The Old Mule

Edited a bit -- thank you JTP!

--

A Vision of Idaho

Thin time in the city,
better in the woods.

Split bark pine, brush
of tart ripe berries.

How we drift back
to our desks, or cars.

This is not us. We do
not speak to a sign

and order lunch
by numbers. Do we?

Take the chance
of leaving to discover

the lead cold run
of clear trout water.

The balding granite,
speckled with crease

and cave. Black bear,
his straw grass pine

country, and fields of wolf
and fowl. Reach out

with your throat, thrust
through into something

real. Calm them: let go
of your voice and moan.

We were not made to
crouch in quiet recoil.

In Country

You moved to a brick
house small enough to keep
everything confined. Planted
vines, ivy entwined with wrought
iron. In bright sun you wore dresses,
afternoons you wrote letters, rain
you put your head between pillows.
I hear your records on a quiet
Thursday, smell tea, the washing
machine. I remember our nights
on your bed, playing cards, setting
plans. You are in France now
with the window open, clop
of walkers passing by, night jasmine,
pinch of late cold, everything alive.  

A Conversation

You moved to a brick
house small enough to keep

everything confined. Planted vines.
Ivy entwined with wrought

iron, wore dresses, wrote
cards. I can hear the records

that eased the quiet Sunday,
smell tea and the washing machine.

The blind neighbor placed a fish
bucket beside your red wood door,

a spot for pots he said, some color.

And “I think you need me.” I say,
and I wonder how it might go,

words like rolled up notes, or chords
unplucked—come in? Leave?

That what this silence means. I want
to clear the air, I want to be part

of the noise in your house. Shall
I ring? Or should I show up

hands in my coat, hair uncombed by
miles and miles of turning ocean.

“No!” you say? I did not ask.

Phenomenal verse by William Carlos Williams:

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze—or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
—as if that answered
anything. Ah, yes—below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore—Which shore?—
the sand clings to my lips—Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.

--

I read this over the weekend and could not get the tone or the story out of my mind. It has such underplayed eros, a sense of a long, almost contented sigh. I admit that I have never really appreciated the poems of Williams, but this one hits all marks. "Which shore? I said petals from an appletree." That, folks, is poetry.

Jean Froganard was a French artist from, 1684 - 1721; he painted The Swing, in which a girl loses a slipper, which is painted  mid-flight. Jean Watteau was a Frech painter, 1732 - 1806. The two seem to be conflated, probably on purpose.

Idaho

Thin time in the city,
better in the woods.

Split bark pine, brush
of tart ripe berries.

How we drift back
to our desks, or cars.

This is not us. We do
not speak to a sign

and order lunch
by numbers. Do we?

Take the chance
of leaving to discover

the lead cold run
of clear trout water

The balding granite,
speckled with crease

and cave. This is bear
country, fields of wolf

and mice. Bring back
the last true men,

let them roam
and know the land.