Those Streams \ Northern Lights

Nancy: When I became an easterner, what I had left of Indiana was a sensory landscape of the soft luscious texture of pawpaws, the black walnut stains, heat and sound, odor and taste.

Those Streams

I think the streams were green

green, they were

I remember that they were green

and the roads were dust, and the trumpet creeper

I remember as orange

and so the afternoons are orange, an orange heat

that stayed in Indiana.

I never carried it to this place.

The water, itself, was green

I remember that it was green

that it smelled green

water/green

roads/dust

the walk to the stream

smelled and tasted of blackberries and dust

and later, in the dark, only of dust.

I remember it that way

that the sun smelled of hay

and the cabin of quilts

and the dusk of fish and woodsmoke and green water.

Who would ever have guessed

that I might carry those green streams

such a way, even to this place,

that man, that woman, that child, those streams?

Alan:  My childhood memories mostly revolve around “the summer place,” where life felt simple and every day full.  I bless my parents for many things, not least for the experience described in this poem.

Northern Lights

for my parents

Which of you thought to nudge us from sleep so late

and lead us, stumbling and blinking,

from the spidery, dream-ripe cabin down to the water,

load us into canoes, push off, paddle a few soft strokes

and float, out into the basket of cove, drifting,

feeling the metal ribs, tiny slaps on the hull,

smelling the aluminum, faint fish-odor of summer lake,

hearing the crickets, a bull frog, far-off loon,

and looking up, watching the bedclothes and curtains

and gauzy nightgowns of the night

waving and billowing red and white and green,

horizon to horizon, an astonishment of laundry

so clean and slowly perfect that we leaned back,

staring, utterly awake now, not saying a word, rubbing our eyes?

“Those Streams” first appeared in Blackberries and Dust (Stone Man Press, 1984)

Herring Cove, Half-past High Tide, Sunday \ At Herring Cove, Following Work by the National Guard

Nancy: The mysteries of the fog, the castles in the air, fantasies of looming – more often than not what you see is what might be – or, might not.

Herring Cove, Half-past High Tide, Sunday

Dark, erect, three cormorants,

from a distance their ledge could be

a dory, a punt, a tender, a dinghy,

from a distance with the fog behind them,

with the fog slipping over the surface

of the water, they could be three friends

out for a Sunday afternoon of fishing, they have

the still patience of handliners, the men

who, after a week on the water,

are drawn in friendship back to the small

boats, the deep invisible fish.

Even after the men come down from Sunday

dinners and loose their boats from the

moorings and stir the air with the clapper

of oars and engines, even after they turn

out to pass the weir, headed toward the

light drift of fog, the cormorants sit their

ledge just as they were, three fishermen,

three among many, on a falling tide.

Alan: Returning to a favorite place to discover it transformed by a “training exercise.”  Some things can only be explained by sheer stupidity.

At Herring Cove, Following Work by the National Guard

The storm-cut bank is gone,

and in its place a broad ramp of packed stone,

as if we are to drive forward into the water –

and the huge scoop of a sandpit,

licked smooth by heavy machinery

has been graded and seeded to a fare-thee-well.

The old patched dory’s vanished,

weir poles and brush removed;

the eye, deprived of sweat and history,

runs foolishly toward the horizon and founders.

And the swallows have fled,

their city bulldozed,

the air scraped clean of that astonishing chatter and swirl,

leaving a broken shell of ground

deceptively perfect, aimlessly

tilting toward the waves,

and a pained emptiness where purple grass once grew

wiry and waving above the sea.

“Herring Cove, Half-past High Tide, Sunday” first appeared  in the Friends of Acadia Journal.

Full Moon, Perigee Moon \ Mother's Day Plowing

Nancy: Our moon goddess would have less to do with romance and more with the tides, with the lives of fishermen and shellfish harvesters adjusting their lives to the timetables set by highs and lows.

Full Moon,  Perigee Moon

Imagine the moon

   rising out of the sea

Imagine the moon

   placid as a mola mola

  in the sky/sea

Imagine the moon

   veiled in branches

   a beautiful woman knowing the power of lace

Imagine the moon

   rolling up her sleeves

  by the side of the fisherman

   lifting the boat off the shore

Imagine the moon

   hunting the meadow

   beside the bobcat

Now see the old woman

   patient

   waiting

And the moon

   drawn to her mirror image

  drawn to the bay

  where the woman waits for her

Two moons

   then one

   then none

   just the woman

   and the sea

Alan: Until I lived here, I never felt truly rooted.  Working the land through a year’s full cycle changed that. 

Mother’s Day Plowing

The same dark, shabby horses, their careful plodding,

creak of the whippletree, simple commands,

ripple of eight legs churning up shadows.

Happy mother’s day, earth.

