Notes for Lichen Songs: New and Selected Poems
BY GEORGE VENN (8/2017)
I.
Notes for OFF THE MAIN ROAD (1978)
Notes for OFF THE MAIN ROAD (1978)
Fall Dance: Old apple trees and abandoned orchards are found throughout the rural northwest. This poem celebrates the yearly harvest of subsistence fruit from seven trees of an old orchard outside of La Grande. (See also “Winter Bananas” and “The World According to Apples” in Part V.)
Directions for Visitors: Rpt. in Pacific Northwest Forum,1978. Refugees from Wisconsin in 1928, my maternal grandparents first camped on this place called Heckle Creek in the burned over stump land outside Alder, Washington where there was free rent, honeybee pasture, and bears. (See also the title essay in Keeping the Swarm.)
Setting Backfire: This poem attempts to invoke a similar erotic sense found in D.H. Lawrence’s poem “I Wish I Knew A Woman.”
Tomato: Rpt. Willow Springs Journal, 1977. When surrounded by ripening tomatoes, another language takes over.
Words: Rpt. Yipe!, 1994. The quest for expanding awareness of diction that implicitly justifies (or not) exploitation of nature goes on unresolved.
Song for Carpenters After Summer: Rpt. Fourteen Oregon Poets. 1976. (poetry postcard series.) Building or rebuilding seven houses over five decades, there was always that ending moment of evaluation and revelation. A common finishing hand tool, the block plane creates circular shavings in some woods.
Poem Against the First Grade: Rpt. in Teaching with Fire: Poetry that Sustains the Courage to Teach, 2003. (And other reprints) Coming home from first grade around Halloween, my daughter Alicia announced that her teacher said she couldn’t color pumpkins purple. Rejecting that literalism and adopting her little brother’s pre-school verbal play has made this poem popular.
Bird Talk: Rpt. A Salal Notecard. Prescott St. Press, Ed. Vi Gale. 1987. (poetry postcard series.)
Split Kindling: Rpt. in Ten Oregon Poets, 1975. (poetry postcard series) Coastal red cedar was an intimate presence in daily life. From posts to poles to Native planks, the smallest pieces are fragrant, beautiful, combustible. In the early 20th century my relatives cut down the massive old growth and made them into shingles for roofing all over the US.
Forgive Us...: Rpt. Pushcart Prize IV: Best of the Small Presses, 1979. Rpt. in Rain In the Forest, Light In the Trees: Contemporary Poetry From the Northwest, 1983. Rpt. From Here We Speak: An Anthology of Oregon Poetry. 1993. Poem composed in grandparents’ kitchen after a visit to my grandfather’s nursing home where Parkinsons disease would eventually kill him. Title from debated “Lord’s Prayer” phrase, “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,” or “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
Inviting Alex to the Bees: Rpt. Gleanings in Bee Culture, 1983. Is it possible to pass on the art of beekeeping? At best, such initiation is a mysterious and difficult process that generates complex memories. (See “Down the Colfax Grade” in Part III.)
Report on Grandparents’ House: Built in 1947 beside Highway 7, the highway to Mt. Rainier (Nisqually Entrance), this house on the Mayo thirteen acre farm was my childhood refuge after my father’s death. From 1943 to 1947 my grandparents’ raised me there, then for the next twenty years, I lived and worked there every summer. The images here describe the living room and kitchen. (See “My Mother is this White Wind...” in Part II. for the greater sense of loss.)
How to Live Two Days in Osburn, Idaho: Rpt. Idaho's Poetry: A Centennial Anthology.
1988. Rpt. Idaho Handbook, 1997. Written in 1977 after completing a Western States Arts Foundation residency at Osburn Junior High. (See “Singing the Silver Valley Cannonball” in Keeping the Swarm for the larger story.)
Off the Main Road: Rpt. Yipe!, 1994. Written after a visit from a newly-married, congenial, and talented coupleBalso my studentsBlooking for a place to live, settle down, plant a garden, and raise their goats and chickens. Our rented farmhouse on two acres outside of town had only recently solved that search for a place for me and my family.
Directions for Visitors: Rpt. in Pacific Northwest Forum,1978. Refugees from Wisconsin in 1928, my maternal grandparents first camped on this place called Heckle Creek in the burned over stump land outside Alder, Washington where there was free rent, honeybee pasture, and bears. (See also the title essay in Keeping the Swarm.)
