FEATURING STEVE MCDONALD

Steve McDonald’s poems are always a joy for me to read.  He writes about ordinary people — and the everyday things and natural world around them — with open-hearted empathy.  His writing is well-crafted, lyrical and, as I said before, a pleasure for the reader.

Steve's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous journals including Nimrod, RATTLE, The Crab Creek Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Spillway, Blue Unicorn, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, and The Cresset.  His work has appeared in Best New Poets 2010.  Steve is Professor Emeritus of English and former Dean of Languages and Literature at Palomar College in San Marcos, California.

Of his first book, Where There Was No Pattern (Finishing Line Press), poet Maurya Simon said it “brims with life…McDonald is a poet graced with a deft imagination, a poignant sense of mortality, and true insight into human pathos.”

What I enjoy in Steve’s poems is his humility and humanity, and how he’s able to transform these into avenues for grace.  For example, he’s a regular guy who has to mow his own lawn — but, as a poet, finds a way to uplift the chore into moments of spiritual insight (from a poem in his first book).

His new book, House of Mirrors (Tebot Bach) is now available and already has garnered kudos from other writers.  Judith Pacht, author of Summer Hunger, praises Steve McDonald’s way of “[making] the ordinary extraordinary as he examines nature and ourselves in unflinching detail.  In House of Mirrors, we move from the wonder of a spider and its intricate web to the machinations of the human heart…These are elegant poems — moving and redemptive.” Dorianne Laux, author of The Book of Men, lauds Steve’s new book’s “attention to language and empathy for its subject matter, the human in all their many guises.”  Ellen Bass and Joseph Millar, distinguished poets, concur and add more praise.

Steve is a superb craftsman.  He has an excellent sense of when and how to use poetic techniques to enrich and expand his poems.  I especially like, in “Rain” from his new book, House of Mirrors, how he furthers a reader’s sense of the rural landscape (besides using “fields” and “wet soil, bladed tillers and chisel plows” — what you’d expect in the country) by including farming images as part of his description of an elementary school: “the corn-silk yellow of caution lights,/ a crop of children,/…parents hovering like harvest moons.” 

For information about his new book and to order a signed copy, click here

Here are three of Steve's poems.

RAIN
        by Steve McDonald



No sidewalk, just the garbled lyrics 
of a muddy path, just rain humming
                                        I will wash the brown earth, 
          and a mother, perhaps twenty-five, 
                          and a son, perhaps seven. 

She is holding his hand, urging him 
past fields darkening into thunder,
                           past roots 
                                         anchored in folds of wet
soil, bladed tillers and chisel plows
                           crammed into long low sheds. 

In the distance
            the corn-silk yellow of caution lights, 
                           a crop of children, 
                                         an elementary school, 
parents hovering like harvest moons. 

           It rains harder.

                                         Hoods up, heads down, 
                                         mother and son 
dodge sink-holes of mud-
filled puddles. A roadside flower stand 

gathers its bouquets—carnation and daisy, 
rose and mum—buttons its coat. 
                                               Rain blossoms 
                                               from rusty gutters.

Mother and son pass
              bicycles tangled like razor wire, 
                            a broken fence, a grocery—migrants
huddled against the weather,
              fingers stuffed
into damp pockets, stories rising
like steam from wet earth. 

           The rain says pour.

Crates of oranges, 
            flats of strawberries, lean in, 
                                                                listening.

SPHINX
    by Steve McDonald

When limestone faces 
wear rivers of cracks,

weathered grimaces 
and frozen grins

create only questions, 
awaken memories

of a parent,
perhaps, whose

series of strokes
left lips uncertain:

the legacy, a hieroglyphic
glance, shards

of shattered Rosetta stone,
the chance for communion 

with the one who is gone,
gone. Just a bed, 

a shroud of sand piling
upon a craggy face,

a sheet of wind sliding 
over the body like a lover,

silent yet ready
with the riddle, 

the one it will carve
in stone. 



