Category Archives: poetry

poetry

Clint Hartung Remembers Working for a Living

Clint Hartung Remembers Working for a Living

All I ever wanted to do was make
a living. It was different back then.
We bought our own cleats and gloves.
We even bought the white socks
that went under the hose. Plumbers
bought their own wrenches, so we
didn’t think much of it. When I moved
down here to Sinton to play semi-pro
ball and work for Plymouth Oil, I didn’t
take a pay cut. Anyway, no one would know
me now if Mueller hadn’t of snapped his ankle
sliding into third.  I’m not sure why Leo
sent me into run, but he did, so there
I was taking a lead, and Thompson was up
at bat.  He had this hole in his swing,
everyone knew it. He couldn’t hit anything
up and in. I mean I might have drilled dry wells
for Plymouth that were smaller, and Branca
threw this good heater up and in, and Bobby
swings, and don’t tell me about him having
the signs either, because that’s all nonsense,
anyway, he swings and bingo, all of a sudden
it’s blind squirrel and acorn time. The ball
just kept climbing to left, over Pafko, over
the wall, and I was over the moon. I come
down the line skipping and hopping like
some kid in Hondo hearing the circus
is coming to town. National League champs!
And now fifty years later a reporter
for Sports Illustrated wants to come down
here and talk to me, and what can I say
except I was just trying to make a living.

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Battle Cry!

Battle Cry!

“God damn it! I hate this fucking place!”
You could hear him screaming,
the second the elevator door opened.

I’ve heard it said that life whittles
you down to your core. When my father’s
systems shut down, he was bed-bound
stuck in a hospital, then a nursing home.

When I was a kid, he loved going
to Clinton Comet hockey games
on Friday nights.  He’d leave
the sheet metal shop’s grime
in puddles next to the bathroom
sink, splash on a healthy dose
of Old Spice and off we’d go.

I don’t know what he enjoyed more
hockey or heckling.  Once inside
the Utica War Memorial Auditorium,
my father turned into a creature
with leather lungs and the empathy
of a sociopath. He loved to ride
the officials, “What’s wrong ref, your seeing-
eye dog can’t skate? Then buy a cane!”

Visiting goalies having a bad night caught
it often, “Have you thought about turning
the net around?”  Followed by, “There’re fries
at McDonald’s spending less time under red lights!”

He especially saved his wrath for players
who got up slowly after a check and milked
the crowd for sympathy. They all heard
the same bellowed taunt, “Aw did he hurt you
honey?” But after a few beers, somewhere
in period two, he’d start to really loosen up
and let go with his favorite phrase,
free advice he lived by until the end,
“Hey, ya you, if you can’t skate, fight!”

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Guest poet, Yang Qian

YANG Qian is an independent playwright, director, actor, and cultural critic. Since 2005, he has been the Artistic Director of Fat Bird Theatre, Shenzhen. Recent theatre scripts include Mandala (2011), Eye of the Universe (2011), and 519 Happy School (2010). As a dramaturge, he has collaborated with Silo Theater (Amsterdam) and the Theatre Practice (Singapore). Yang is a three-time recipient of the Cao Yu award, China’s highest award for theatre. In 2005, the Schaubuhne Theatre invited and translated Hope (1997) for a staged reading.

Translator Mary Ann O’DONNELL is an artist-ethnographer at the Shenzhen University School of Architecture. O’Donnell curated Boom! Shenzhen for the 2011 Shenzhen Hong Kong Bi-City Biennale of Architecture and Urbanism, and has exhibited work at the Arts de Vivre Artspace and The Inheritance Project. Since 2005, her blog, Shenzhen Noted has provided anthropological commentary on the politics, culture, and patterns of urbanization in Shenzhen, earning a public citizenship award from The Southern Metropolis (南方都市报) in 2011.

