kiln-brazened and true

A Song of We

We are the ones with gas-station air

In our tires vended with bottom-

Of-the-washer quarters.

We are the ones wrapped in raw

Hide with will-pumped marrow,

Of crossed fingers and amulets.

We belong to each other

As ribbons to gifts, gifts to ribbons—

The garnish and the entrée.

Who are the gun-strapped ones, the venom-

Spat ones? The ones who lop

Heads with scythes and stake them high?

Not I. Not you. We are the baked ones,

Kiln-brazened and true, bug-eyed

And wary—wearied and worn.

Can you see the wilderness?

The river and the cypress?

We can meet between the canyon walls.

We can speak, rehearse, map escapes

With chew-chiseled pencils on stolen,

Work-place stationery.

Who will stop us? The sworded, the bayoneted?

The long-bearded wise ones—cavernously

Wrinkled and waiting on death?

Not us. Not yet. We are dastards.

Yes, and villains; yes, and acrobats;

Yes, and stalwarts. Yes. We are.

the aspect of breath

Autumnal Equinox. Is there a better phrase in all of English? Awe-TUM-nul ECK-win-NOKS. How perfectly iambic! How strong yet welcoming! How lovely the promise of decay on cool winds!

In middle-Alabama here, the temperature stays hot for as long as it darn well pleases. And it usually pleases to well into October with intermittent reprises clear through December. This past week, Fahrenheit had a hundred degree fever for three days. Not cool. Not by a long shot.

But heat, for all of its blister and blare, cannot consume the soul of the season and its promise. When words like crisp and clean will slough-off their quotidian adjectivity, their referral to french fries and dinner plates, respectively, and take on the aspect of breath and suggest the revival of lungs. When north becomes North. Not a direction but a destination where forgotten colors greet us in the huddled forests of Tennessee, along the masterpiece county roads of upstate New York--north north and north--Maine, New Brunswick, so far north that coming back south will still be full of color. Vermont--how secret you keep your treasures. Virginia--how generously you welcome November.

And at last, south south and south. Back to middle-Alabama where, behold, she's relented. Which calls for a light jacket and a warm broth. Which every year it does, but each year by surprise and each year so crisp and clean.

Here is a poem, plucked from my yearling thesis, of which I am very fond and proud. Happy equinox, my friend. May winter come slowly.

Jacket Pockets

Autumn is a time to feel things in our jackets we haven’t felt

For at least a year—

The folded five

And the coffee shop receipt,

The peppermint in plastic

And the crumpled reminder to self—

When, from the warmth of pockets, we hear the crackle

Of a dead leaf

And feel its dusty bones.

an unopen letter

Ether,

My brain weighs more than my mind. By degrees of nth. Fury. Hell hath. Paths of righteousness. This, that, the other. thhh . . . and what else since then? Oysters, verses, cloisters versus clam shells and all that remains are the acorns and the sweet-gum balls and the bare feet she finds them with. She? Me. I mean her in mean on average is me. Median--where the wildflowers are. Mode--in which you operate. Method . . .check. Madness . . . double check. Plaid . . . checked, paislied, argyled, tweeded. Beguiled and needed you for disenchantment. You? Me.

In other news, the ship sank. Down deep where the stars are so many the night is just pricks of black. Back in the day, slack-jawed, ship high on roils, embroils the captain and the mate. And the fate. Of all. Of all who sail. Who fail. Quail? A bird and an option. Sink. With the ship--the glory and the madness. Check. Down deep. China. Australia. Hell. Deep down. The furies. Sirens. Muses. Confuse the effort for the win. The platter for the trophy. One's the dish, the other's the Baptist. Salome of the veils. Fails.

Seriously, though, I love you. My mind is full of you. My brain even fuller. Petrarch here has something to say. To do with lilies. Calla lilies. Floating on water. Ophelia. Rosemary for remembrance. Honestly, though, I remember you. With flowers. Wild ones. On average.

Still,

Jonathan

P. S. I have the shirt you gave me. The flannel one. Oh, and that quill feather. It has alit. For good. Kisses.

to whom it may concern

It has come to my attention that there are those who would rather get Oprah Winfrey tattoos on their eyeballs than read poetry. Or have better luck understanding the tax laws than a few lines of verse. Do not fret or feel ashamed. Nay, neither forfeit nor scream. You are not alone. As a matter of fact, lean in . . . I have a secret.

I am not the world's biggest fan of reading poetry, either. In college, I avoided it like Lohan avoids rehab. Like Sasquatch avoids telephoto lenses. Like publishing opportunities avoid me. In short, be assured, you are not alone. But be also of good cheer. I bear middling news of reasonable tidings. It's really not that bad. Once you get used to it. It took me a long, looooooooooooooong time to figure this out so perhaps my experience can save you from further heartache. Here are some simple tips to make poetry reading more enjoyable for the resistant and averse.

