You Shall Not Pass!

Up Baugo Creek

The Washington Street Bridge is out.

All the way out.

Hirshfield & Intention

I saw Jane Hirshfield on some show or another that I've now forgotten, because my mind holds too many things (this is why we have houses, so that they can hold the things our minds no longer have room for, but are still important. Perhaps this is why we write, too), but nonetheless I liked her and thought I would pick up some of her poetry. The Lives of the Heart is what I settled on.

Studying Wu Wei, Muir Beach

There are days when you go
out into the bright spring fields
with the blue halter, the thick length
of rope with its sky-and-cloud braiding,
even the bucket of grain--
all corn-and-molasses sweetness,
the maraca sound of shaken seduction--
and the one you have gone for simply will not be caught.
It could be that the grass that day is too ripe.
It could be the mare who comes over, jutting her body
between his and yours. It could be
the wild-anise breeze that wanders in and out of his mane.
He might nip at the smallest mouthful,
but your hands' slight rising -- no matter how slow,
how cautious -- breaks him away.
He doesn't have to run, though he knows he could.
Knows he is faster, stronger, less tied.
He knows he can take you or leave you in the dust.
But set aside purpose, leave the buckles and clasps
of intention draped over the fence, come forward
with both hand fully exposed, and he greedily eats.
Allows you to fondle his ears, scratch his neck, pull out
the broken half-carrot his soft-folded lips accept
tenderly from your palm. The mare edges close, and he
lays back one ear; the other stays pricked toward you,
in utmost attention. Whatever you came for,
this is what you will get: at best, a tempered affection
while red-tails circle and lupine shifts in the wind.
It is hard not to want to coerce a world that
takes what it pleases and walks away, but Do not-doing,
proposed Lao-tsu -- and this horse. Today the world is tired.
It wants to lie down in green grass and stain its grey shoulders.
It wants to be left to study the non-human field,
to hold its own hungers, not yours, between its teeth.
Not words, but the sweetness of fennel. Not thought,
but the placid rituals of horse-dung and flies.
Nuzzling the festive altars from plantain to mustard,
from budded thistle to bent-stemmed rye. Feasting and flowering
and sleeping in every muscle, every muzzle, every bone it has.

The Seney Sandhill Cranes

A trip to the U.P. isn't complete without a stop at

The Seney National Wildlife Refuge.

We found this pair of sandhill cranes at the entrance.

I could have stayed all day.

The Parade in Gay

We packed up our troubles (Elimae & Sylvia) and headed for the Keweenaw.
Elimae looking for shade in Gay.

Gene's cousin Ron, the law in the Keweenaw.

A belligerent princess, demanding everyone

"Have a Happy 4th of July."

Small troubles.

Gladys White

And The Pimps

Best parader.

I'm thinking about it.

Young Pups

Our friend Robert, holding the new pup Elimae.

Jocelyn, holding the almost-new pup Sylvia.

Water Log

We'll call Summer 2010 the Water Log. So much and yet so little going on. I feel like a woman waiting patiently for no one to arrive. In between the raindrops and the oil reports, I've been reading many so-so books of poetry. There are a few exceptions, which I've posted, but mostly it's, why post the so-so? I've been writing, too, but my writing also feels so-so, or not quite authentic, or something along those lines. Apathy might be the word I'm looking for.

Despite the rain and the apathy, however, I've been walking the dogs. After we put Max behind us, we adopted another Pet Refuge dog, a s36-pound slip of a girl, sweet and loving, nine months old, without an agressive bone in her body, unless you're a fly. She is Elimae. She and Sylvia the Weim and I have been tearing up the walking paths twice a day. I can't be sure, but I think my butt may be acquiring some tone.

I've also become intrigued by Twitter, not necessarily the tweeting part, but the being tweeted. I found the The Poetry Channel a few days ago, which apparently has all sorts of videos of poets reading. It might be worth a perusal. Here's today's offering: Michael Rosen. I appreciate his passion, you know, his animation.

Today I'm writing a poem that features Paul Bunyan and Little Bo Peep in a Peach Orchard. That's how the summer is going to go.

Mathias & Trembling

A few weeks ago I went on a book buying binge, ordering some 20-odd new and used titles, but family life has been so busy I haven't really had time to talk about the treasures I've found. I think now, however, I have a moment to take a poetic turn.

Louise Mathias has a new chap out, Above All Else, the Trembling Resembles a Forest, from Burnside Review Press. The entire chap is wonderful, but I suppose the following is my favorite. So hard to choose!

Sea Crimes

Now listen to me good. To be dreaming
of the cove, the light pink cottage
that was always on the edge. This being the year

my jeans fell from my frame. You said I was close to God
but he wouldn't concur. Weeds

grew up on bales of clean white salt. All summer
everyone wondered

where I lived, watched the carpenter ants on the rocks.
When I wasn't in my body, I was dead. Cops

circled, paraphernalia swirled
inside my lonely purse.

There was nothing to do but wait.
Contraband, will you
turn to silk again? Tilt his white, Atlantic
throat up

to the shy shy-eyed puffins?

Beach Stones

The weather gods favored us during the five days Tom was home.

The clouds parted and the temperature dropped into bearable range.

We were able to make our annual trip to the Central Avenue Beach

The Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore.

At 11 a.m., we were the only ones there.

Jocelyn is the stone skipper.

Tom is the stone retriever.

Today's Forecast

Nat Mayer Shapiro

Rabbit Light Movies

I found this poetry link on Zachary Schomburg's site: Rabbit Light Movies. Enjoy.