哦，船长，我的船长：全球变暖

哦，船长，我的船长
您是不是同样长寿？这还真不好说
但您现在有了一船的长寿乘客

我们大多身体健康，食欲旺盛
身体略为发福，也一直保持运动
长寿秘诀是别人的秘密我们
想知道太多
包括您船员的工资和他们的国籍。虽然
刚刚开船的时候，我们已了解您
给他们口音定的价格。这没影响我们
付小费的慷慨也不能改变您雇人的吝啬

哦，船长，我的船长
您广播说我们去的路上浪凶涛恶
但您的船和我们付的保险总有一个不能出错

我们相信您，船长。即使我们写了遗嘱
有些事上很难理解我们会有多宽的尺度
比如，去天国的路上，牛顿一直在开车
另一个秘密谁都知道，可谁都不说，为什么
我们都想看那个地方不可？在学院里嘴仗打得
不亦乐乎，全球变暖究竟是科学还是邪说？
我们需要证据是因为需要推托

哦，船长，我的船长
看来您的运气，到现在还不错，
秋天的阿拉斯加，在过去可是更吓人的美国。

他们说鲸鱼和女人都在夜里盯着你，
他们说狼和印第安人在雪里嗅着你，
他们说黄金和梦在荒原里陪伴你，
他们说有一位船长在海上等你。
他们说有
他们说
他们！

哦，船长，我的船长
假如电影中的泰坦尼克再次启航
您愿不愿意坐在现在您坐的地方

比起这漫漫长路，您的照片很新，但您的制服太旧
乘客们被您严肃的表情逗乐了，在酒吧里喝的开心
一个银白色的美人鱼在舞池中间跳着舞，她的脚
船舷和船尾神秘的泡沫，还有爱情里阵阵作痛的歌声
每一层甲板都有救生圈和酒吧
每次演习海难的警报之后就跟着广告说东西打折
但每个走进赌场的表情和出来时都不一样。

哦，船长，我的船长
您打赌但不下注却总是预言成真，
所以您不会有奥德修斯（Odysseus）麻烦

跟随您声音的手指，我们在海面搜寻
如期而来的抹香鲸，白头海雕，角嘴海雀。
行踪不定的北极熊和随波逐流的水母
甚至在夜晚，燃烧着极光的天空
飞机与流星的轨迹，不知何处飞来的蛾子
追逐着一串灿烂的灯火，BBQ和超大屏幕
露天的spa热气腾腾。入水，海更黑更冷

哦，船长，我的船长
什么是你的梦想，在什么地方你迷失过方向
你坐在壁炉前不广播的时间，留给自己多少？

我们有些人的船舱没有海景阳台和舷窗，看不见
太阳还没升起来，可他们刚点了早餐在看电视
拳击台上，两个衣冠楚楚的政客正准备互相攻击
报道说他们的手套里没发现暗器。时差更不真实
东部时间和西部时间的裁判不会区别南北谎言的距离
费那劲干吗？不交税的阿拉斯加真要听懂他们的话？
够了石油，冠军奖杯里的香槟和刚送来芳香四溢的早餐

哦，船长，我的船长
您的声音再次把我们从睡梦中唤醒，冰川
您允诺的神物正一点一点出现

从山颠一路蜿蜒，琉璃城墙围着蓝晶晶的王国
比罗德岛还大的无礼和冷漠，让我们苦等了几百万年
站在巨大的冰门前，秘密需要一个咒语洞开。刚弄明白
原来期待才是最好的消遣，而我们竟一直在娱乐中闷死。
这时有更惊人的消息传来，从左舷到到右舷。
船在浮冰之间，焦急的目光失去了焦点，漂移，晕眩
是的，谁见过他？在航行中船长一直没有露面

哦，船长，我的船长
请告诉我们，您自杀的妙药。还有什么事
属于我们的权利应该在死前知道

“女士们，先生们，我是船长！现在请静默片刻……
大家当然都会记得今天这个日子……在大海深处……
大白鲨透过一层又一层不同的水温瞄准美国，是我们
把这个望远镜递到它手里，伽利略的发明已不受控制
这就是全球变暖的后果。所以，我们要静……” 突然
裂地的一声响打破了静默，直耸云天的冰川崩塌滑落，海成了漩涡
“全球化了？”您问，“不，世界生气了”风回答，我们听见……

Oh Captain, My Captain: The Globe is Raging

Oh captain, my captain
Are you as old as we are? It’s hard to be certain
But now you have a ship full of old passengers

Most of our bodies are healthy, and appetites strong
We’ve become plump, but continue to exercise
The secret to longevity is someone else’s, as we don’t want to know
How much your seamen earn and their country of origin. Even though
When the ship departed, we already understood
The agreed upon price. Yet it hasn’t stopped us
From being generous with tips or stopped you from paying miserly wages

Oh captain, my captain
You’ve announced rough waters
But as long as the ship or our insurance holds firm, there’s no problem

We trust you, Captain. Even if we’ve written our wills
And it’s difficult to know measure of some facts
For example, on the road to heaven, did Newton drive a car
Or another secret that no one explains, why
Do we all want to see what’s there? In schools we debate
And who doesn’t enjoy it, is global warming science or disinformation?
We need proof because we need the delay

Oh captain, my captain
It seems you’ve been lucky, and you’re still doing well
Autumn in Alaska, once was a more fearsome America.