Setting Backfire: This poem attempts to invoke a similar erotic sense found in D.H. Lawrence’s poem “I Wish I Knew A Woman.”
Tomato: Rpt. Willow Springs Journal, 1977. When surrounded by ripening tomatoes, another language takes over.
Words: Rpt. Yipe!, 1994. The quest for expanding awareness of diction that implicitly justifies (or not) exploitation of nature goes on unresolved.
Song for Carpenters After Summer: Rpt. Fourteen Oregon Poets. 1976. (poetry postcard series.) Building or rebuilding seven houses over five decades, there was always that ending moment of evaluation and revelation. A common finishing hand tool, the block plane creates circular shavings in some woods.
Poem Against the First Grade: Rpt. in Teaching with Fire: Poetry that Sustains the Courage to Teach, 2003. (And other reprints) Coming home from first grade around Halloween, my daughter Alicia announced that her teacher said she couldn’t color pumpkins purple. Rejecting that literalism and adopting her little brother’s pre-school verbal play has made this poem popular.
Bird Talk: Rpt. A Salal Notecard. Prescott St. Press, Ed. Vi Gale. 1987. (poetry postcard series.)
Split Kindling: Rpt. in Ten Oregon Poets, 1975. (poetry postcard series) Coastal red cedar was an intimate presence in daily life. From posts to poles to Native planks, the smallest pieces are fragrant, beautiful, combustible. In the early 20th century my relatives cut down the massive old growth and made them into shingles for roofing all over the US.
Forgive Us...: Rpt. Pushcart Prize IV: Best of the Small Presses, 1979. Rpt. in Rain In the Forest, Light In the Trees: Contemporary Poetry From the Northwest, 1983. Rpt. From Here We Speak: An Anthology of Oregon Poetry. 1993. Poem composed in grandparents’ kitchen after a visit to my grandfather’s nursing home where Parkinsons disease would eventually kill him. Title from debated “Lord’s Prayer” phrase, “Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,” or “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
Inviting Alex to the Bees: Rpt. Gleanings in Bee Culture, 1983. Is it possible to pass on the art of beekeeping? At best, such initiation is a mysterious and difficult process that generates complex memories. (See “Down the Colfax Grade” in Part III.)
Report on Grandparents’ House: Built in 1947 beside Highway 7, the highway to Mt. Rainier (Nisqually Entrance), this house on the Mayo thirteen acre farm was my childhood refuge after my father’s death. From 1943 to 1947 my grandparents’ raised me there, then for the next twenty years, I lived and worked there every summer. The images here describe the living room and kitchen. (See “My Mother is this White Wind...” in Part II. for the greater sense of loss.)
How to Live Two Days in Osburn, Idaho: Rpt. Idaho's Poetry: A Centennial Anthology.
1988. Rpt. Idaho Handbook, 1997. Written in 1977 after completing a Western States Arts Foundation residency at Osburn Junior High. (See “Singing the Silver Valley Cannonball” in Keeping the Swarm for the larger story.)
Off the Main Road: Rpt. Yipe!, 1994. Written after a visit from a newly-married, congenial, and talented coupleBalso my studentsBlooking for a place to live, settle down, plant a garden, and raise their goats and chickens. Our rented farmhouse on two acres outside of town had only recently solved that search for a place for me and my family.
II.
Notes for MARKING THE MAGIC CIRCLE (1987)
Notes for MARKING THE MAGIC CIRCLE (1987)
Larch in Fall: the Western larch (larix occidentalis) turns mountain forests of the eastern Northwest to gold. I first saw this spectacular display in north Idaho in 1957.
Early Morning, Washington 12 toward Ohanapecosh: a campground, a national park entrance, and crystal clear river flowing from a glacier on Mt. Rainier. The old regional highway crosses the Washington Cascades via White Pass, my route between the eastern plateau and western coastal northwest for over 60 years.
My Mother Is This White Wind Cleaning: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1981. (See Part I, “Report from Grandparents’ House.”)
Voice from Another Wilderness: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. Caractacus, a first century British chieftain, led an unsuccessful guerilla war against the invading Romans.
A Gallon of Honey in Glass: a container for rural beekeepers and lovers to give away honey.
The Black Wolf of Love: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. Once titled “The Trail to School,” this renders my daily walk after reading Barry Lopez’ Of Wolves and Men.
Conjuring a Basque Ghost: Rpt. Cut Bank, 1981. Rpt. From Here We Speak: An Anthology of Oregon Poetry. 1993. The press report of this sheepherder’s death while cutting firewood brought back my meeting him that summer to buy wool.
