Day three brings us Joe Millar, with a poem entitled “Doorway” from his most recent full-length collection, Fortune (© 2007, Eastern Washington University Press).

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

This poem reminds me very much of yesterday’s selection from Penelope Schott. Here again we encounter ghostlike figures that pop up in our periphery, visitations that dredge strange memories in their wake. Joe’s work always begins with the earth and moves out from there, carrying silt and mud with it. In “Doorway,” he stop us on a trail and refocuses our eyes just off the path.

Doorway

      for my parents

They do not come back for long
from that far country,
appearing in momentary changing light
or walking in the forest after rain.
I follow deer tracks etched in the path
where the stream runs down
and shadows and the green ribs
of grassblades move.
My mother stops to rest
exactly here, leaning on his arm
still corded with muscle.
The war ended six months ago
and they think nobody else will die,
watching cattails brush the shore
talking in low tones by the water.

**

A Poet a Day is a month-long celebration of poets and poetry, in honor of National Poetry Month. Writers reserve all rights to their work, and all work appears with their permission.

**

I’ve had the pleasure of getting know some really wonderful poets and writers, many of whom have been gracious enough to sit for an interview and share their work here on DaveJarecki.com. In commemorating National Poetry Month, I’d like to turn the site over to them. Some have already appeared as Guest Writers; others will shortly. In the meantime, starting April 1, look for at least one new poem from a different poet each morning.

Thanks –

The following is poem number 4 of 2009’s NaPoWriMo – 30 poems in 30 days during the month of April. The original prompt was, “when I write”.

THINK OF YOU

You wonder how your hat wound up here, the way
your lip curls before you sneeze. If I said
I invented you, would you believe me? Confuse me
for something that could do such a thing?

It’s not that I asked for any of this – I woke
under water, my lungs could only hold so much
before I sucked you in. Imagine if I could
take us back to the fort we built in your yard

that summer the cat ran off, back when you hated
your braces and we mistreated the neighbor kid
with his lazy gaze. Would you ask me to change you?
Go ahead. I have everything we need.

The following is poem number 3 of 2009’s NaPoWriMo – 30 poems in 30 days during the month of April.

CORD OF WOOD FOR CHEAP

I start scouring for wood in mid summer
so there’s enough to burn through the long rain.
A friend told me so and so knew a woman
who had a cord she needed to get rid of,
a bit of a drive but the price was good
and I beat everyone else to the pile outside her house.

No one home, just a note that said slip cash
through the mail slot – the house had that
disordered feel of people in the middle
of a move, boxes where end tables should be,
stray toys, the shelves mostly bare, couch
at an angle to the wall. I got most of the wood
in one load, left half the money and a note
I’d be back.

The next day the woman was there, a short
slender thing dragging a chair under the car port,
building a stack out front with a sign that read
FREE – good things, golf clubs, a weight bench
stuff I figured was her husband’s. It was,

except he was gone, split like they do on TV,
left a note at the start of spring
on an afternoon like this – left her the mortgage,
three kids – boys – all the wood she couldn’t light
without him there. Sent a check, a note
that said get rid of what got left and that was it.

She tried for a while but the mortgage was too much,
the oldest boy keeps finding fights, the youngest
with a lisp now, the middle just runs away.
Please take it all she says – I pay for the rest
of the cord, give her something extra for the clubs.
On my way home I stop at a driving range, buy
a bucket of balls but can’t hit anything far enough
to feel good.

(NOTE: The original prompt was “three children, one mother, where’s the father”)

The following is poem Number 2 of 2009’s NaPoWriMo – 30 poems in 30 days during the month of April. The title comes from the original prompt, “Edit This”.

EDIT THIS

My first job was filled with the same long faces
you see driving who don’t know you’re watching,
the ones with eyes fogged and lost
in some monolog, ears locked into a blur
of radio words and the poor face itself far away
from its thoughts, a blank stair stuck on the road
just off the bumper.

There was one guy who liked to say genetic fate
had it out for him, which somehow made
his parents culpable for the mess.
As best I could tell, he wanted to revision
his conception, said the stars misaligned that night,
assuming as we all do he was made in the dark.

“And here I am,” he’d sigh, “a gray blot
in the void.” When I asked what any of us could do
he didn’t have a clue, figured
there might be a pen out there to edit this or that
but was probably busy with bigger things.

The following is poem number 1 of 2009’s NaPoWriMo – 30 poems in 30 days during the month of April. The original prompt was, “Can you start early, I leave for the funeral soon?”

FOUNTAINS & FUNERALS

Burrett at the end of the bar was the one
who lost a chunck of tongue
when he was a kid, not from a bite
but a freak accident he never talked about,
and when he did you didn’t know
what he was saying, like how
he went on and on about fountains
and you swore he was saying funerals,
so when he was thirsty or showing you
pictures from a trip he and his wife took
you were sure he wanted to die.

The kind of guy who peeked down
womens’ shirts at parties when people
were merry and drunk, he lost friends
trying to talk his way out of things he never said –
his last hope was the cheap laughs he got
pouring hot sauce on the stump of flesh
that barely slapped the backs of his teeth,
winning fives and tens every time
someone said he couldn’t hold fire
straight to the lump, and when he did
people asked for more, longer, a larger flame

until his whole face went up, the burns
too much to deal with, Burrett’s body
gave out under the weight of his mind
and died. We didn’t have much to say
around his grave, hugged and laughed
about the lug, remembered he had a thing
for fountains, at least that’s what we thought.