MEMENTO MORI
      by Steve McDonald

Once, when a boy, I awoke alone
on the sun-baked boulders at the edge 

of the canyon falls to find a snake, 
green and yellow, curled on the rock 

next to me, asleep, it seemed, or nearly so, 
although its eyes were open, or perhaps 

I was asleep and dreaming, for I did not move, 
just gazed through eyes that seemed to have opened

in a way they had not opened before, 
the snake and I waiting and watching 

as the steady elegy of the waterfall 
spilled into the sun-filled pool. And then,

it seemed,  I awoke again to find myself
at the edge of the off ramp, waiting

for the light to change, waiting to turn 
into the coffee shop for a cup of green tea

and a pastry to ease the burden 
of the long drive home, and as I waited

and watched, a yellow motorcycle swung 
like a scythe from one lane to the next, 

then pulled to a stop in front of me, 
and the rider, a boy in a red jacket, 

rested his foot on the earth, one lover 
leaning into another, then bent at the waist 

as if to embrace his bike, the full moon 
of his helmet rising above the curve 

of his jacket, and emblazoned 
on his helmet were scriptures of death,

one bone-white skull after another 
so that when he surveyed the road 

to his right and then to his left
all I could see were rotating skulls, 

empty eye sockets, dark nasal cavities, 
and I wondered why one would enwreathe 

his head with death, what need that might fill, 
and then I thought of the snake, its gaze

upon my gaze, and the pool, and the fall
of the water, and my own awakening,

and my eyes opened again to this boy, 
the skulls adorning his head my invitation, 

it seemed, to quicken him with imagining, 
ensoul him with wondering, as together 

we waited to spill into the pool of evening.

SAINTS FOR OUR TIMES

Did you know that there’s a patron saint of television?  A thirteenth-century saint — which seems odd as TV was a twentieth-century invention.  But here’s the thinking behind it: Clare of Assisi, in her final years, was very ill.  When she was too weak to attend Mass, a moving picture of the service was projected, miraculously, on the wall of her nun’s cell. (In addition to being patron saint of television, she’s also patron saint of television writers.)

After learning of the patron saint of television, I was going to question whether there’s a patron saint of radio (but have discovered it’s Gabriel, the Archangel, who’s also the saint for radio workers and those in the diplomatic service). Patron saint of the Internet?  St. Isidore of Seville.  I haven’t looked up whether there’s a patron saint of the phonograph (or MP3 player).

Patron saints are chosen, usually based on some incident in their lives.  St. Lidwina, a fourteenth-century Dutch mystic, is patron saint of ice skaters because at age 15 she was ice skating, fell into a river and broke her rib.  (She never recovered; became paralyzed – except for her left hand – and pieces of her body fell off and blood poured out of her mouth, ears and nose.  Some biographers think she suffered from multiple sclerosis.)  

Lidwina after falling into river
(Notice her ice skates.)

St. Columbanus, an Irish saint from the sixth and seventh centuries, is patron saint of motorcyclists because, as a missionary, he traveled great distances to many places.  In art, he is represented as bearded, wearing the monastic cowl and holding a book and an Irish satchel as he stands in the midst of wolves.

Often patron saints are invoked against some illness or fatal situation — again, often based on some part of their lives.  St. Hyacinth (a man) is invoked, in prayers, to intercede against drowning.  Several times he walked on water.  St. Harvey (or Hervé), who is invoked against eye trouble, was born blind.  St. Agatha is patron saint of breast cancer patients.  On orders of a spurned suitor who was the governor of Sicily, Agatha’s breasts were cut off.  (Her flesh was healed by none other than St. Peter who appeared as a doctor willing to reattach her breasts.)

OK, where am I going with all this?

Stephen Mitchell, who has written outstanding translations of Rilke, Job and Tao Te Ching, has a delightful prose poem called “Saint Ineptus” in a book of his own poetry (Parables and Portraits, published in hardcover in 1990 and in paperback in 1994).

SAINT INEPTUS
by Stephen Mitchell

Born in third-century Illyria, he soon established a reputation for spilling his food, bruising himself, and tripping over non-existent objects in the street. His parents wanted him to become a doctor, in the hope that the rigorous training would make him more attentive. But he refused. Instead, he spent his time looking for angels in the dark alleyways of his native town, and feeding the stray cats. Even his martyrdom was botched. He felt so terrified, as the wild beasts approached him in the amphitheater, that he forgot the words of the Lord’s Prayer.
       He has become the patron saint of the clumsy, the tactless, and the unqualified. They are instructed to leave a candle burning for him once a month (making sure that there is nothing flammable in the vicinity). His intercession is said to do more good than harm.

Do you have any poems on (fictional) saints for our times?
   