Report from East of the Mountains: “east of the mountains” is a western Washington regional term referring to all that inland country beyond the Cascade range. In Oregon, “the upper country” once was analogous, but generic “eastern Oregon” has replaced it. The last line of the poem cites an embattled Nez Perce chief.
Coyote Teaches Jesus a New Word: Rpts. Exhibition, 1989) & The Writer’s Grapevine (1985).
cross cultural syncretism goes both ways here.
Professors in Their Masks as Fence Posts: Rpt. Clearwater Journal,1982. Also published as “Fence Post Talks.” See V. “This Could Be Our Story” for a more complex narrative.
Blue Hour: Grandview Cemetery: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. From 1974 to 1997 I lived a block from this burial ground south of La Grande and walked there summer nights.
Sleeping Upstairs: As a child, I slept in the unfinished unheated Mayo house attic—open rafters, fir battens, grandfather’s hand-split cedar shakes.
Early Morning, Washington 12 toward Ohanapecosh: a campground, a national park entrance, and crystal clear river flowing from a glacier on Mt. Rainier. The old regional highway crosses the Washington Cascades via White Pass, my route between the eastern plateau and western coastal northwest for over 60 years.
My Mother Is This White Wind Cleaning: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1981. (See Part I, “Report from Grandparents’ House.”)
Voice from Another Wilderness: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. Caractacus, a first century British chieftain, led an unsuccessful guerilla war against the invading Romans.
A Gallon of Honey in Glass: a container for rural beekeepers and lovers to give away honey.
The Black Wolf of Love: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. Once titled “The Trail to School,” this renders my daily walk after reading Barry Lopez’ Of Wolves and Men.
Conjuring a Basque Ghost: Rpt. Cut Bank, 1981. Rpt. From Here We Speak: An Anthology of Oregon Poetry. 1993. The press report of this sheepherder’s death while cutting firewood brought back my meeting him that summer to buy wool.
Report from East of the Mountains: “east of the mountains” is a western Washington regional term referring to all that inland country beyond the Cascade range. In Oregon, “the upper country” once was analogous, but generic “eastern Oregon” has replaced it. The last line of the poem cites an embattled Nez Perce chief.
Coyote Teaches Jesus a New Word: Rpts. Exhibition, 1989) & The Writer’s Grapevine (1985).
cross cultural syncretism goes both ways here.
Professors in Their Masks as Fence Posts: Rpt. Clearwater Journal,1982. Also published as “Fence Post Talks.” See V. “This Could Be Our Story” for a more complex narrative.
Blue Hour: Grandview Cemetery: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. From 1974 to 1997 I lived a block from this burial ground south of La Grande and walked there summer nights.
Sleeping Upstairs: As a child, I slept in the unfinished unheated Mayo house attic—open rafters, fir battens, grandfather’s hand-split cedar shakes.
III.
Notes for WEST OF PARADISE (1999)
Notes for WEST OF PARADISE (1999)
Excuses in Snow: Rpt. The Kerf, May, 1998. And Rpt. Jefferson Monthly, December, 1998. The liar’s craft is widely practiced by students and fishermen.
The Emperor Breeds only on the Ice: Rpt. Oregon English, 1989. Rpt. Northwest Writers, Inc, Andres Berger Poetry Prize, 1994. Inspired by reading Robert Ardrey’s account in The Territorial Imperative.
Five Six Minutes in March: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1981. Aubade for the naked emperor in a cold old farmhouse.
Among Decoys: Faux full-timers create deadly illusions (See also “Bird Talk” in I.)
In the Time of Gold Trees: Wildlife hunger for metaphor. (Also, see “Larch in Fall” from II.)
Gyppo: Rpt. Northwest Review, 2000. Joe Padgett was a gyppo, a self-employed logger. Often working alone under conditions dangerous, even lethal, he fells, bucks, yards, loads, hauls, and sells logs to a local company mill or makes them into lumber with his own mill. “Hoodoo” is the name of a mountain close to the rural hamlet of Blanchard, Idaho. (See also “Conjuring a Basque Ghost” in Part II. and Part I. of “Advice for Children from the Country.”)
