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These poems are for the enjoyment of my students and the people of Stark County |
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THE INTRODUCTION …poems are not the point. Finding again the world, that is the point… --Howard Nemerov THE WALK Leave behind the phone, the pager, the iPod. Leave behind the mail, the magazines, the books. Leave behind the TV, the computer, the Xbox. Leave behind the car, the bicycle, the house. Leave it all behind! Go grab an old hat, a strong walking stick, and join me on my walk through the park. THE WIND The wind The wind The wind pours out across the land with the force of water thrown from a bucket Boughs break Leaves fly Stray paper tumbles Pollen and dust clouds form And the wind? The wind The wind pours out across the land with the force of water thrown from a bucket THE ISLAND After swimming through the sea of dense brush that surrounds this northern section of the park, and landing on what seems a deserted, unpopulated island, I begin to wonder if I am, in fact, the first in generations to tread on this soil. While looking around, I name those who have walked here before me: pioneers, Indians, mammoths. This isolation of land, in its vastness, causes me to feel small, and as I repeat the list over and over again— pioneers, Indians, mammoths, pioneers, Indians, mammoths-- I begin to feel myself go invisible. MID-WINTER ICE STORM The sound of my steps punching through crusted snow scatters birds with the force of a small explosion. And while I pose no threat, they are reluctant to return until I am safely gone and lost from their memory. INTRUDER I could hold them in one hand, these rabbits on the path before me! Still young, they do not fear anything that is not an immediate threat (and some will not learn quickly enough to fear the circling shadow). But for today, I am the sole intruder into their world of play that will be disrupted by a watchful mother only if I get too close. THE BARK In the bark of trees live some of the animals that went before. Many more live within the rings, but only those in the bark can you see, can you touch. Sometimes, I like to rub my face against the cool bark to feel their warmth or fur. Sometimes, I wrap my arms around a tree to feel their breathing. When I die, I wish to be buried under a young tree. I, too, yearn to make the journey through roots and xylem, finding solace within the bark and rings. THE MOON A full moon casts pale shadows Not one plant fears frost’s bite Only a few lone leaves tumble down A hint of decay fills the wind Already we anticipate snow THE NIGHT A moonless night: only the stars, a few planets, dim arcs of light from the refinery from Belden from Canton from Massillon. Before me, complete blackness until, like a curtain, the blackness lifts to reveal plants, the trail, steam rising from a pond. I carry in my pocket, just in case, a small flashlight which, to my surprise, is unnecessary even on a moonless night. THE SINGING I’ve heard the stories of this place. A time before roads, before houses, before the plow. A time when the French claimed this land, and Indians from surrounding tribes gathered to fish, to powwow, to trade prisoners. I don’t know if any of it is true, but within the steady rhythms of Canton Drop Forge, I swear, sometimes, I can hear ancient singing. THE HAWK --for Frank Kooistra Seeing a hawk dead on the road is as shocking as a sudden bolt of lightning on a calm spring evening. With certainty, I can say it was hit in pursuit of life it was about to capture, or had already killed. Its killing of rodents, rabbits, and pheasants is as it should be-- as natural as the wind it rides. But the death of a hawk by an automobile or truck? Why does this stir such pity? I am relieved to know that crows will soon encircle the corpse—ensuring, once again, flight of an unlucky brother. EN MASSE Lifting up and above one of several paths hidden behind dense foliage— the excited chatter of children on a group field trip. Distance makes what they are saying as unintelligible as the loud squawking of geese flying—en masse—overhead. As sudden as their talking started, it stops. It’s easy to imagine an exasperated group leader trying to regain control of a half-dozen crazed cub scouts. Gray November The color gray is what I think of when November comes to mind --that never-ending layer of gray clouds; only birds void of color rushing from one gray tree to another; plants naked of leaves. Don’t bother with color film, black and white will work just fine, is what I tell our friends who plan on taking photographs of the park. |