WHIRLING DERVISHES AND RUMI

Last time I wrote about Rumi, a thirteenth-century Sufi mystic and poet.  Now I want to tell you about the Whirling Dervishes and give you more of Rumi’s poetry (on the whirling dance).

Islamic mysticism, that aspect of Islamic belief and practice of seeking to find the truth of divine love and knowledge through direct personal experience of God, is known as Sufism.  (The word Sufi derives from an Arabic word for wool – a reference to the coarse woolen garments of early Islamic ascetics.)  The Sufis are known as dervishes, Persian for the poor.  This usually means the poor in spirit or the humble but also can be translated as beggar.

Sufism emerged out of an early reaction against the general worldliness that had overtaken the Islamic community and against the reliance on expressions of solely outward appearance and behavior based on Islamic law.  In its first stage (asceticism), Sufism, practiced in small groups, consisted in the constant meditation of the Qu’ran, especially scriptural words about Doomsday.  With the introduction of the element of love of God, Sufism changed from asceticism to mysticism.

By the twelfth century, Sufism transformed from the practice and doctrine of small circles into a mass religious movement, especially with the spread of Sufi orders or brotherhoods.  The orders centered around their shaikh (master), with their shrines constituting the places of pilgrimage for their followers.

The Mevlevi Order (from the name Mevlana which mean our guide or our lord in Persian and was the name given to Rumi who is referred to as Mevlana Jelaleddin Rumi) was founded by one of Rumi’s sons to carry on the master’s teachings and practices.  (For 700 years, the sect has been led by Mevlana’s direct progeny.)  The Mevlevis are known as semazens [whirling dervishes, or those who practice the sema (whirling dervish ceremony)].

During his lifetime, Rumi often was seen whirling through Konya in sheer ecstasy.  Also he found himself drawn to circle a pillar in the mosque.  He held the pillar with one hand and would lean back as he circled the pillar.  This movement caused poetry to pour out from his lips in ecstatic waves.  His disciples began to mimic this movement.

When I saw a sema —  and not one of the purely commercial shows (usually with an added bellydancing act!) — it was held in a thirteenth-century caravanserai (a gated inn, with a large central courtyard, in which caravans – the men, camels and cargo – could stop safely for the night while traveling on the Silk Road).  The sema I saw was a primarily spiritual event and deeply moving.

A sema consists of seven distinct parts, each representing a step in a mystical journey.  The performance follows a strictly prescribed ritual.  Some parts consist of a chant, another accompanied by a drum and/or reed flute and the conclusion with recitations from the Qu’ran.

In the dance, the dervishes, with their arms crossed across their torso (to testify their unity with God) begin to spin, starting on their right foot, spinning counter-clockwise (around the heart, embracing all of humankind and creation with affection and love).  Arms begin to stretch out as they continue to spin.  One hand is cupped upward to receive the grace of God and the other hand is turned downward to empty that grace onto the world.

The dance requires months of practice.  A novice either uses a sema board (a portable wooden board with an exposed nail in the middle) or he wedges a large floor nail between the big and second toes of his left foot and pivots around it with both arms extended, one palm up and the other down.

In 1925, when Ataturk formed the new, and secular, Republic of Turkey, he ordered all religious sects and orders (brotherhoods) closed.  That included the Mevlevi Order and their tekkes (dervish lodges).  The Order’s assets were confiscated and all ceremonies banned.  Two years later, The Mevlana Mausoleum, where Rumi’s tomb is, in Konya, was allowed to reopen, but only as a museum.  By the 1950s, the Turkish government again permitted the order to hold its annual whirling dervish performance in Konya to commemorate the death of its master.  (The Mevlana Mausoleum is one of the most visited monuments in Turkey.)

Here are three of Rumi’s poems:

[Untitled]

Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.
translated by Coleman Barks

[Untitled]

A secret turning in us
makes the universe turn.
Head unaware of feet,
and feet head.  Neither cares.
They keep turning.
translated by Coleman Barks

[Untitled]

In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.

You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,

but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.
         translated by Coleman Barks


    

RUMI

In late April (before the protests in Taksim Square), I went on a tour of Turkey.  One of the stops was the city of Konya in Cappadocia.

Konya has an extensive history and has had many names.  The area around Konya was inhabited as early as the eighth millennium BC.  When the Hittites arrived there in mid-2000 BC, they called it Kuwanna.  The Phrygians (8th century BC) renamed it Kowannia.  The Romans latinized the name to Iconium.  The Seljuk Turks (after crushing the Byzantines in 1071) turkicized the city’s name to its present Konya and established their capital there (renaming themselves the Sultanate of Rum).