Down the Colfax Grade: Rpt. Winged: New Writing on Bees, 2014. My grandfather George Leland Mayo was one of western Washington’s first migratory beekeepers. For over ten years, he wintered his 600 hives in the Puyallup Valley, then in spring, he trucked them at night over the Cascades to pollenize Okanagan and Wenatchee orchards, then to harvest honey at locations all over eastern Washington. This poem memorializes our all-night work of hauling and unloading perhaps 60 hives beside sweet clover fields outside Colfax, Washington. The last line refers to Palouse farmers losing the highly-erosive soil.
A Hanford Veteran: Jay Mullen’s Story: A historian teaching at Southern Oregon University, Jay Mullen was a member of the “Downwinders” protesting the December, 1949, intentional release of Iodine-131 and Xenon-133 by the Hanford Project. While we were attending a 1993 Pacific Northwest American Studies conference in Bend, he volunteered this story about the deadly effects of the “Green Run.” We had two common bonds: Spirit Lake schools and the Presbyterian Church.
On West Burnside: Rpt. Portland Lights: A Poetry Anthology, 1999. An actual chance encounter on an Old Town sidewalk.
A.J. Dickey Couldn’t Run the Ends: Rpt. Talking River Review, 1998. Written for my friend
Jim Dickey on the death of his brother Alva J. Dickey, Jim’s handicapped brother and my friend
when I lived in Spirit Lake from 1957-1962.
Segues for Interstate 84: Rpt. Hubbub, September, 1998. The journey down the Columbia from eastern to western Oregon has been endlessly described by pioneers. Here the ancient route is traversed with a critical eye to land use ethics and a literary lens.
A Father Speaks to His Son: Rpt. KSOR Guide to the Arts, 1986. Written after a junior high choir concert at La Grande Middle School. Never learned the boy’s name.
Fable for an Arrogant Century: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. Written and first read for the symposium, “Violence in Rural America.” Oregon Committee for the Humanities, La Grande, November 9, 1979. (with Richard Maxwell Brown.)
Family Scavenger: During the creation of Off the Main Road, Vi Gale, my first publisher, explained to me the inevitability of family history and ancestors becoming part of my poetry. The line “You can never be alone with America again,” borrows part of Richard Howard’s title Alone with America (1969.)
The Treehouse at 316 North Regent Street, Burlington, Washington. Rpt. This Should Be Enough: Poems From The Second Skagit River Poetry Festival, 2002. Written for my older brother Douglas years before child abuse became a public topic. From 1949 to 1953 we lived with our new stepfather in the Presbyterian church manse across the street from Jefferson Grade School. (See also the title essay in Keeping the Swarm and “Faith of Our Fathers” in the same collection.)
My Aunt Helen of Avon and Uncle Leonard, Penitent: After moving to and returning from a disastrous experience in Alaska, my alcoholic uncle and battered aunt and their four boys all moved onto a farm my grandparents owned directly across Highway 7 from their homestead. There were two conditions: (1) Falcks could live there rent free until they “got back on their feet;” (2) Leonard had to stop drinking and get a job. Leonard accepted the deal. That farm became a stabilizing home base for the Falcks, a place to raise their four boys who frequently took refuge at my grandparents. Nevertheless, all four of my cousins left home as soon as possible and three met tragic endings. (There may still be one fugitive survivor.)
Star: Rpt. Oregon English, 1997. Written as a memorial to the poet William Stafford (1914-1993. Read to Plenary Session, National Council of Teachers of English Northwest Regional Conference, Portland, March 2, 1997. (See also Chapters 7 and 9 in Beaver’s Fire.)
The Lichen Family Story: Rpt. Oregon Zoo, Cascade Crest Exhibition, 1998. One of two poems commissioned and permanently installed at the New Oregon Zoo, Cascade Crest Exhibition. Both poems’ topics were assigned by exhibition designers. (See “High Cascades” for the second work.)
Elegy for a Migratory Beekeeper: Rpt. Gleanings in Bee Culture, 1983. (See “Down the Colfax Grade” above, “Forgive Us...” in Part I, et al.)
Grandma Wilhelmina at 85: Wilhelmina Boettcher, my paternal grandmother, was born in Germany in 1885 and emigrated with her family to Ellis Island ca 1890. They crossed the US by train, and homesteaded in the forest by Mt. Rainier. In August, 1907, she married Scotsman and former Grenadier Guard Andrew Fyfe (Andy.) Her daughter and son and their families lived next door. This poem arises from one of my annual visits to her home on Alder Lake where she lived to be over 100.
