I’m pleased to be sharing the bill tomorrow night with Peter Sears at the Press Club (2621 SE Clinton St., Portland). It’s part of the Mountain Writers reading series. The reading starts at 8 p.m. Stop in for a cocktail and enjoy some poetry in the process.

For more info, check out the Mountain Writers site.

Thanks –

Day 18 brings us Nancy Flynn, a fellow product of Pennsylvania’s Wyoming Valley. Nancy was kind enough to share her poem, “Them Apples,” which first appeared in the collection, The Hours of Us (© 2007, Finishing Line Press).

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEM

In very tight and thoughtful language, Nancy brings us back around to some of the emotions Alison Apotheker shared on Day 7 — a mother’s love, worry, musings and memories. Nancy lulls us through a peaceful remembrance until the end of the fourth stanza, then jackknifes us into an intense moment of flesh and blood.

Them Apples

Before the rain, yellow and green leaves
teetered on the branch like nightingales and crows
balancing opposite ends of a clothesline.
All those years, you hated field trips;
I lied, promising you a ride in a car.

There were dozens of bushels and ladders,
obstacles in the Cornell Orchard where you,
an undeniably growing boy-child,
careened between other race-around kids.

Maybe I need to re-christen those days
Sunset rather than Gala, the defining cultivar
for my years of mothering alone.

It seems like no time
since the child-rearing manuals failed
even when I revisit that slow
shuffle-dance through triage, after the car hit you,
drunk on your bike, in the moment

you somersaulted over the windshield,
the down from your jacket liberated,
your back a drag strip road rash, and me,
in my white linen dress
bloodied where I gathered you up.

**

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.

**

Day 16 brings us two poems from Paulann Petersen, “Traveler,” and “Basin,” both from her collection Kindle (© 2008, Mountains and Rivers Press).

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEMS

Paulann’s work can absolutely envelop a reader, and set them floating in whatever jet stream a particular poem provides. In both “Traveler” and “Basin,” we find ourselves in a place of new beginnings, not yet certain of our footing, and still coming to terms with the terrain. Yet we go forward with a sense of safety and familiarity, as if remembering a previous pass through.

Traveler


Cast ashore
like some fleck of wood
brought here from afar
by the sea,

you reel — stunned
to breathe this reek of
strange urine, strange perfume
thick in saffron heat.

Here you are, foreign one,
familiar with only
the moon and stars,
a cloud-scraped sky,

the lidless eye of sun.
Take heart: only what floats
could be carried
as far as you’ve come.

**

Basin

On a walk, your face catches
some of the rain — a bit
of river, mill pond, lake
coming around, slanted down.
Caught on your tongue,
raindrops taste sweet,
an ocean in its mild disguise.

What you gather into yourself
comes from as far away
as the whole world’s girth,
from as close as what you
can reach. Your upturned hands
could cup to hold part of it—
carried with you: this earth’s
steady recompense.

**

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.

**

Day nine brings us two poems from David Biespiel, “The Ex Lovers Close Down the Hawthorne Boulevard Bars on the 1000th Night of the War,” and “Mississippi God Damn,” both from his latest collection, The Book of Men and Women (© 2009, University of Washington Press). “Mississippi God Damn” previously appeared in Poetry.

THOUGHTS ABOUT THE POEMS

The Book of Men and Women hinges on the power, frailties, musings and failings of relationships, whether man’s relationship with himself, the comings and goings of a couple, or how we relate with the infinite. The fight-or-flight mentality of a given situation — the tug and push between people and energies — is on display in “The Ex-Lovers,” and the poem’s cadence and music balances against the actors’ wanderings. Meanwhile, “Mississippi God Damn” reads like the quick whip of heartbreak and lost chance as told by a drifter who takes off through a series of back pages.

The Ex Lovers Close Down the Hawthorne Boulevard Bars on the 1000th Night of the War

In this city of puddles they smirk and roam, boast and weep. Their

    gobbledy-gook is as good as code,

Their names retrofitted with fear, their condition all headache.