This brings me to the highlight of a visit to Konya: the shrine and tomb of Mevlana Jelaleddin, whom we know as Rumi, poet and mystic.

Born September 30, 1207 in Balkh, in modern-day Afghanistan, Jelaleddin (Rumi) came from a noted family of poets and Islamic jurists.  Between 1215 and 1220, his family fled (in advance of attacking Mongol armies) and settled in 1228 in Konya, where his father, a scholar and teacher of Islam, was invited to head the medressa (an Islamic theological academy/seminary, typically built with a tall portal linked to two-storied corridors with dormitories for students and lecturers, library and lesson rooms).  At his father’s death, Rumi succeeded him as shaikh (sheik or master) of the Sufi (Islamic mystic) learning community in Konya. (Jelaleddin acquired the name Rumi because he was from (or of) Rum, the Seljuk Turks’ name for former-Roman Anatolia.)

Crucial to Rumi’s writing and thought was his deep friendship with the Sufi mystic Shams of Tabriz who taught Rumi spiritual dance, music and poetry.  Within less than four years of his appearance, Shams vanished (probably murdered by jealous students of Rumi, led by one of Rumi’s sons, Allaedin).  Grief-stricken, Rumi withdrew.  During this period he wrote 50,000 verses, some expressing his deep loss and referring to Shams as his soul mate.  These mystical love poems take their imagery from everyday life, so that they are vivid, fresh and convincing.

Rumi lived another quarter of a century during which he wrote the Mathnawi (or Mesnevi), an encyclopedic five or six volumes on mystical thought, theories and images, written in Persian (the language of literature).  It is regarded by most Persian-speaking orders of Sufis as second in importance only to the Qu’ran.  Rumi died on December 17, 1273.

Here are two poems by Rumi:

THE GUEST HOUSE

This human being is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
translated by Coleman Barks

MY WORST HABIT

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter.
I become a torture to those I’m with.

If you’re not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity.  My words
tangle and knot up.

How to cure bad water?  Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits?  Send me back to you. 

When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean.  There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can’t hope.

The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.
translated by Coleman Barks

MORE ON THE CINQUAIN: ADELAIDE CRAPSEY

Last time I wrote that my first poems were cinquains (unrhymed, five-line, twenty-two-syllable poems) which my sixth-grade teacher taught us to write.  I thought I was creating fancy French-styled poems (pretty heady stuff!).  It took me a quarter of a century to discover that the cinquain is not a French invention but was conceived by an American woman named Adelaide Crapsey.

I first encountered this young woman in a book about the sanatorium at Saranac Lake in upstate New York.  Founded in 1884, it became a famous center for the open-air treatment of tuberculosis.  Robert Louis Stevenson had been a patient there in the winter of 1887 – 88 and it is where he wrote Master of Ballantrae.  Crapsey, diagnosed with tuberculosis of the brain lining, also went to Saranac for treatment.

Adelaide Crapsey’s poems (her whole poetic output, less than one hundred poems) most often speak of death and dying.  Diagnosed with fatal tuberculosis in 1911, she began writing cinquains in the same year.  These poems reflect her knowledge of her own impending death.  The form itself (the gradual increase of syllables from lines one through four, followed by the short final line) is a metaphor for the life of this young woman — a brief life, cut short.  She continued writing poetry up to the end of her life, even from her room in the sanatorium at Saranac Lake.  Not until after her death in 1914 (at the age of 33) were her poems published.

Here’s a link to an excellent article, from The Guardian, on Adelaide Crapsey and two of her cinquains:
Click here for the article.

Three of Adelaide Crapsey’s cinquains:

ANGUISH

Keep thou
Thy tearless watch
All night but when blue-dawn
Breathes on the silver moon, then weep!
Then weep!

MOON SHADOWS

Still as
On windless nights
The moon-cast shadows are,
So still will be my heart when I
Am dead.

SAYING OF IL HABOUL
Guardian of the Treasure of Solomon
And Keeper of the Prophet’s Armour

My tent
A vapour that
The wind dispels and but
As dust before the wind am I
Myself.

MY POETIC BEGINNINGS: CINQUAINS

I’m often asked, when did you begin to write poetry?