June Night, Full Moon: The following four poems were written in 1998-99 during an affair after my first divorce
Walking into the Flood: from a vivid dream
A Dream of Two: from another vivid dream
Water Music, the Upper Imnaha River: from a long afternoon walking together in Hells Canyon while camping in National Recreation Area.
High Cascades: Rpt. Oregon Zoo, Cascade Crest Exhibition, September, 1998. One of two commissioned works, they are carved in stone and permanently exhibited. (See also “The Lichen Family Story.”)
The Emperor Breeds only on the Ice: Rpt. Oregon English, 1989. Rpt. Northwest Writers, Inc, Andres Berger Poetry Prize, 1994. Inspired by reading Robert Ardrey’s account in The Territorial Imperative.
Five Six Minutes in March: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1981. Aubade for the naked emperor in a cold old farmhouse.
Among Decoys: Faux full-timers create deadly illusions (See also “Bird Talk” in I.)
In the Time of Gold Trees: Wildlife hunger for metaphor. (Also, see “Larch in Fall” from II.)
Gyppo: Rpt. Northwest Review, 2000. Joe Padgett was a gyppo, a self-employed logger. Often working alone under conditions dangerous, even lethal, he fells, bucks, yards, loads, hauls, and sells logs to a local company mill or makes them into lumber with his own mill. “Hoodoo” is the name of a mountain close to the rural hamlet of Blanchard, Idaho. (See also “Conjuring a Basque Ghost” in Part II. and Part I. of “Advice for Children from the Country.”)
Down the Colfax Grade: Rpt. Winged: New Writing on Bees, 2014. My grandfather George Leland Mayo was one of western Washington’s first migratory beekeepers. For over ten years, he wintered his 600 hives in the Puyallup Valley, then in spring, he trucked them at night over the Cascades to pollenize Okanagan and Wenatchee orchards, then to harvest honey at locations all over eastern Washington. This poem memorializes our all-night work of hauling and unloading perhaps 60 hives beside sweet clover fields outside Colfax, Washington. The last line refers to Palouse farmers losing the highly-erosive soil.
A Hanford Veteran: Jay Mullen’s Story: A historian teaching at Southern Oregon University, Jay Mullen was a member of the “Downwinders” protesting the December, 1949, intentional release of Iodine-131 and Xenon-133 by the Hanford Project. While we were attending a 1993 Pacific Northwest American Studies conference in Bend, he volunteered this story about the deadly effects of the “Green Run.” We had two common bonds: Spirit Lake schools and the Presbyterian Church.
On West Burnside: Rpt. Portland Lights: A Poetry Anthology, 1999. An actual chance encounter on an Old Town sidewalk.
A.J. Dickey Couldn’t Run the Ends: Rpt. Talking River Review, 1998. Written for my friend
Jim Dickey on the death of his brother Alva J. Dickey, Jim’s handicapped brother and my friend
when I lived in Spirit Lake from 1957-1962.
Segues for Interstate 84: Rpt. Hubbub, September, 1998. The journey down the Columbia from eastern to western Oregon has been endlessly described by pioneers. Here the ancient route is traversed with a critical eye to land use ethics and a literary lens.
A Father Speaks to His Son: Rpt. KSOR Guide to the Arts, 1986. Written after a junior high choir concert at La Grande Middle School. Never learned the boy’s name.
Fable for an Arrogant Century: Rpt. Poetry Northwest, 1980. Written and first read for the symposium, “Violence in Rural America.” Oregon Committee for the Humanities, La Grande, November 9, 1979. (with Richard Maxwell Brown.)
Family Scavenger: During the creation of Off the Main Road, Vi Gale, my first publisher, explained to me the inevitability of family history and ancestors becoming part of my poetry. The line “You can never be alone with America again,” borrows part of Richard Howard’s title Alone with America (1969.)
The Treehouse at 316 North Regent Street, Burlington, Washington. Rpt. This Should Be Enough: Poems From The Second Skagit River Poetry Festival, 2002. Written for my older brother Douglas years before child abuse became a public topic. From 1949 to 1953 we lived with our new stepfather in the Presbyterian church manse across the street from Jefferson Grade School. (See also the title essay in Keeping the Swarm and “Faith of Our Fathers” in the same collection.)