1] Relax. They are just words. Words that relay thoughts and express feeling. You do this all the time. We are surrounded by, full of, bombarded with, moved through words. The advantage of poetry is that these words are carefully chosen and wrought with meaning. Which is to say, in most cases though not always (I'm looking at you Lewis Carrol), poems can be more sensible than everyday yammering if only we could just relax.

2] Take it slowly. Just as the words were carefully chosen, you can carefully read them. They are not going anywhere (oh gorgeous aspect of ink and paper) so take a deep breath and begin. Line one . . . "This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels," ("Seascape"--Elizabeth Bishop) ahh . . . so nice.

3] Trust the poet. I have found that folks don't trust poets to write in comprehensible ways. Perhaps due to the fact that many poets do not write thusly. You will know within a few lines if a particular poet is writing for you. If not, dust off your feet and move on, there is likely little there for your enjoyment or edification anyway. I am of the opinion that poets should almost always be writing for you. But a "you" that is prepared to trust her and also follow tips 1 and 2. So take Bishop's line--what are we looking at? what is she showing us? It's no trick, it's a seascape. Read the rest of the poem. No tricks . . .trees, fish, lighthouses . . . all above board and honest and, best of all, oh gorgeous aspect, is the magnificent way we are being treated to the poet's view.

4] Open your mind. So we have let the poet speak to us in slightly different (poetic) ways yet she has not battered us with snarky language or left us to sink on our own. And now, having spread out the panorama, having allowed us and even compelled us to behold the scene, now she will add meaning to beauty. In this case, Bishop has led us to a lighthouse and given it a metaphorical twist. Relax--metaphors are your friend. All she has done is personify the lighthouse for the better conveyance of the poem's meaning or, because meaning is such a heavy word and largely unfigurable, call it the point--that which the poet would like us to see or that moment at which she is probably good with us seeing whatever we happen to, to reach a point of our own. With an open mind, one or the other point is bound to resolve.

5] Ignore the sense of dumbfoundedness. A poem read calmly and without fear will never have been a futile exercise. You entered a work of art. You felt your way around. You saw interesting things described in unique ways. So you think you still missed the point. That's just fine. Most of us do. (Only some of us have made careers or dedicated obnoxious hours to squeezing meaning from words like so much sourness from a beer-sopped bar-rag.) Besides, in many cases, the purpose of poetry is to open-up possibilities, to raise questions, to incite thought. This seems to be the case with Bishop's poem. Because where do we end? Our personified lighthouse is in a state of uncertainty. He is a bit dumbfounded himself. He knows what heaven is NOT like, but as for what it IS like he can only figure in vague terms: "something to do with blackness and a strong glare" and it will not be until he actually enters that darkness that "he will remember something strongly worded to say about the subject." [Italics my own.]

6] Rinse and repeat. You've read a poem and it was not that bad. But still, a dull ache is pulsing behind one of your eyes and there are dishes to do and litter to scoop and plans to be made and now the pulsing ache is behind both eyes and you're out of Tylenol. So shake it off. Cleanse the old palate. Walk away. Clear your mind. Then read it again. Not now but later. With a more careful eye, a more attuned ear. Perhaps next time around substitute "heaven" with "poetry." Perhaps poetry is not what you expected it to be, maybe it's "something" on the tip of your tongue, "something" not just yet but soon, if you relax, take it slow, trust the poet, and open your mind, you will be able to understand, to put into words--something you knew all along but only "remember[ed]" just now.

[No representation is made that the reading of this poem or any of the implications drawn from such reading are the readings of other readers specifically though not limited to those: with higher degrees, with better poetic sensibilities, who know Bishop meant nothing close to what has been here stated. So there.]

a poem

Various Praises

another for the embers of headlines and kindling,

for the sun-spitted carcass of the locust,

and never forget the roundabout loves

of the honey bees, to and fro,

all for what we mean by a home—combed

and sticky. and one for the dirigible

and one for the resistable urges

over and above the other kind.

another for the lantern snuffed by a gust

on the way to check the chicken coop for coyotes.

for the must of old books,

of olden days,

of the meaningful ways we word.

one each for candied ginger and equilibrium.

in lieu of sadness

One of the hardest decisions I make every day is whether or not to be sad. Because there are wars and we're dying in them. Because we all prefer our own way and there are not enough ways for all of us. Because there are things I simply can not do and maybe even more that I will not do. Because sickness is cruel and accidents happen and I always feel a little stupider than I was the day before which is only slightly ameliorated by the fact that everyone else seems to be keeping pace.
Which is sad. But for some reason and by some means, I usually stave off the sadness.

Because there are planetary nebulae and darling hedgehogs. Because eventually it will be autumn so there will be magentas and Brunswick stew, whiffs of beautiful decay and barks of backyard football. Because rain both comes and goes and is welcome in both the coming and the going. Because of food. Because of books.