I started writing poetry in elementary school when my teacher announced to our sixth-grade class that her students would begin to compose poems.  All of us eleven-year-old were skeptical.

This wonderful teacher showed us how to create a cinquain, an unrhymed, five-line, twenty-two-syllable poem.  The form begins with a two-syllable first line (with four syllables for the second, six for the third, eight for the fourth and back to two syllables in the final line).  We counted; we wrote.  We tried to keep our language spare: to capture a moment, an image or a single emotion.  (I went more for a description of a place.)

I knew that cinq means five in French and truly believed I was creating a poem in a French poetic style, or form.  This was mind-boggling stuff (me — writing a poem in a French mode!), and very seductive.

It took me many (many) years to find out that the cinquain is actually an American, not French, invention — and devised by a woman.

Here's how to write this popular, and simple, form: you can use syllables (2, 4, 6, 8, 2) or, at its easiest, words:

• The first line (frequently the same as the title) is 1 word.
• The second line uses 2 adjectives (often describing the     title).
• The third line contains 3 words, usually gerunds (ending in “ing”) that show action and/or tell the reader more about the poem’s subject.
• The fourth line has 4 words that can show emotions about the subject and may be individual words or a phrase — or they may make a complete sentence.
• The fifth, and last, line is 1 word that’s a synonym of the title or similar to it.

Try you hand at this delightful poetic form.

FEATURING TERRY SPOHN

I heard about Terry Spohn and his poetry long before I had a chance to read any of his poems.  Mutual friends in a longstanding and ongoing poetry workshop in California kept raving about this poet, new to the workshop, and his high-energy poems.  When I finally read a poem or two of Terry’s, I understood about all the buzz.

Terry’s had a career as a book editor and, for several years now, he’s been one of the regional editor of San Diego Poetry Annual.  He’s a baseball enthusiast who not only listens to major-league baseball on his car radio but also plays competitive ball on a community (and regional) team.  In person, Terry always is ready to contribute his quick wit and thoughtful kindness. 

Terry Spohn holds a Master of Fine Arts from the Writer’s Workshop at the University of Iowa and lives in Escondido, California.  His short fiction, prose poems and poetry have appeared in Rattle, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Mobius: the Magazine of Social Change, Ascent, Mississippi Review, North American Review, Oyster Boy Review, numerous anthologies, and other places.

Here are two of his published poems:


                                      SHELF LIFE

               And I asked myself about the present:
how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to              keep.
                            —Kurt Vonnegut

I was making a movie in a suburb
in a grocery store in a housewife’s dream
I was holding a cardboard megaphone and a clipboard
somewhere an empty chair was waiting
the housewife had known me once
long ago, better than I had known myself
she pushed her cart down the condiment aisle
one front wheel fidgeting
like an idiot prince at his birthday party
on the tasting table Barwell’s Pickled Beets
the color of Grandfather’s lung
sat untouched in their delicate paper cups
the housewife kept a list
clenched tightly in her fist
if it fell and unrolled
it could reach all the way into her next marriage
the canned vegetable aisle was veined
with cables and heavy plugs wrapped in black tape
like the ground at church carnivals
this was as close as the woman
had been to me in years
she moved up and down the narrowing aisles
while the cart filled up with children
I could almost touch her in her sleep
could almost wake her
I had memorized the script
that could almost free her
but I was busy changing it
the movie would run backwards, all right
all the children disappearing
creamed corn bursting from cans
and flowing back through factories
and into the sun, and we would all soon begin
to forget, as we came out of the theater
squinting in the startling daylight
who, exactly, we had come here with
and which of these bright, new cars was ours

Terry Spohn –from Rattle #35, Summer 2011


                             Leaving Hugo

her hair a nest built by mourning doves
Grandma took the coat money from the humidor
I don't know why it is
there's always a problem in families

in a cinder-block building in Hugo, Minnesota
a single mother in a purple sweatshirt
coils springs for cluster bombs
children fall like leaves behind the water tower

it's time to forgive ourselves
we can't sleep through the night anymore
time to pluck that taut wire beside the heart
beneath the smokestacks of silence

our unbeautiful dead keep mum in the trees
eyes like cold lanterns adrift on a vast black river
while our fancies ply their dismal trade
on the far side of the mountain

none of us will return from anywhere
none of us has set down the glass and thought
this is what I have to do right now
smoke's been rising from the peat bog

another war bangs away just out of sight
young girls in their pleated skirts
learn to kiss beside the bike path
practicing on one another


