from Another Long (13. & 15.)
13.
Comes back a dark
before the 4 o’clock
shift lets out. Comes back
the deep freeze
safe to slaughter in, safe
to hook the year’s beef
critter from a north porch
rafter in, just the right
sensed degrees
barring too great
a January thaw, to keep
raw meat too expensive
to grain to its prime in.
Pasture time done. Enough
field feed to hang lean
suspended months
in crystal state for children
to whittle chips from
to fry after county basketball
games in town while friends
sip Coke at Pop Hill’s.
For a wife’s hands chapped
from outside work
or work inside in a house
cold in as out
for a wife’s chapped hands
to carve stars from
ragged slices of the-sky’s-
the-limit to fry in that rugged
castiron pan that is his entire
universe raised on salt pork
and biscuits the tenathem
swearin’ his family’ll never
go to bed hungry, for a wife’s
chapped hands to have on the table
by the time P.D. comes through that door
from unloading hundredpound
bags of tapioca for test-coating paper
from that day’s #2-machine’s run.
Rigger. Before his pie.
Shaved to the bone
checked the winter long
for telling smell watched
for dreaded iridescent swatches
‘til nearing March.......disappears
drug into the woods down back
no doubt. A steering clear of those
who’d be shocked to hear it said
hear it told straight out.
Comes a dark
brought back
of a half frozen people’s meat
shining in leaky sheds
of a memory shared with rodents
of starved late-February popula-
tions snarling over such lucky
spoils along the crusty Turkey Path
all the way back to Pickle Ridge
where old Percy was born in Webster Planta-
tion. Of that still steering clear require-
ment it not be told not straight out.
15.
These are the days of blankets over doorways.
These are the days of shutoff rooms.
These are the days of frost on wallpaper.
These are the days of sinkcupboards open to the stove.
These are the days of washbasins chilling faster than you’re done.
These are the days of using water again and again.
These are the days of trousers under skirts.
These are the days of throbbing toes and wearing boots inside.
These are the days of chapped hands in dough.
These are the days of mopwater freezing on the floor.
These are the days of not going out but for the animals, the well, the woodpile,
the sloppail and the mail.
These are the days of men dying in blizzards walking home from work at the mill.
These are the days of accidents in the woods.
These are the days of nothing but working to keep warm.
These are the days of chimneys roaring for a family meal.
These are the days of children and old people going up in awful sorrowful smoke.
These are the days of tomorrow’s flaming lips.
From Settling (Puckerbrush Press, 2000)
Floe
this flooding heart
this transport
when we cross
each thaw
upriver
not to slip too close
overstep
you might fly
too near
too loud
lift away
I might drown
enough
to see you brace
to throat your wounds
your constancy
your riddles
your deep colors
giving you shine
year after year
I miss you
not least all those wars
not knowing of you
next spring
will I see you again
so much ice
so much snow
From Only Human, Poems from the Atlantic Flyway (Sheltering Pines, 2005).
Outback Woman
sometimes I urge to back up out more back more
where a woman can put tarpaper on a shed
and not be less
carry pails from untested springs
squat where she wants and not break codes
dress nothing like the ads and not worry
some domesticated souls’ll drive in not knowing
where in hell they’re at
eat from the rough follow rhythms signs
primal sense my clock
in the shock of wild juice remember everything
about how I’ve been there before
From Claiming (Puckerbrush Press, 1995).TRANSGRESSIONS
Transgressions
I know I
am not supposed
to be writing our women
digging their greens, tres-
passing in another class,
but this ground is composed
of my people
and I am on my knees
and this is a knife.
From Settling (Puckerbrush Press, 2000).
Piano Lessons
In June the keys will call again and again
missing you.
You will not forget those gone, rather,
their invisible shadows will teach you fuller touch,
more in-formed.
So that when you can bear the flow through
you once more, return as to a lost garden,
come upon in snow,
receiving the meaning in Debussy’s Gardens
under the rain.
There will come a day when you will find
rosebuds on the tamarac, too. The piano
will thrill with this astonishing news.
Your hands will fly like the eastern kingbird
at the pond protecting its nest when you lose
your paddle and the wind sails you over to it.
There are no notes for these sightings.
You must invent them.
And you have just this moment in June.
___________________________________
From Only Human, Poems from the Atlantic Flyway (Sheltering Pines, 2005).
Piano Drop
found
Friday October second
12:30 PM Back Cove Portland
near Shop ‘n Save Plaza
Free
It’s pianos from heaven with a
piano-wired-for-sound-dropping from a crane
to explode on the parking lot. Directed
by musical visionary Tom,
sounds of smashing keyboard
will be electronically manipulated
by computer musician Steve, creating
a piece of instant new music. Resulting
distorted reiterations of pianistic destruction
will then form a sonic backdrop
for a live performance by Maine’s most
dynamic new alternative band Mercy
which includes vocalist Todd, percussionists
Andrew, David, and Tim on keyboards (not
dropped). According to the Drop’s creator, the
demolition of a musical instrument in the name of art
raises a series of especially pertinent questions:
YOU CALL THIS MUSIC? Can I dance to it? Where’s
the tune? Is it some kind of social statement?
How much money did they spend on this anyway?
Am I being fooled? How will I know
if I’m being fooled? Is the stuff coming over super-
market loudspeakers music? Am I being fooled
when I hear that? How about the sound
of ocean? Birds? Wind? Wind ringing a bell?
How about traffic noises? Does music
have to be intentional? Whose intent --
the composer’s? performer’s? listener’s?
Is it only music to me if I like it? Is there
ugly music? Bad music? Do I like
the performance? Am I interested
in hearing the end? What if
they used an electric piano? Does it
reflect our times? Is it just publicity?
Is it theater? Is it art? Is it meaningless?
A "found" poem, based on a 9/25/1992 Maine Times supplement advertising
"New Music Across America Festival."
From SETTLING (Puckerbrush Press, 2000).