The same sheer yellow-leaved poplars shivering against stiff spruce.

The sod turning a gleaming brown,

thick snakes uncoiling under the team.

Happy birthday, earth.

The tide is out, not in.  The wind’s from the south,

the clouds forgetting themselves in a moister blue.

The same scene painted from memory, the hues restrained.

Happy mother’s day, earth.

The boy’s on his own, he’s grown a beard.

The plow cuts cleaner, the clay is easing some.

We’re two weeks early on the year.

Happy birthday, earth.

The months turn: seeing that first field,

rose-root rough; a father checking has half-trained son at the gear.

We’ve worked this land for a year, and harvested food,

harvested more than food.

Happy mother’s day, happy birthday, earth.

“Mother’s Day Plowing” first appeared in Living On Salt and Stone (Stone Man Press, 1984)

Johnny Morrison's Garden \ Weather Report: Straight Bay: Last Week of April

Alan:  Johnny was a gentle soul.  He welcomed us back-to-the-landers, made his near-empty store a place for the food co-op to break down bulk orders, and always had a few donuts around for any kids who stopped by.  I miss him.

Johnny Morrison’s Garden

Some folks take a long time dying

if they die at all.  Johnny’s like that:

it was a year ago – last Fourth of July –

I saw him sitting on his stoop watching the parade.

You could tell he was dying by the way he waved –

weak, kind of glum – his face fading

like July sun when the fog pours in off the sea,

the smile still there but all the sparkle gone.

Next we heard, he was over at Ocean View,

and we knew it was just a matter of time.

He’d have given up: some folks don’t transplant.

I didn’t visit – couldn’t bring myself to go –

as I watched his storefront geraniums slowly brown and droop.

I wonder, when he packed, did he leave the table

set, as usual, for himself, Mother and one guest?

“Don’t sit there,” he’d say, as you reached

for the dusty chair, “that’s Mother’s place.”

His voice apologizing, like she’d just stepped out

and would be back a little late for supper.

Then he’d start: “Mother – she’s 102 now – ,” family

always present tense, and all of them gone

years before.  Johnny’s home at last.

So just today, we were discussing Johnny Morrison’s garden.

“It’s a wet one – always was...”

“He put in a lot of sand, but I don’t know if it’s done much good...”

and I thought, Johnny hasn’t died yet in this town

and I doubt he will, until all of us have too.

It will always be Johnny Morrison’s store, and Johnny Morrison’s woods,

and as long as there are powdered sugar doughnuts

we’ll be thinking that maybe he’ll be out to see us

Sunday with a box.  Johnny’s geraniums are gone

and the store is boarded up,

but we know his garden is back there, wet and clayey as ever,

and – whatever else fails –

the Johnny Jump-ups will have come on strong.

Nancy:  Do those old migratory tides still flow in our veins?

Weather Report: Straight Bay: Last Week of April

The low moves offshore.

Hawks cast over the field and over the spruce.

Geese ribbon out in Vs.

A heron tribe gathers to fish and rest.

The heavy overcast gives way to sun.

Hawks come out of the sun;

they come out of dark shadows; they wheel

and fall; they watch.

Geese waver out to the east,

offshore, toward Musquash marsh and Shubenacadie,

toward the eelgrass beds in the bay at Willet Rocks.

Herons lift and flare with the ebb and flow of the tides,

from the upper bay to the small coves notched out of the shore,

from the bluff by the apple tree

to the saltmarsh beyond Clam Rock.

The wind swings round and comes out of the south and west.

And it plucks at me, a fixed point, a pole star, lodged,

deep-rooted, in place, enduring, not

discontented, and yet

all this motion tugs at me;

It tugs at me.

“Johnny Morrison’s Garden” and “Weather Report:  Straight Bay:  Last Week in April” first appeared in Slow Dancer magazine.

The Tuberous Begonias \ Sweet Sovereign Root

Alan:  We tried growing begonias once or twice.  The sun burned them, the cold rotted them, and the wind blew them apart.   It’s not the Susquehanna River valley.

The Tuberous Begonias

Baffled against spring’s edge,

needy of sun, foreseeing summer

again too short, dry, cold,

you recall the old story –

driving south from Windsor

along a winding river road,

you come upon the small, tired house,

almost a shack,

completely fronted in lipstick-bright

begonias.

Begonias potted along the porch rail,

jungling from shadowy eaves;

begonias waxing from window boxes,

coffee cans, resisting with pink

hungry mouths the wall’s sad lean.

You passed there a few times,

never stopped for the old man

who sat, amid roof-sag and paint-peel,

content in his poor-will’s paradise,

as if to do this one thing perfectly

could forever uphold a house, or a world.