Terry Spohn
-from Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Vol. 23, #1

And here are two unpublished poems by Terry Spohn

 (Because of the long lines, and to keep the line breaks, "Goodbye, Ohio, Illinois" is printed in smaller type):


                                 Goodbye, Ohio, Illinois

               Substitutes
               Can let you down
               Quicker than a
               Strapless gown
--Burma Shave, Highway 30, east of Dixon, Illinois

Those strange men like me in rental cars with out-of-state plates
come back for a funeral and one last look, they're here for you. 
You know how it is, Ohio. Either your children go down 
the Cherry mine and never come home, or they come back from college 
with funny ideas, or from Mendota with a bad marriage and a black eye, 
and you wonder why they left in the first place. Then the Burlington Dinky 
disappears, tracks and all, the way a dead skunk does--bit by bit, 
but the grandfather clocks keep ticking, keep ticking, ticking, 
and the grandfathers with their gold-rimmed front teeth 
and White Owl cigars rock on the porches, spitting, 
listening to the White Sox on their two-knob Crosley radios,
and Doc O'Malley's oxygen tent makes the rounds up so many
flights of creaky stairs, while Grandmother sits in the parlor
watching Queen For a Day and all that self-cleaning country 
light in your rippled windows spills onto the doilies. 

Or, it's 1929 and your streets are oiled to keep down the dust clouds
when here comes the Graf Zeppelin with its 12-cylinder Maybach pushers 
yawing high above you on its way around the world, and while everyone
is looking up at the future with their hands shading their eyes
Marilyn stops cleaving and Elvis leaves the house 
and Pete Maravich--Pete Maravich for Chrissake!--drops 
dead in a gym in Pasadena, but Keith Richards lives 
and keeps on living, and plays his Fender Telecasters in open G 
until few of us can listen any more to that hawkish tweedle 
that says this is how it is at the end of things.
And when the big German gasbag is out of sight and hands come down 
from foreheads, the screens sag and rust and paint bubbles off fascia. 
Van Buren Street crumbles like peanut brittle. Even the boards 
in the boarded-up windows rot, and Spohn Grocery slumps on Main Street 
in full view of nobody, the name etched above the broken windows 
like a tombstone for the whole family, and wind shushes the library next door. 


Your job's done Ohio, done with Christmas snow clumped in the black oaks,
done with ankle-deep mud beneath the yellowjacket-ridden pear trees, 
and the suffering out there in your canning cellars, the belt-whippings 
in your summer kitchens, while dust motes nest on the mute piano.
How much more could you do for us than you already have?
All those sturdy Republicans gone down the road to glory,
those children of yours who climbed a tree that led right to us--
young grandchildren from the big city lying on our backs
in the yard to watch the northern lights or the Milky Way.

Just forget the Gugartys, Ohio, and the Friels, and Doc O'Malley.
Leave the dress patterns and Clabber Girl and Big Lee overalls
and while you're at it, the curtains don't matter any more, either. 
It's okay to let the front door stand open. 
It's okay to let the chickens run off to the fields 
between Maytown and the Green River bridge, 
where rain drums its jaded fingers on the mud. 
The car doors down in the cemetery, they're slamming for you.
You're having every good mother's nightmare--children gone to the city 
for money or California for love or Sulawesi to find themselves. 
They rise like Zeppelins on their uncertain journeys. 
You can still see them if you're lucky, 
if you shade your eyes and the wind's right, 
if you're lying in a backyard against the ground 
with its hidden bones swimming away from one another, 
and far beneath that, the fire that wants to break every last thing apart 
because it's a hot July afternoon in the middle of a summer 
that seems like it'll never end.

by Terry Spohn


midnight radio

when you drive past the moon
Earth's rotation changes stations 
radio clear as the Mingun bell 
Tokyo trance to throat-sung 
punk from Tuva, twisting away 
because things that turn 
envy those that rise

emptiness is your highway 
there's no speed limit now
open up the Acura to see 
what it'll really do 
don't check the blind spots 
know the way a tree knows soil
you're alone in spite 
of the stars' steady gaze
and those drifty Tuareg anzads 
that whisper through the radio 
straight into your ears 
as if you were really here

by Terry Spohn