Reading at Artpost

Rouge Danube

Lazarus come rising at my flesh-hold door.

Lips parting. Face askew.

Teeth touching teacups.

His name a shade of rouge Danube.

We are standing in the deadfall.

We are gathering heart strings.

We are plucking eyes.

When our friends find us we tell them

The spring will likely kill you, but

He's lying. I'm lying, too.

Feverish In A Farmhouse

Despite my good behavior and best intentions, I've acquired what everyone else has been passing around, some sort of bug. It started with a miserable headache but now has evolved into a deliciously feverish, hazy feeling. I sort of like it because it seems to activate the poetry section of my brain, which often lies dormant. Is poetry a virus? Perhaps. It seems to elude me whenever I'm thinking straight.

While I was tossing feverish all night, Gene was dreaming we bought a wonderful farmhouse out in the country, perfect in every way, except the bedroom, which was full of bees. The window had rotted out and bees had built a large nest. The walls were full of bee holes. Ah, Freud, get out of my husband's brain. When I want to share him, I'll let you know.

But now I need books. I'm not happy with the books I have. I've ordered a couple, but I'd like to reanimate Frank Stanford. Or something. Dear Sandy, Hello looks good. The Selected Edna St. Vincent Millay is on its way, but I'm worried it will be boring. I'm chugging through Above the River, but it's slow going. Creeley is frustrating me. I'm in a mood. It will pass. Everything passes. The trick is to catch it as it's going by.

Linda Gregg - The 2010 Suggested Again

Earlier this year I started a 2010 suggested reading list of women poets and then promptly got off track. I wander. Life intervenes. But I'll slip back for a moment and mention Linda Gregg. Apologies ahead of time to my friend Clayton, who wants to commit violence to the Orpheus myth every time it is mentioned in poetry. I do understand. But just one more? Please? This is from All of It Singing.

Getting Down

The snake leads the way
to a place of absolutes
where no man can talk
you out of anything.
It's a place as real as
an empty pool in front
of the not-in-service-at-
this-time motel. Each
person has a secret world.
Places where nobody can
visit. Places we live in
after our death.
The temple on the hill
is abandoned. There's no one
even to light its lamp unless
I do it. Afterward, I fall
asleep on the warm stones.
Safe. In my dream I realize
the truth about Orpheus.
He never went far into
the dark before turning around.

On A Good Day

Baugo in the fall.

The bay is still a little dry.

Baugo on its way to join the St. Joe

Slowly Then The River

Is beginning to rise.

--

I've landed on a wide swath of contentment.

Lowering the St. Joe

Back home, they've lowered the river.
So much history here, and now, my son.

Tom, jumping over a tiny finger of Baugo Creek.

Helen Louise

I am thinking of Grandmother

who confessed to me at age 65

I have never spent one night alone.

She was standing in my doorway

and the light was falling. I was

saying you really don’t need to go.

But she did and was. There are

imperceptible moments when your

soul slips quietly into another room

while your body lingers. Mine did

and was. You find out later. I have

and do spend many nights alone.

Grandmother is long gone. She

never told me what she discovered,

whether she was frightened or contented,

whether she was at one when she

walked alone through her doorway

amongst her many rooms.