 Balancing the wooden canoe, all my gear inside, all I need for two days on the Kedgwick River in the company of other women. Small rivers run from wrist to elbow as I lift and dip the oars. An eagle glides overhead. A lynx considers us from the forest's edge. From the other canoes, laughter, conversations in French and English. Someone is hungry. Someone has to pee. Someone is overwhelmed by the wonder of it all. 
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 The raccoon doesn’t shy away as I approach. Doesn’t flinch as I raise my rifle. Shows no fear as I take aim. Just regards me steadily, sitting on its haunches with its back against the tree, one hand in the trap like it is dipping into a bowl of potato chips. Read the story on Flash Fiction Magazine.
 I wrote "These Birds" for a creative writing class taught by Peter Streckfus at George Mason University. The exercise was to take a poem by Sylvia Plath ("Stillborn") and write a poem of our own using her structure and the same parts of speech. I was encouraged by the feedback and decided to enter it into a contest sponsored by the Poetry Society of Virginia. To my surprise, it won first place in a category for lyrical poems. I'm proud of it and grateful for the validation, but I don't consider myself a poet. I am, however, an excellent magpie.
These Birds These birds will not fly: it's not a modern phenomenon. They shed their down and feathers softly, Their shunned bodies dull with longing. If they start singing toward the sunlight It will be because they live in darkness. O you must not blaspheme what binds them! They flock unquestioningly to fellowship and order. They abide obediently in the airless buildings! They wait and wait and wait for Him. And never the feathers do fly nor the bodies do rise. They sway as grasses, they murmur as flies, Though they affect a contented and guileless mien -- It would be easy for them to leave, and that's what they crave. Yet they bide, while their bones burn wild with desire With eyes turned skyward, and will not fly for themselves. After "Stillborn" by Sylvia Plath  Once in a while, to entertain friends,
I spin up a story to see where it ends. While I might mess with facts, I can say with conviction That sometimes the truth is much stranger than fiction. Of last night, for instance, I give this depiction: Some nights before Christmas, while home at Four Oaks, The wind is a-howling, the fire pit smokes. The Baileys is waiting for coffee to brew. In a Dutch oven bubbles a savory stew. I’m humming and poking at embers and ash, When from deep in the forest I hear a great crash! Into the darkness I peer warily. Into the shadows that stretch scarily. I wish for bright light but the fire burns low. I stray timidly from its comforting glow. I zip up my coat; I flip up my hood. I must fetch a few logs from the edge of the wood. It’s 20 long paces to get to the stacks. I take a deep breath. I take up the axe. If something is out there to give me a fright, It will see what I’m made of! I’ll put up a fight! Into the shadows I step quietly, With my axe at my side, and what do I see? But a monstrous Thing half obscured by a tree! With one eye that glows red and looks straight at me! What should I do? Should I strike? Should I run? Should I offer it stew? Would it eat a bun? As I ponder these questions imagine my shock When the Thing heaves a sigh and commences to talk. In a whisper it says, “You’re too tall for an elf.” It takes me a bit to recover myself. For it’s plain to see as the strange Thing draws near: It’s no monster at all! It’s Rudolph the Reindeer! I notice he’s staring rather intently At the axe in my hand, so I set it down gently. As a smile spreads over his sweet furry face, I ask, “How in the world did you come to this place?” He says, “I was out flying and chasing my nose, When sleep overtook me and caused me to doze. I awoke to discover I’d lost altitude! I’m sorry to startle, didn’t mean to intrude. If you’ll just point me North, I’ll be on my way, And the children will have presents come Christmas Day.” “I know where to direct you,” I say. “See that star? Follow it North. It will take you far. But before we bid each other adieu, Tell me—are you hungry? Would you like some stew?” His nose flames bright red; his agitation grows great At the sight of the boiling pot on the grate. And I realize then that the Thing I’d held grim Had been more scared of me than I’d been of him. I laugh loud as Santa: “Ho ho! Ho ho ho! I see there is something that you need to know. You’ve clearly mistaken me for a barbarian. That’s not venison stew. I’m a vegetarian.”  In the time of COVID, it's a luxury and a privilege to take a creative writing course, taught by a poet whose work I admire, who introduces his students to the most fearless contemporary poets. I'm about three times older than any other student in this class. I don't care, because some of the most astonishing poetry I've ever heard has come from people whose age can be measured in single digits. For example:
My son Sean, age six, when we lived on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, driving through town after a tornado: "You can always tell twister weather because the sky has a sour taste." Three decades later, from his daughter Virginia, age five: "Mint tastes like a thousand fireflies." + "Hearts can't bloom if there is no love." There is something achingly beautiful about the way very young people express themselves. When do we become so self-conscious, so fearful of judgment that our creativity runs off to hide? When a poet's age is measured in single digits, I attribute their gift to innocence. When the poet is old enough to know better and not care, I marvel at their courage. Take Richard Siken. This poet is not for the faint of heart. If you're squeamish, gird your loins and read him anyway; you'll be better off for it. Start here, with his poem "Little Beast." In this poem, Siken begins by painting an innocent small-town scene. "The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night / is thinking" suggests longing and desire, and I could almost hear my mirror neurons strike up the opening strains of a Springsteen ballad. Like a spider that cocoons its prey in silk before it injects the toxin, the poet tells us the night is "thinking of love" and then turns savage without warning, using personification to describe a night that promises love inseparable from brutality. Now I'm hooked, understanding that violence is to come but unable to look away. When I learn that this night that is "thinking of love" is also "thinking of stabbing us to death / and leaving our bodies in a dumpster," a sense of recognition accompanies the horror. Who hasn't experienced love as a sort of human sacrifice, when you'd cut yourself on the knife's edge of danger just to feel so intensely alive? Do you know this feeling? Are you brave enough to write about it? Please try. Maybe you'll surprise yourself. Maybe you'll give the world a gift. |
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