My Aunt Helen of Avon and Uncle Leonard, Penitent: After moving to and returning from a disastrous experience in Alaska, my alcoholic uncle and battered aunt and their four boys all moved onto a farm my grandparents owned directly across Highway 7 from their homestead. There were two conditions: (1) Falcks could live there rent free until they “got back on their feet;” (2) Leonard had to stop drinking and get a job. Leonard accepted the deal. That farm became a stabilizing home base for the Falcks, a place to raise their four boys who frequently took refuge at my grandparents. Nevertheless, all four of my cousins left home as soon as possible and three met tragic endings. (There may still be one fugitive survivor.)
Star: Rpt. Oregon English, 1997. Written as a memorial to the poet William Stafford (1914-1993. Read to Plenary Session, National Council of Teachers of English Northwest Regional Conference, Portland, March 2, 1997. (See also Chapters 7 and 9 in Beaver’s Fire.)
The Lichen Family Story: Rpt. Oregon Zoo, Cascade Crest Exhibition, 1998. One of two poems commissioned and permanently installed at the New Oregon Zoo, Cascade Crest Exhibition. Both poems’ topics were assigned by exhibition designers. (See “High Cascades” for the second work.)
Elegy for a Migratory Beekeeper: Rpt. Gleanings in Bee Culture, 1983. (See “Down the Colfax Grade” above, “Forgive Us...” in Part I, et al.)
Grandma Wilhelmina at 85: Wilhelmina Boettcher, my paternal grandmother, was born in Germany in 1885 and emigrated with her family to Ellis Island ca 1890. They crossed the US by train, and homesteaded in the forest by Mt. Rainier. In August, 1907, she married Scotsman and former Grenadier Guard Andrew Fyfe (Andy.) Her daughter and son and their families lived next door. This poem arises from one of my annual visits to her home on Alder Lake where she lived to be over 100.
June Night, Full Moon: The following four poems were written in 1998-99 during an affair after my first divorce
Walking into the Flood: from a vivid dream
A Dream of Two: from another vivid dream
Water Music, the Upper Imnaha River: from a long afternoon walking together in Hells Canyon while camping in National Recreation Area.
High Cascades: Rpt. Oregon Zoo, Cascade Crest Exhibition, September, 1998. One of two commissioned works, they are carved in stone and permanently exhibited. (See also “The Lichen Family Story.”)
IV.
Notes for PUBLISHED UNCOLLECTED (2000+)
Notes for PUBLISHED UNCOLLECTED (2000+)
Easter on “B” Avenue with Doe and Fawns: Rpt. Eastern Oregon Review Quarterly, 2005. South La Grande enjoys—some would say “suffers from”—a large resident mule deer population which provides free pruning of almost any vegetation. (See also “Doe in the Wild Plums,” “In the Time of Gold Trees” in III., and “Visitor in December” in V.)
At the Cabinet Shop You Never Know: Rpt.@ Oregon English Journal, 2002. Miller’s Cabinet was a La Grande institution and craftsman’s delight. For years, the owner Orville Miller would happily cut out anything taken to him, or allow customers to use the power tools themselves. Eventually, the Millers sold out, insurance restricted the tools to employees, but the congenial friendships remained.
Awakening: Rpt. Deer Drink the Moon: Poems of Oregon, 2007. Composed while lying in bed one morning and staring into the branches of a huge silver maple.
Blue Mountain March: Rpt. Windfall, 2003. The penultimate line, “Ripeness is all,” comes from King Lear: “Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all.” In the Shakespearean context, the line suggests being ready for death, but is used here to suggest being ready for spring and rebirth—as the tercets show.
Crawl Space: Rpt. Oregon English Journal, 2002. Forty years of doing invisible dirty work under old houses converge here for the upright, neat, and clean to appreciate.
The Engineer in Love at Fifty Five: Rpt. Oregon English Journal, 2002. This image came in a vivid dream while living alone, and was written the same year I retired from university teaching.)
Street Cries, Spain: Rpt. Prescott St. Reader, 1995. In fall, 1965, I crossed the US, took passage to Spain on the Cristoforo Columbo, enrolled at the University of Salamanca. After six months of hitch hiking through Spanish cities and towns, I wanted to honor and remember these singers, so the italicized phrases are intended to be sung according to intonations given in the stanzas.
Spring Work: Rpt. Oregon English Journal, 2002. A lifetime of caring for family fruit trees becomes annual statement. (See “Fall Dance” in I. and “The World According to Apples” in IV.)
Teacher in the Desert: Rpt. Oregon East, 2002. Once titled “Taking the Longer View,” one editor rejected this poem because he thought teachers would be depressed by reading it.
