One mile down a winding river,
full of overhanging strains
and random estimates, the father
listens as his son complains,
“I’m never doing this again.
The water’s cold, the waves are high,
The stretch we’re on is longer than
you promised. Everything’s a lie!”
Two miles down a rending river,
with the surface rippling
less from flow than from the weather
blowing six weeks into spring,
now the boy turns his teen anger
everywhere at once, turns mad
to the boats and to the river,
to Wisconsin, to his dad.
Three miles down a bending river
making slow turns south and east
through rural hills and rustic pastures,
answering a prayer for peace,
and in time the boy turns quiet,
sullen still but out of breath,
paddling the waves in silence
having beat the horse to death.
Four miles down a wending river,
later in the afternoon
the sun comes out from undercover
like a mouse predicting June
and the boy from broken shadows
finds the words he hadn’t said
and the father smiles at the
son, as two boats forge ahead.
Five miles down a wand’ring river
muddy shores turn into rocky
bluffs that would defy the river’s
native title, what the Sauk
had called wet earth, but for the moment
man and boy behold the banks
that rise above them as they lumber
onward with unspoken thanks.
Six miles down a wondrous river
four deer running up the bluff,
a turkey flushing into flight,
an eagle soaring just above,
and then the son: “When this is over
and we bring our kayaks home
I guess you’re gonna chew me out for
all the things I’ve said and done.”
Seven miles down the river
a snapping turtle almost bites
the passing paddle, then the father:
“No, son, everything’s all right.
I will be glad when this is over,
proud of you and thrilled that we
could have this afternoon together,
happy you were here with me.”
Eight miles down a winsome river
on a stretch we’ve made our own,
from Blanchardville to Thunder Bridge,
but there’s an island halfway down,
and there’s a goose nest on the island,
and all along the muddy banks
the world is fishing, farming, hunting,
living with unspoken thanks.
"lumber [...] living with unspoken thanks"--this poem is sublime, brother, and though you did not write it for submission to, say, Harriet Monroe's POETRY (the newest installment arrived on Friday), just like I didn't write 'Noli Timere' for any publication hopes, I encourage you to send it in. Beyond the relational power, the panorama, the rhythm that paddles stanzas every quarter hour, the rhyme that too often is taken for granted or left unstudied--beyond all these, you have ethos as a poet, and I'm very much in awe.
ReplyDeleteI'm enjoying your gift of POETRY very much. This edition has a fair number of sonnets by Katherine Coles and Tom Sleigh, though I appreciate the latter's "Animals in the Zoo Don't Seem Worried" more for his own apparent 'lost menagerie' process. A couple bus poems by Roderigo Toscano and Jessica Greenbaum remind me of your Mallard couple bus stop in 30 Birds, and that memory underscores why I like this one on the Pecatonica so much.
Thank you, spoken softly and large!
I had to refresh my memory on your Noli Timere poem. I need to update the indexing to this blog, including poems such as that which were included in comments to other posts. I only found it by googling "noli timere lamken," discovering it on your menagerie page, then being reminded to its tie to my Bark River poem. It is now in the index, with link, but I have to do more with updating and alphabetizing these indexes. You, fellow administrator, are welcome to do this if you have a spare few hours.
ReplyDeleteAnyway, it was a good reminder to a good poem, which I enjoyed last September and liked even better three seasons later. It should have been more prominently posted in the first place! Had you been thinking of submitting that one for publishing?
Meanwhile, thanks for the kind review of this latest effort. Mom suggested their local paper might be interested in publishing this, and I gave the go ahead. I may also submit it elsewhere, eventually, but I think I still need to work up to the level of Poetry Magazine.
I'm glad you are enjoying that magazine as much as I do. Anyone else interested in a subscription?