And books can be sad, horribly, sobsomely sad but they also smell like autumn.

Besides, in lieu of sadness, madness is a viable option. So daily I can always decide to lose my mind. Or at least let it wander for a while.

And besides that-- sad's good too. Like decay. Like winter. Like ignorance.

something altogether peaceful

I have been in a prosy state of mind over the last week. Re-reading my novel. (Which, by the way, gets worse every time I read it. It's like there are little elves that skitter and twitter and make my manuscript sucky when I'm not looking. I really wish they would just help me with my cobbling.) Then I got a story accepted for publication which gave me a glimmer of hope, fiction-wise; so I've been skittering and twittering and attempting to make other short-stories less sucky. Add my quotidian, prosaic lifestyle to the mix and you've got a prosy state of mind.

That said, here's another fiction excerpt from a story called "Wet Cement." There are two narrative tracks that interweave as the story progresses. Both follow Nathan--as an adult in the past tense and as a child in present tense. The excerpt is an example of the latter. I should also mention that in the present tense, the narrator is given a juvenile voice. It is less evident here than elsewhere. But still, you should know it's intentional; otherwise, you might think me a tad silly. (Or more silly as the case may very well be.)

Simon is Nathan's older brother. Murphy is Simon's oafish friend. Dottie is Simon's girlfriend. The foursome have gathered at a forbidden rope-swing as naughty children will and, in an ill-advised grasp at glory, Nathan finds himself in a spot of bother.

Nathan is hanging from the rope like a horse thief. An idiot horse thief who had been trying to impress Simon’s girlfriend with a circus feat. Only he had underestimated, truth is, everything. He didn’t stop for one second to think what a knuckleheaded thing to even think about. Never mind shoving off the bank and actually doing it.

Murphy is laughing like all get out. Dottie, at least, is telling him to shut up. Someone help him. He’s dying.

Dying? Nathan is dying. What a thought for him. What a pitiful life flashes in front of his eyes. Not even all of it. Just that first time they actually caught Big Bertha and didn’t know how to unhook a catfish, only that there was a special way. That’s what he sees as he hangs, swinging, gasping—him and Simon toting the croaking fish that flopped like mad all the way home for Father to unhook. Nathan is vaguely aware of efforts to rescue him, shouts, wild and fearful. He’s on the verge of something pale, something altogether peaceful. He smiles, drooling, at the image of Father’s disembodied head looking over the back of the sofa at he and Simon and the dripping, croaking, flopping fish. Father looks happy to see them and not like they are going to get whipped for bringing a fish in the house. Mother’s head pops up beside Father’s, to see what there is too see. They’re grinning like kids. Like naughty kids.

Nathan is brought back to panic with a huge, long gasp. Simon yells, “You gotta reach, Natty. You’ll die if you don’t.” On tip-toes and not so steady, Simon stretches a branch towards Nathan’s hands.

Nathan reaches and barely grips the branch. Simon pulls him back to the bank of the gully. He has saved Nathan’s life. For happening so quick, it sure took forever.

“Your face is purple, moron,” Simon says.

This hurts about worse than choking. Being right about to hug his brother out of trembling gratitude and then stiff-armed with a “moron” to the face. He shrugs like no biggie but it is a biggie. It’s a hugie. He had almost died. He is full of love and boiling with hatred. So confusing, still dizzy. He will not cry. He will not cry. Dottie asks him if he is all right and he busts like a dam.

Murphy opens his fat mouth, no doubt to be a giant jerk-wad, some wise crack about the swing or the tears or both. But Simon stops him.

“Just shut up about it, Murph. How’d you like me to send you to the gallows.”

“Like to see you try.”

“Like to see you stop me.” And Simon chases Murphy down the tracks toward Sycamore Street. Nathan is left with Snotty Dottie who’s not so snotty now that she has so recently begged for his rescue.

The two older boys continue on, punching each other in the arm. When they reach the road, they turn left down the Sled Hill.

“They’re going to Finnegan’s Hollow, I bet.” Dottie’s voice surprises Nathan. He had been hoping they could just walk, no talking.

“Sure,” he says, meaning who knows what.

“Were you scared? I mean when you were up there, back there?”

Nathan feels his lip doing that lip thing when you are about to cry after you had already been crying enough. He manages, “Nah.” Like he’s some big tough guy. Like she was not a first-hand witness to the whole blubbery freak-show.

“I was scared,” Dottie says. Her voice is like his mom’s, like Mary’s, he imagines. It coats his insides like Pepto in those commercials. He knows his face is on fire and just looks ahead. His lip has stopped that thing and now he can’t grit the goofy grin out of his cheeks. She says, “Hey Nathan,” not Natty but Nathan, and he stops and turns smack into her puckered lips. They are silky wet like milk and her gloss tastes strawberry. Strawberry milk. Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh man.