Instead, it presents one of the quintessential rhythms and paradoxes of teaching and other nurturing activities based on cultivation. Written during my term as President of the Oregon Council of Teachers of English.
The World According to Apples: Rpt. Windfall, 2003. The one old apple tree growing next to my house on the Old Oregon Trail gave me this poem. I tended that tree for ten years but never found someone who knew its name.
At the Cabinet Shop You Never Know: Rpt.@ Oregon English Journal, 2002. Miller’s Cabinet was a La Grande institution and craftsman’s delight. For years, the owner Orville Miller would happily cut out anything taken to him, or allow customers to use the power tools themselves. Eventually, the Millers sold out, insurance restricted the tools to employees, but the congenial friendships remained.
Awakening: Rpt. Deer Drink the Moon: Poems of Oregon, 2007. Composed while lying in bed one morning and staring into the branches of a huge silver maple.
Blue Mountain March: Rpt. Windfall, 2003. The penultimate line, “Ripeness is all,” comes from King Lear: “Men must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all.” In the Shakespearean context, the line suggests being ready for death, but is used here to suggest being ready for spring and rebirth—as the tercets show.
Crawl Space: Rpt. Oregon English Journal, 2002. Forty years of doing invisible dirty work under old houses converge here for the upright, neat, and clean to appreciate.
The Engineer in Love at Fifty Five: Rpt. Oregon English Journal, 2002. This image came in a vivid dream while living alone, and was written the same year I retired from university teaching.)
Street Cries, Spain: Rpt. Prescott St. Reader, 1995. In fall, 1965, I crossed the US, took passage to Spain on the Cristoforo Columbo, enrolled at the University of Salamanca. After six months of hitch hiking through Spanish cities and towns, I wanted to honor and remember these singers, so the italicized phrases are intended to be sung according to intonations given in the stanzas.
Spring Work: Rpt. Oregon English Journal, 2002. A lifetime of caring for family fruit trees becomes annual statement. (See “Fall Dance” in I. and “The World According to Apples” in IV.)
Teacher in the Desert: Rpt. Oregon East, 2002. Once titled “Taking the Longer View,” one editor rejected this poem because he thought teachers would be depressed by reading it.
Instead, it presents one of the quintessential rhythms and paradoxes of teaching and other nurturing activities based on cultivation. Written during my term as President of the Oregon Council of Teachers of English.
The World According to Apples: Rpt. Windfall, 2003. The one old apple tree growing next to my house on the Old Oregon Trail gave me this poem. I tended that tree for ten years but never found someone who knew its name.
V.
Notes for NEW AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS (2000-2017)
Notes for NEW AND UNPUBLISHED POEMS (2000-2017)
Inside the Foreign Expert’s Compound: written in Spring, 1982 while living alone and teaching at South China University, then called Changsha Railway Institute, and translating the poetry of the internationally-known Chinese poet Ai Qing. Due to difficult living conditions, my wife and children had escaped to Australia. (For details, see the essay “Opening in the Wall,” in Marking the Magic Circle and “The More We Get Together” in Keeping the Swarm.)
After Divorce: Twice divorced, this monologue attempts to wrestle with the psychic crises of emotional and physical rejection.
Waiting for the Bohemians: Like love in the dead of winter, this tree at the corner of 4th Street and B Avenue always inspires me—branches ripe, loaded, waiting.
Crossing the Blues in March: Interstate 84 between Pendleton and Baker City is the most dangerous east-west highway in an Oregon winter, and the only route on which I’ve almost died—twice. Black ice kills.
Picnics: Hilgard, Red Bridge, Catherine Creek, Spring Creek, Morgan Lake, Cove Pool, Perry, Minam, Rondowa: so many beautiful outdoor places in this world to eat, hike, swim together. This is one story about many times at one of them.
Out of Dreams I Come to Light: given in a vivid dream. The musician and choral conductor Elmer Thomas was the most inspiring artist I met during my undergraduate education.
This Might Be Our Story: occasional poem written for professors Charles Coate, Robert Brandon, and John MillayBmy colleagues who retired from Eastern Oregon University as I did in 2002. I read this and gave each of them a signed copy at our retirement dinner the evening of June 8. That same evening, I was awarded the Distinguished Instructional Faculty award.
In Court: One afternoon, my son—a Portland police officer—invited me to accompany him to the Multnomah County courtroom where we sat in the gallery and watched this event unfold.
Moving the Old Stone: Thinking only of landscaping, I did this. Sisyphus came later. My stone did not roll back down the hill.
