches our souls.
And So Flows the River
dipping toes and skipping stones
each ripple, her grace extending,
banks shaped by wind, water, and time.
silvery roots, the dancers of the forest,
their buckskin leaves rattling in winter.
ghostly sycamore, lining the creeks
that lead to the river, they stay with us
always, no distance or time
can erase, those days.
we are eastern people -
Rappahannock, Susquehanna
Shenandoah, Patuxent
Severn, all
coursing through
our veins.
a faded, wooden porch
beside a dusty road in West Virginia.
abandoned buildings on Biddle Street,
the Upper Green, the ocean, the sky, the past.
our lives and paths,
the losses
and music
an ever changing geography
of our hearts, gliding downstream
and so flows the river.
Rosebud Chronicles
Blue sky
fierce warm wind
every tree trying to become
and giving a lesson to the rest of us
on death and resurrection.
Dogwoods in their wildness
blooming on the edge
of the woods, one shoulder to order
one to chaos.
Locust blossoms not beautiful
not graceful, but striking
against the sky.
Beech bark, tulip poplar trunks
peeling sycamore skin
silver gray life
again and again.
With their eternal strength
these dearest friends
speak not of memory
but of god.
Reminding us that every breath
is the wind.
Every bud
is silence.
Every stirring branch
is music.
We are.
April 7, 2000
The sun burnt a red hole in the sky as it left us behind,
The river ran fast and clear
Eight deer crossed the path, spooking the horses
two more passed across an open field
The sky went from blue, to bluer, to bluest to dark
Still winter stars shone brightly
As the wind, brushed past
reminding us that the universe too is expanding.
Let us not be left behind in some empty shadow of a life.
Ever.
February 27, 2000
Three dogs, three horses, two men and me
leaving from the barn in the early morning light.
Racing across the fields (they call it running the dogs)
we took shelter from the heat
in the shade at the edge of the woods.
Steam rising from the horse’s backs
sweat dripping from their bellies
froth from their bridles
with the dogs panting by their sides
we silently waited for their world to cool.
Yarrow’s delicate white flowers
growing wild in the tall summer grass
A patch of purple thistle high as Rose’s shoulders
covered with butterflies, orange as the evening sun
resting, suckling, spreading pollen
giving life.
Every moment defying emptiness,
creating light from darkness
and transforming the nature of sorrow.
Startling the senses with such beauty
and grace that there is nothing left
to do but wonder
and give thanks.
June 11, 2000
Between War and Here
Available now from Upper Green Publishing
Kindle edition | Apple iBook
A portion of the profit from each book goes to the Fisher House Foundation
It seemed simple enough. We practice every day, so why not take that music to a place where it will change the world even if it's only for ninety minutes once a week? After many unsuccessful attempts to get permission to play for the wounded warriors, I called the Chaplains Office and was given the number for Peter Anderson, the director of the hotel. When Peter said, "Sure, come and play on Friday," I’m not sure he imagined that we would be there for almost three years.
I went alone in the beginning and then Sue Richards brought her Celtic harp, and Ginger Hildebrand her guitar and fiddle, and we made friends with the warriors (and Pierre, the chef who always has a smile and a hello for us and makes great crab cakes and spectacular pastries). The music was so soothing that the soldiers asked if we could come back in the evenings to help them fall asleep. It wasn't practical to come back at night, but we could make them a CD.
I convinced Bob Dawson at Bias Studios, Charlie Pilzer at Airshow Mastering, Micah Solomon at Oasis CD Manufacturing, Marilyn Drea at Mac-In-Town Graphic Design Services and photographer Burgess Blevins to donate their services and we recorded and produced Above and Beyond. In February of 2010, we started giving them away to soldiers and their families. By the following November we had given away over 1400 CDs.
It is very beautiful music—so peaceful that while we were editing I almost fell asleep listening to the rough tracks in the car on my way to the studio. Mothers find solace, soldiers find peace, and they sometimes find a place to go in their mind that is more about beauty than war. They say it helps and I believe them. When we do sell the CD, we donate the money to the Special Operations Warriors Fund.
I started speaking at the Rotary, at church, to my friends about our experiences with the wounded warriors and realized that I wished more people could know about this world of courage and determination. I wished that I had a book of postcards that I could show my friends and say, "there's Wasim, he's walking now!" or "that little girl was so sweet."
So here are my postcards.
The facility is closing down and by the time this book is out, our hotel will no longer exist. The staff is scattering to the four winds, some soldiers will go home, some to Bethesda and where we will land, I do not know.
Some of the proceeds of every book that is sold will go to The Fisher House Foundation, an organization that donates "comfort homes" on the grounds of VA and military health centers so that families can come and be close to their wounded or sick warriors. That is the very best medicine.
—Carolyn A. Surrick, June 14, 2011
“ This book captures truths you won’t read, see, or hear anyplace else, because Surrick knows those truths the only way you can know them—by the heart. She sees and senses what no one else does, then shares what she knows with her music and in this book. You will read longer works about the consequences of our combat commitment in Afghanistan and Iraq, but you will read none more important.”
“These are poems from someone who has been there. Read them if you dare. You will remember them.”
“On a hundred Fridays, Carolyn Surrick brought the gift of music to wounded combat vets and their families. The intimacies of melody and rhythm allowed her rare access to worlds where most civilians remain strangers. Worlds of pain and loss, yes, but worlds of shared sacrifice and loyalty and resilience and joy, too. In these sharply observed poems, she gives us glimpes into the lives of The Few—that small segment of America that fights our wars and comes home forever altered by the experience.”