You have travelled so far

from that valley’s nuzzling embrace,

for fifty years wishing you had asked him

how you could do this too,

especially here

in this scrape of rock by the salt sea shore

where the saw wind shivers your fruit trees

and mice gnaw incessantly at your roots.

Nancy:  One smell, one taste... it’s early ‘30s depression Indiana.  What a powerful effect our tastes and smells have on our memories.

Sweet Sovereign Root

My mother died in the Spring.

She died of thick blood.  That grieved me

and I thought it astonishing; I thought

of her death as caused by a successful transition

to the middle class.  I knew, without looking

behind the fruitwood veneer doors of her cupboards,

what I would not find.

No fever root, toothache root, sweet sassafras.

No sassafras.  Mama, I thought, we’ve come a long way

from our childhoods, from black salve and sang

and spikenard to an empty cupboard

and you dead of thick blood.

No spicebush, flower of melilot, rose gold sassafras

tea of Spring, to thin the blood.  Mama,

you never let me down; your paper packages

of bark followed me to college.  You had never read

Proust, you only knew that it was dangerous

not to quicken wintry blood, but when I brewed

your roots it was suddenly Spring, even there,

among the unbelievers.

No more.  The palm trees outside my mother’s room

denied the existence of Spring.  I thought, if there are ghosts

(yes – I hope there are ghosts) they will be wise women,

with aprons full of comfort, and they will take her home

to chamomile, star root, sweet sovereign sassafras.

“Sweet Sovereign Root” first appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal.

Poets in Spring \ A Dance of Innocents

Alan:  I read this once at an open-mic poetry event and got a spontaneous round of applause, which I didn’t know quite what to do with, so I read some more.  I should have quit while I was ahead.

Poets in Spring

In Spring, when the metaphors run upstream to spawn,

poets camp by the waterside,

hooks sharpened, nets mended, trap weirs set

and prepare to feast.

They come leaping, sliding, singing the music of the Spheres,

their smooth muscular bodies slippery with magic,

rooted in proteinaceous delight.

And the poets move.

The poets wade.  They grab them, hook them, net them, trap them, haul them, hoist them, fling them

on the shores of the rippling roaring river

and then they feed.

And they split them, gut them, hang them, stake them, smoke them,

stack them like red resinous shingles

and then they leave the river, swaying,

obese with metaphors,

staggering under their bales of dry metaphors,

ready for the lean times when the hovels creak with the weight of the cold

and the Hunger Moon begs for a metaphor in the dark.

Every year, some survive,

find at last the bars of clean sand,

mate, sink to the bottom of the quickly running waters and die

among their eggs.

Every year, a myriad of tiny metaphors

wriggle into life, look up

at the flowing world through enormous eyes,

turn downstream,

start swimming.

Nancy:  The world is not romantic, warm and fuzzy, not the real, beautiful, complex world of our coast.

A Dance of Innocents

It is not good to be judgmental.

To hear the Spring song clearly is to hear

hunger; young must be fed,

and fed with young.  It does not do

to dwell on the ravaged nest.  The sounds of the night

are night sounds, a part of Spring.

The silences are hunger stilled.

I take note of them, and of absences –

but it is best not to brood.

In the Spring, it is enough to be grateful

for mornings, early, those minutes

drawing water at the well,

before the high rumped hares have lost their innocence.

“Poets in Spring” first appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal.  “A Dance Of Innocents” first appeared in East of the Light (Stone Man Press & Slow Dancer Press, 1984)

The Winter Wren \ Bones Filled With Air

Alan:  I’ve been to places where these feisty little guys are everywhere, shouting and posturing from the tips of branches.  Here, we only ever seem to have one, and it stays out of sight.  It often wakes me, in April and May; after that, I hardly hear it at all.

The Winter Wren

You do not come here in Winter

but in wintry Spring, old snow

still tucked up under trees

and along the shaded edges of fields

and back roads.

In this country you are never seen;

rather, from the thicket, before dawn,

the long line of your song casts,

looping, into pooled shadows

where, hungry for anything

this silvery and bright,

cautiously

I rise.

Nancy:  Commitments.  Responsibilities.  Demands.  And out there... the wild, compelling call of my favorite bird.

Bones Filled With Air

The wind came up at night

and it blew offshore

and the small birds settled

and the Willets rose up crying;

they called me out

they pointed to another bay

they rode off on the wind, calling.

Then I looked at the walls I had built.

Paper walls.  Paper windows.  Paper between

me and the wind; every day

another layer of paper.

I opened the door and I left it ajar.

We fly toward the sun, toward stone,

toward eelgrass.  On the hill behind me,

the dogs have covered their eyes with their paws

and the door swings in the wind.

“Bones Filled With Air” first appeared in Fencing Wildness (Slow Dancer Press, 1999)