Admonitions on Turning Sixty One: Like certain other poets, I try to write a poem on my birthday, October 12B—same as old Columbus Day. Lines 7-8 in the last full stanza cite a phrase from the hymn “Amazing Grace.”
Freshman Mime: written as a memorial for my classmate and friend Anna Marie Walton (1942-2015). While we were undergraduates at The College of Idaho, she married my friend the photographer and archivist Jan Boles.
A Horseperson Story: “Horseperson” is a colloquial trope commonly used by horse owners to distinguish their identity and passion from mere amateurs or hobbyists. Not to be confused with “satyr.”
Visitor in December: Another visitation and theft by the locals. (See “Doe in the Wild Plums” in IV, and “In the Time of Gold Trees in III.)
Winter Bananas (1974-2016): Rpt. Windfall, 2017. Written to memorialize the beauty and flavor of that antique variety of apples so named for their color and praised for their long storage life. I’ve been told that a small number are still commercially planted for pollenizing the commonplace Yellow Delicious.
The Man Who Broke His Crown: the biography of a man I once knew who ran away from a life almost completely dominated by wife, children, and property.
Winter Dreamer: Given in a dream, the speaker addresses a lover.
Deal Canyon Birds after a Blizzard: The extreme winter storms of 2017 made life difficult for everything alive. After one storm, I looked out my basement apartment windows, and saw all these bright survivors. Their resilience gave me hope and delight, and I wrote this for them, then gave the poem to neighbors and friends for a Christmas gift.
After Divorce: Twice divorced, this monologue attempts to wrestle with the psychic crises of emotional and physical rejection.
Waiting for the Bohemians: Like love in the dead of winter, this tree at the corner of 4th Street and B Avenue always inspires me—branches ripe, loaded, waiting.
Crossing the Blues in March: Interstate 84 between Pendleton and Baker City is the most dangerous east-west highway in an Oregon winter, and the only route on which I’ve almost died—twice. Black ice kills.
Picnics: Hilgard, Red Bridge, Catherine Creek, Spring Creek, Morgan Lake, Cove Pool, Perry, Minam, Rondowa: so many beautiful outdoor places in this world to eat, hike, swim together. This is one story about many times at one of them.
Out of Dreams I Come to Light: given in a vivid dream. The musician and choral conductor Elmer Thomas was the most inspiring artist I met during my undergraduate education.
This Might Be Our Story: occasional poem written for professors Charles Coate, Robert Brandon, and John MillayBmy colleagues who retired from Eastern Oregon University as I did in 2002. I read this and gave each of them a signed copy at our retirement dinner the evening of June 8. That same evening, I was awarded the Distinguished Instructional Faculty award.
In Court: One afternoon, my son—a Portland police officer—invited me to accompany him to the Multnomah County courtroom where we sat in the gallery and watched this event unfold.
Moving the Old Stone: Thinking only of landscaping, I did this. Sisyphus came later. My stone did not roll back down the hill.
Admonitions on Turning Sixty One: Like certain other poets, I try to write a poem on my birthday, October 12B—same as old Columbus Day. Lines 7-8 in the last full stanza cite a phrase from the hymn “Amazing Grace.”
Freshman Mime: written as a memorial for my classmate and friend Anna Marie Walton (1942-2015). While we were undergraduates at The College of Idaho, she married my friend the photographer and archivist Jan Boles.
A Horseperson Story: “Horseperson” is a colloquial trope commonly used by horse owners to distinguish their identity and passion from mere amateurs or hobbyists. Not to be confused with “satyr.”
Visitor in December: Another visitation and theft by the locals. (See “Doe in the Wild Plums” in IV, and “In the Time of Gold Trees in III.)
Winter Bananas (1974-2016): Rpt. Windfall, 2017. Written to memorialize the beauty and flavor of that antique variety of apples so named for their color and praised for their long storage life. I’ve been told that a small number are still commercially planted for pollenizing the commonplace Yellow Delicious.
The Man Who Broke His Crown: the biography of a man I once knew who ran away from a life almost completely dominated by wife, children, and property.
Winter Dreamer: Given in a dream, the speaker addresses a lover.
Deal Canyon Birds after a Blizzard: The extreme winter storms of 2017 made life difficult for everything alive. After one storm, I looked out my basement apartment windows, and saw all these bright survivors. Their resilience gave me hope and delight, and I wrote this for them, then gave the poem to neighbors and friends for a Christmas gift.