Poetic
Matrix
a periodic letteR on the poetic experience
online letteR 5
Poems Page 5
by Taylor Graham and Roger Desy
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Taylor Graham
JACK AND THE REDWOOD
“The forest canopies of the earth are realms
of unfathomed nature, and they are largely a mystery.”
– Richard Preston, “Climbing the Redwoods”
Imagine ascending on ropes, not quite
to heaven – to the Canopy Kingdom
where toppled crowns turn to dust, to soil
nourishing lichens and featherleaf ferns,
huckleberry thickets rooted in rot.
Gird yourself
in harness, Jack, and not for lumber.
Climb the beanstalk that sprouted
when Caesar was a child, its roots vast
as an unseen underworld. All you know
is the trunk, more than 20 feet thick
at the base, rising buttressed, to look out
over a forest in coastal cloud.
Pull yourself up as in fairy-
tale to meet – not slay – this giant
tree. Climb above his deep green shadow,
till you can see daylight filtering through
the highest branches,
350 feet above the forest floor.
Now, flop down in the palm
of his hand. Pop a huckleberry
into your mouth and give your host
a seedy grin. He holds you
by the roots.
^^^^^^^^
PEACE
On both sides of a country road
not quite wide enough for two cars
passing, fences encroach the right-
of-way. The folks who live here
wave at neighbors but leave terse
messages on their recorders: who
drives too fast, who blasts loud
music after bedtime. The dogs on one
side howl at dogs across the way,
and those opposing dogs set up
an answer, wild disharmony
to drive a person crazy.
But see that old brown draft-
horse nuzzle-nudging the topmost
rail so it clatters onto asphalt,
and the whole fence leans out-
ward as if listening to his gentle
nicker at any stranger who might
be passing by.
^^^^^^^^
VOICES FROM UNDERGROUND
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing
- Theodore Roethke, “Cuttings (later)”
Is it the aquifer that’s caught inside this
ridge-top, that used to be a river wishing
always to be sea? Or roots digging down
for water, as the limbs reach up toward sky?
Or is it the spirit of Miwoks, generations ago,
who didn’t move on with the next season
but stayed to lay their bones down, and still
whisper how they made this place their home?
^^^^^^^^^
OBSERVANCE
White face veiled by black
in August heat. No strand
of hair escapes to hint
at gold or auburn. She keeps
her head bent under
the sun. Dark habit,
her shadow just another
shade against white concrete.
Only the eyes could speak
of what lives underneath.
Is it the heart’s crimson
in a brooch? a bracelet
that would shimmer
like a body free
to feel the breeze
at sunset? Secrets
that this city
never sees
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Roger Desy
swallow
— running into the evening on an open road
concentrating on limiting distraction
to the measured stress and rhythm of self-control
turning my head — at random — for no reason at all
— a swallow — veering through a haze of pollen
suspended on still air suffusing the tasseled field
— indifferent to the pace of my routine — or any
disturbance in my passing by for that matter
focused on quicker prey than i knew was there — far
more urgent to the sating of its needs than i knew how
except perhaps at better moments — acute to them
as if to clarity — a state of seeing — till pivoting on itself
it snapped its fork tail through the daze it stirred
in wakes — into the shadows of a blinding sun
^^^^^^^^^
the odd wave
— off drifts of foam flashing fine spray into the undulating glare
of windy light — blurring the radiance — dangling
at the suspended edge of its continuous advance
a rising wave will almost always overwhelm a fallen wave
receding — as it extends the arc of its collapse
crashing a rushing surge over the eddying confusion dazzling
the spangled surface thinning into a film — a gauze of glaze sifting
reticulated lines of fluid sand — till pivoting the same swept hiss
a selfless sheerness — it regains the inevitability of a certainty if only
a moment — losing itself into the coalescence of itself again
— but — once in a while — every ninth wave or so — though
the precise interval defies predicting — an odd wave with a patience
insisting that the spent momentum of its opposed return exceed
this inexhaustible imbalance rolls back over the oncoming wave
washing the excess chaos into the humility of its rippling
^^^^^^^^^
sunday morning at three mile harbor
— what but the weathered laughter in the chaos
of a new dawn can infer the misfit of its fragments
— at a fire last night a moth in its compelling fibrillation
would not be prevented — shunning my hand
it scurried through a cracked screen to the flame
— however at all — requiring what purblind will
will veer into that lure of light — it would
— writhe a ballet into a searing dark
— a disheveled ash — disembodied in the spray
of morning on this relic pier — greeted me
wing-frayed and belly up — fluttering against
abrasive scenery drizzled in a breeze of salt and sand
— if not appealing — not appalling — a
— composed — coincidental — reinforced — restraint
^^^^^^^^^
gull
— a young gull lighting — whiter — shining — a gathering
of wind and sand focused to an intensity
curious at learning the limits of the sea’s edge surge
— veer — and recede — attentive to the tireless change
— saw me — standing — near enough — rooted in the undertow
— distracted — both paused to take in the unknown
and watch the other for what the other was
— till — less awed — or more impatient — quicker to comprehend
and certain i didn’t interfere — the gull
turned back to the indifference of its needs
pecking in shoals at the nuances of sand
— for a moment i knew we both knew we came close
to a give and take — taking advantage of the other’s
concentration — to take us to the place we were