There are parables for this behavior, a proper blab, and none more

      rapacious, none more true

Than the teary king, his picture hanging from the billboards and

      bridges. The teary king,

Divine, jacked-off, peevish, unharmed, like a hideous garden heavy

      with lavender.

Most nights they’re livid. They’re lifters. They pilfer and dance with

      stern faces, cagey

With their suckled scat, unshaken by the drill, until the cask goes

      bottoms-up.

That’s when they go starkly through the streets and play their dark

      bodies like cards

And frighten themselves — he with his mopey joy, she with her long

      braids,

Their lappets dragging in the gutters, as they dart in the alleys like

      botched and dreamy punks.

–


Mississippi God Damn

Here in this strumming light which the generations can’t downshift

      out of,

And with the land gushing its courtesies of iron, and the shallow

      mercies

Caustic or strangely gussied up like dogs with dark collars, I lose

      my rest.

And what druthers I had are just trouble now, unconditional, all

      in the air.

What’s got me upset are the dead. They go too slow. They’re

Just plain rotten — even a beating heart hardly tingles.

The crimes, the land, the lost second sight, the prayers—

None of these are picking the cotton out of the lies.

And no banter between the roots and the tombs.

And no thoughts boycotting the feelings. The old rooms,

The shadow towns, the rebel yelling, the Confederate daughters,

And the themes of homesteads get hushed in the months-long heat.

I’ve gotten too damn lazy to pluck a duplicate heart,

Unearth a body, a song, an I-just-don’t-know-what kind of fly.

That’s just the trouble — the genie’s not gentle, the stomach

Can’t stomach the risk of being right, good, unknown, me.

And if I race to the dry river where the bodies are pushing through,

The bones peering like children from behind a curtain of dirt, then

      who

Shall judge the living? And if that’s a test what frown is needed,

What game face does everybody know to put on? What hoof? What

      blood?

**

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.

Because she’ll ask. She’ll want to know
if the team won. Not that she knows
the difference, but she knows
you want her to ask, and even if
you don’t want her to ask,
you expect she’ll ask because you expect
she expects you to expect her to ask.

So she asks. Did they win. Maybe she knows
by the look in your eyes, but if you’re home alone
listening, not watching, but listening
the way no one listens anymore, and if
you’ve been crying because baseball
sometimes makes you cry – if you’ve been crying
then she might have no idea
whether they’ve won or lost, because crying
goes both ways with baseball – if she sees
you’ve been crying she’ll certainly ask,
after she asks “What’s wrong?”, because
her first thought will be something’s wrong,
he’s on the couch crying, the radio is off,
the dog is snoring and he’s crying in the corner
of the couch, his drink is empty, just the bottom
of bourbon-yellow ice, and his eyes are red.

So she asks, “What’s wrong,” and you say,
“The game, that’s all.” You shake your head
and she shakes hers. “I’m sorry.” But you say,
“Oh no, it’s OK, they won.” “They did?” “Yes.”

“How?” She’ll ask how and you’ll tell her
as she buzzes through the living room
into her closet to strip from her pants and top,
a quick dance into house clothes, the pre-sleep wardrobe
of fleece on top of fleece for the Northwest’s fall.

“Well,” you say – you chink the ice around
in your glass and suck what’s left.

“They were down, you see, down by two,
then by one. They hung around. And in the ninth,
the big closer out for a save, he walks a guy,
hits another, the next guy pops out – there are
two outs now, see, and the leadoff guy…well,
that’s not important. A little guy – later, after the hit
it’ll be all set up for David and Goliath stuff.
But for the time, the little guy, before he turned
into David, took an oh-one pitch to the gap
in right. Both runners dashed home. That’s what
I imagine, at least, a dash – there are no dashes
on radio. Just swings and pops and the announcer
going crazy. All the dirt and dust gets swallowed
in the soft static. And you’re left with the win,
which is enough to make you cry, not because
you missed a thing, but because you sat and listened,
you never saw it coming and you knew all along.”