They say that at night the wales and the women watch you,
They say that in snow the wolves and Indians smell you,
They say in the wilderness gold and dreams accompany you,
They say at sea a captain awaits you.
They say there is
They say
They!

Oh captain, my captain
Suppose the Titanic launched in another movie
Would you still want to sit where you are

Compared to this long route, your photos are new, but your uniform old
Your serious mien amuses the passengers, who drink happily at the par
A platinum mermaid leaps in the pool, her feet
Mysterious foam afore and aft, and a melancholy love song
There are life vests and bars on every level
And the stores offer discounts after we’ve finished a safety drill
Yet the faces entering and leaving the casino are all different.

Oh captain, my captain
You gamble but don’t put money down, yet the prophecies come true
And thus you void Odysseus’ troubles

Following the gestures of your voice, we search at sea
For sperm wales in season, bald eagles, and puffins.
A polar bear’s uncertain tracks and drifting jelly fish
And late at night, the aurora borealis
Traces of airplanes and shooting stars, and a moth of uncertain origin
Following a series of brilliant fireworks, bbq and a large screen
An outdoor Jacuzzi, boiling hot. We slip in the water, the sea becomes darker, colder

Oh captain, my captain
What is your dream, where did you get lost
When you sit by the electric fire and the broadcasts are silent, how much remains for you?

Some of the cabins lack balconies and window views, cannot see
The sun rising, but as they order breakfast they watch a boxing match
On television, two immaculately dressed politicians attack each other
And the announcers claim iron knuckles inside their gloves. Jetlag is a mirage
The difference between eastern and western time doesn’t mean we can tell the distance between northern and southern lies
And why should we? If Alaska doesn’t pay taxes does it need to understand what they’re saying?
There’s enough oil, and the champion’s cup is filled with a Champaign breakfast

Oh captain, my captain
Your voice once again wakes me from dreams, glaciers
And the mystery you promised little by little appears

From the mountain peak the road twists, a glass wall surrounds a kingdom of blue crystal
An affront and a desert larger than Rhode Island, if we wait several billion years
Standing before the ice gates, a secret incantation opens the door. We’ve just understood
Anticipation is the best pastime, and instead we were bored by entertainments.
This was when the startling news came, and we went from starboard to port.
The boat was floating, anxious eyes missed the focus, we drifted, seasick
Yes, who saw him? On the entire voyage the captain never appeared

Oh captain, my captain
Please tell us, what poison killed you. And what else is there
Is it our right to know before we die

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain! Please be silent for a moment…
Of course everyone will remember these days…in the deep ocean…
The great white shark views America through levels with different temperatures, and we
Put the binoculars in its hands, Galileo’s invention is no longer limited
And this is the result of global warming. Thus, we need to be quite…” Suddenly
The sound of earth splitting broke the silence, the massive glacier calved, and the sea became a whirlpool
“Global meltdown?” you asked, “No, the world is raging” we heard the wind reply…

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poetry

the epic opposite

Sky so big it needs the whole earth
to lie down on. Paper said chance of rain
today and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
but thin high clouds say not likely, not
today. River is out of sight,
but it has broken flat
into high mesas and deep arroyos
trailing down down to where you
would think water would be. A field of maize is
green in the middle of ocher that shades
from white through the color of alfalfa flowers
to brown as brown as earth and gold
as gold as wheat at harvest time.
Mennonite Church on the edge of Perryton
reminds me the opposite of a war story
is an epic about farming.

Conversation where I stop is Texas
Tech football, sounds like something
a zen master might say: Tech is better than
people think. They haven’t played
nobody but they’ve beat three nobodies
convincingly. A word or two about
growing up here, then the conversation turns
to banks. Guy at the table says
he’s thinking about buying another one.

