Saturday, September 7, 2013

Movie Review of the Bark River

(With thanks to the folks for the newspaper article, prompting  me to spend a few hours in and east of Fort Atkinson this morning.  I'm up for it again if anyone wants to join me!  

Movie Review of the Bark River

This was a lazy river, an easy run
without resistance for those paddling
against the flow and gentle as the breeze
for those who want it breezy coming home.

It was a winding stream, each twist and turn
keeping the paddler’s journey interesting
but wide enough so that the water flows
around each bend in ordinary time.

It was a rural river with the smell
of fertile pastures just beyond the bank,
yet with rows of woods on either side it was,
for those who would prefer, a forest stream.

But in the end, and at the casting call,
this paddler’s lazy river was, for all
its wandering, a small town resident
with locals fishing at the final bend.


P.S. See the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel article, and my poem posted as a comment, at http://on.jsonl.in/146ta5K)



2 comments:

  1. Exemplary, both as a halcyon poem and a demonstration to post in two places. I had wanted to write a memorial poem for Seamus Heaney, who shockingly passed away at the still young age of 74; with school work and all (actually, a trip to Istanbul for our 'Week Without Walls' program), I let that opportunity slide until this morning--and your inspiration. Here's a poem that launches from Heaney's final words, texted to his wife as he must have known his death was immanent:

    Noli Timere

    “When you have nothing more to say,” the noble,
    consummately humble poet said, “just drive
    For a day all round the peninsula.” Just so,
    the waiting world bid Seamus Heaney
    a silent, staunch adieu and wistful
    ride—as long as you just drive.

    My brother guides a kayak, digging placid streams,
    recalling bends and eddies, depth and things to
    plumb, sui generis creatures, odors, errant
    breeze. Like Frost in mud-time, he sees
    a human being (maybe two or three)
    in everything a journey brings.

    He, like Heaney, saw sailing to Byzantium as more
    than metaphor. Having set foot on that curling
    shore I need to voyage inwardly, to “end up
    cradling each other / between the lips
    of an earthwork.” says Seamus, now
    within the peat of his peninsula.

    A dedication abides in all his poems, and we know
    Sweeney, Chekhov, Seamus Deane, Mary, kids in
    Limbo, the Grauballe Man, the Bog Queen, the
    foil in ‘Casualty’, Beowulf, demigods and
    countless common people of the earth,
    we know at least a part of them

    and broader know our part with them as now they
    face eternity. And so will we. Unroofed, we may
    “Tell the truth. Do not be afraid.” The Master
    shows the way. Miss Walls methodically
    had taught us cues against the fear of
    natural unknowns, “and I knew

    That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.”
    That’s a final line to scarper from, quicksand to
    the soul. My brother paddles patiently, not
    to necessarily know but decidedly to go
    where Seamus went. Byzantium and
    back, to boglands old and new.

    Thank you for this drive.

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  2. Thank you Dan. And I dig your choice of adjective! Halcyon, the Kingfisher, is one of those less than common species that didn't get a Thirty Birds poem, yet it makes regular appearances on Illinois and Wisconsin rivers and is as much a companion for the river paddler as seagulls are for coastal fishing boats. The Halcyon poses distinctively on overhanging limbs, watches and waits until the boat gets within twenty yards, then flies off loudly to the next perch twenty yards ahead. Other birds are less sociable - there are always teals and sandpipers, for instance, but they don't let the boat get as close.

    As for Seamus Heaney, I am sadly not as familiar with his work as I should be, but I like your several quotes. I also like one of the first poems that came up on the Poetry Foundation website: "Digging." Dan, you probably know it, but for those who don't, it is, in the spirit of dedication, about a poet who remembers how his father and his grandfather worked the soil, regrets not having a spade of his own, then ends "Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests. / I'll dig with it."

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