–

I’m happy to announce the release of “Backwards on the Train”, (c) 2009 Imperfect Press. The limited first edition of 111 hand-bound, hardcover volumes contains 11 poems, a few of which have appeared in previous drafts on the site.

The chapbook is $8.00, plus $2.00 shipping for any mail orders. Please email at info (at) davejarecki (dot)com if you’d like to order a copy, or visit ImperfectPress.net – their shopping cart will be up shortly.

Thanks to everyone who’s ever offered feedback and insight. I appreciate it, and the book wouldn’t have happened without honest readers.

Dave

–

Wordstock’s here – one of the biggest literary parties on the whole Left Coast. With plenty of words to chew on, I’d like to mention a few things in which I’ll be involved.

FRIDAY NIGHT, 10/9: WARM UP WITH POETRY AND WINE

Come enjoy the poetry and wine with four of Oregon’s most cherished poets. Peter Sears, Shaindel Beers, John C. Morrison and Pamela Steele will be reading their work at Blackbird Wine, 4323 NE Fremont St. in Portland. Blackbird’s Friday night wine tasting starts at 6 o’clock, and includes a $6.00 cover; poetry starts at 7, and is free for one and all.

SATURDAY AND SUNDAY: VISIT SUPER WRITING FRIENDS

While you’re walking around between readings at the Portland Convention Center, stop by booth 423 and say hello to this year’s crop of Super Writing Friends – writers and independent publishers from the Pacific NW.

Joining me this year includes the following cast of characters:

• Shaindel Beers
• Pamela Steele
• John Morrison
• Dana Guthrie-Martin
• Nathan Moore
• Jeremy Halinen
• and more


Be sure to drop by and drop your name in the raffle for a chance to win a great stash of poetry.

MORE WORDS ON MONDAY

I’m happy to announce I’ll be joining local writers Arthur Smid and Dennis Yates at Three Friends Coffee (201 SE 12th) for a shared hour of reading, between 7 and 8 p.m. Monday, 10/12. I’ll be reading a few pieces from Backwards on the Train, my soon-to-be released chapbook from Imperfect Press. The reading is part of the ongoing series put on by Show and Tell Gallery.

Looking forward to seeing you over the long weekend.



–

The following piece is in response to Read Write Poem’s prompt #90 – an image of a street performer balancing a flaming star. Rather than accessing the scene, making my way down that street or even turning into the performer, I waited for the picture to lead me to a title, via the first words it prompted. Those words were “laser light show”.

LASER LIGHT


Smith decided we should drive to DC for the weekend light show.
It had been ten-years since he, Patrick and I
were there together. A reunion of sorts.

Patrick lived in Arlington. We called on the way.
He told us to leave him alone. He had Reserves next weekend.
He wanted to take it easy. By the time
we showed at his door he couldn’t do anything
but offer up his couch and spare cot.

Smith brought acid. He didn’t tell us about the acid until
we were already half-drunk from a few hours
at a Tiki bar along the Potomac drinking Mexican beer.

None of us needed acid at this point in our lives. Patrick
had done two tours in Iraq. Smith spent three-years
in prison. I was an absent father of two children
with different last names.

But we were all feeling good with limes in our beer, fireworks
going off for some nondenominational reason,
together in the nation’s capital remembering the world of 1999

when ours lives went by in a fury of jokes about the president
and thoughts about the end of the world.

Now we were three old lumps surrounded by a table of empties.
Patrick with his razorblade haircut, Smith who smoked
like he was trying to burn himself inside out, me
with the spare tire around my waste that wore like a retread.

We decided to walk through the Capital on our way to the show.
Smith wanted to go see Lincoln. Patrick said we couldn’t.
Jefferson then, the Washington Monument. Patrick said
none of that mattered now, it wasn’t on the way.
We passed all the lights and strange glows in the periphery,
statues kept awake under security and patriotic flares.

Two-hours with the acid in our system, Smith said lasers
were already teeming in his head. Patrick crouched behind things,
regretted the whole night, regretted whole other nights
that didn’t include us. Whole mornings and days too. A whole year
and one whole long episode that was so classified
the hallucinations had a hard time reaching it.