Owner of the coffee shop in Dodge City
offers me a fly swatter, talks about the oil boom
when I ask where all the traffic on
Wyatt Earp Boulevard is headed. I say
hope that works out. The problem with booms
is bust and he goes off on football players
salaries, says it’s all about managing money,
and I wonder what would be the epic opposite that.

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Mockingbird

You remember a mockingbird sitting
atop bare dying elm branches, singing
every morning, bouncing on deadwood,
limb to limb, faithful like morning sun.

You remember when she left, denial
fell into familiar instinctive patterns:
you delivered flowers, bouquets
of all sizes as if those gestures could
merge with your desperate prayers to save
illusions of happiness, the pretense
that shock and faith make possible.

You remember faint evening breezes
restoring sense as you sat on the porch
seeing the dying elm bare before you.

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Guest Poet, Deborah Kegley

Deborah Kegley wrote this after a day of paper making and poetry at the Forum in Wichita Falls. Thanks, Deborah!

In Appreciation of the Evening Interlude
Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Of course, the warp was laid long before we got there.
Long strings of emails, phone calls, meetings, venue confirmations.
Those who laid it may remember tangles, knots, and careful splicing.
All we saw were perfect strands, ready for the weaving.

Any weaver knows the first few rows of weft are crucial.
They may be turned back later, but they set up all the rest.
Lights on, readings timed, peppers, bread and daisies.
            books arranged, guitar tuned, couching mat and fiber:
Master weavers throw the shuttle, beat the selvedge tight.

Ready? Now! Watch the shuttles dance!

Conversation, hugs and handshakes, “Join us at our table.”
Spoons and tongs, cream puffs, soup, “Shall I bring you some wine?”
Over, under, through it all in the quiet spaces,
Time borrowed, love remembered, letters, friends, and fireweed:
            poems, called up off the page and riffed out on the fly.
We saw Coptic binding, twice the challenge stitched up on fingers,
            and burlap fiber, couched to catch a distant poet’s song.
Threaded through it all, guitar strings wove their magic.
            Skillful fingers marked the time and made our spirits sing.

It’s tied and off the loom now. We toast the master weavers
            and hang the freeform tapestry
                  and hope to weave again.

…and thanks to Antuan Simmons, Sheri Sutton, Jim Hoggard, Regina Schroeder, Kenny Hada, and all the wonderful people in Wichita Falls who made this event possible.

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CrookedCreek

We could not fully appreciate
the clear water in Sansing Hallow.
We were only boys
but even then we felt something,
we listened to the voices
whispering through the trees.
We obeyed, followed the water

on Saturday mornings in cut-offs,
tee-shirts and cheap shoes.
We slipped through cool water
that soothed briar cuts
casting yellow beetle spins
into the current — down
among the rocks.

Years later we began to realize
the length of the creek, to understand
its value despite those who abused it,
those who took her for granted.
We fought for the creek,
crying with her wounds, marveling
at her resiliance.

There is something pitifully human
the way we fail to honor heaven
so close to home, the way
we look the other way,
afraid to speak out
refusing to change —
unworthy of her shores.

Steam pillowing through the hills
rising from frosty meadows
in November — late Autumn sun
brightens the morning,
seeps through leafless timber
leaving nothing hidden —
nothing at all.

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Guest Poet, Sandra Soli

From time to time we intend to publish poetry from guests. My first guest is Sandra Soli, from Edmond, Oklahoma, whose 2007 book WHAT TREES KNOW, received the Oklahoma Book Award for poetry. Her two entries follow:

Implications of Hawk

A certainty of rabbits
makes him fly.

He claims the wind
for himself.

None of us are innocent.

 

 

Saturday in the Wichitas

A rock not climbed before
waits for my boot
pendent with implication

secret as water
from the body or ferns
touching skin to skin.

The rock names me:
Look. Daylights they test
the music of stones,
reading these places we save.

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The Killing Season

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The Killing Season

is upon us now.
The need for blood
stalks
every turning leaf,

Ragweed drooping
in sagging fields
at sunset.
A morning calm

is no match for lust
pounding
in a bloody heart.
It seems natural

this way we try
to master ourselves.
Autumn ritual
prepares

for winter – Sycamores
blush white,
Oaks redden,
streams coil

around sandy stone.
All of us feel
Time slipping.
For us Time

can do little more
than point
to December
that longest day

when thirst
is finally quenched
and full bellies
dream

of spring
budding again,
somehow,
from depths unknown.

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