I hadn’t planned on being the smart one, rarely was,
but got us to the field and our seats. We blended in
like we were anyone else, just normal people who’d never
killed anyone or beaten someone to near death
with a bar of soap, had never knocked up
an old friend’s girlfriend then another, never
had to decide which one to send checks to.

Just normal guys riding out a strong trip waiting for the lights
to take our minds off the fact our minds were gone.
People nodded at us like they knew. Tapped their noses
because they saw our eyes and identified.

They couldn’t understand. Our ghosts were our own.
It didn’t matter if one of theirs chased them up a tree.
We were stuck with ours, so far from our skulls
that the only words any of us could mouth
where things like never again and can’t come down.

But there’s that point, like when the Space Shuttle goes up,
where you’re not sure if it’ll break earth’s glass face
and get out toward the moon. Right as the boosters
jump off and the ship’s all alone, just its crew
with rations and the one bathroom they share,
the bird edges a straight line against the sky
and is gone –

That’s where we were when the music fired on. All the world
except for cigarette tips got dark. Then lights zoomed to life
in a panoramic grid, made water out of thin air.
Behind the sudden brightness and noise,
the faintest cry of crickets set the universe soft.

–

My good friend Ryan Mayers sent me a scorecard that I kept when he, Donnie Sabs and I took in a Cubs game a couple of seasons ago. My scorecards are usually a mess, and this was no different – a mix of hieroglyphs, scribbles and meaningless notes that only I could understand. Reading one from two-years ago was a particularly entertaining exercise, and it gave life to the following poem.

SCORECARD


The psychic in the bleachers calls a leadoff homerun
because of the wind and the hitter’s hot streak.
She twinkles her nose like a cartoon witch
and spooks her friends. In the second, a man
with a red foam finger misses the mustard on his chin.
Clouds look like dolphins in the third. A kid points this out
to his father walking back from the john. In the fourth,
fans wave the runner home on a two-out hit.
He’s out by a foot. It’s our fault when the manager gets tossed.
A foul pop in the fifth becomes a struggle for turf.
Flying popcorn. An elbow to the eye. In the sixth,
we anticipate the ritual of the mound trot,
the pitching change. When last call
and the seventh-inning stretch collide, my friend recalls
what Ken Burns said – that Jesus died in the on deck circle.
The sun ducks away long enough in the eighth to lose ourselves
in the slow loft of the wrong team’s deep fly. That’s when
dolphin clouds turn into whales, the sky opens with a quick
sad rain. The last rally fades in the ninth.
The ladies one row ahead cheer for their boys
like Little League moms. All claps and first names.

This poem’s been vexing me since May 13, 2002, when I pulled an article out of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel with the same title. I can’t find the article now – it’s in a journal somewhere. And my attempts to find the story online yielded the this.

This latest approach is fairly simple: a dead couple having an argument.


COUPLE EMBRACE IN TRAIN’S PATH


There we are. See, a hand, a lip, one thousand bones
scattered the moment we squeezed shut our eyes.

You’d like to head back? Fine. Go ahead. Seep
into your sister’s dream while she sleeps in your bed.
Visit my father’s mourning couch, the remote like a crest
in his lap.

I won’t be at the funeral. They can bury us however they want.
I’d rather not float close to the ground, buzz someone’s leg,
have them think I’m there.

The moral? There is none, just the tracks that led us here.
Kids-gone-bad type PSAs playing in a loop
against dim afternoon health class light. A film

in the Say No to Drugs series, still-shots from prom,
my hand around the mark in your arm you wanted to hide.

We were never good kids. Like anyone else
in that shit town we finally left. There was never enough
to keep us from the junk under Jones Bridge.

You’re the one who talked about hopping a train, riding
one long ride west. You said you didn’t care
where we got. Just that we got. I simply said

there was no use getting anywhere. We’d still be stuck
in these frames. And you agreed.

Let’s break the speed of light tonight. See what it’s like
drifting into stars. Find a planet with an opposite pull.
I told you I’d give you all of this. Why so afraid?