TURTLE ISLAND QUARTERLY 16

Winter/2019

Chapter three:

 

2 poems by Kirtland Snyder, poem by Janet McCann,

poem by Pepper Trail, poem by Paul Willis,  and a poem by Martin Willitts Jr

 

 

 

 

 

 

2 poems by Kirtland Snyder

 

 

 

CONFUSION OF INFLUENCES

 

Here in our new home we must be

On a flyway, judging from the herds

Of birds making the trek to Florida,

East Texas by way of our backyard.

 

Today, a mild day in mid-October,

I sat in early sun and read Selected

Poems of James Tate instead

Of earning a living but what the hell.

 

Because it was a mild day my

Thoughts were also on the Bronk book

By that name in which it is written:

“It’s time to move bemused in the mild day.”

 

Bemused is about as good as it gets

I was thinking when all at once

A dark cloud accompanied by a dark

Beating of wings scudded above me,

 

Caught in the tops of lindens, aspens,

Arbor vitae, apple trees, white pines,

While some flew down to lawn

To have a go at worms and grubs.

 

They made a terrible racket against which

The poems were no contest so I listened

Instead to their voices which grated on me,

Shocked me, really, they were so

 

Harsh and loud and irritable. And then

I knew without doubt they were grackles,

Knowing the poem “The Voice

Of the Grackle” in which Marge Piercy

 

Describes a rasp, a screech, a creaking,

A cracking voice making off-color comments.

 

Just to be certain, to get the scientific proof,

I grabbed my Audubon Handbook and sure

Enough, grackles they were, black and shiny

In their cheap suits, their most common call,

 

It said, a clack.

 

 

THE SQUIRREL SUICIDES

 

You know summer’s over when squirrels

Begin throwing themselves

Under the wheels of passing cars.

 

You see them all along the roads,

Flattened and bloodied, skulls crushed,

Plumed tails scraped into gray pavement,

 

Or lying on their backs, their tiny paws

Clawing the sky, rigor mortis twisting

Their snouts into un-squirrel-like grimaces.

 

Some seem to do it for the sport—

Testing their speed and timing by darting

Through the briefest of intervals.

 

Others seem to be testing us—

Who has heart enough to hit the brakes

As they scurry across?

 

Maybe they’ve simply had enough

Of this nutty world, and fall appears to be their last

Best hope for self-immolation.

 

Watch out! There’s one now, a gray pelt on hind legs

In the pale grass by the edge of the lane,

Daring you to slow down and give way—or else.

 

 

 

Kirtland Snyder has published 3 chapbooks, won the Stanley Kunitz Award for Excellence in Poetry, been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and had the distinct pleasure and honor of reading with Galway Kinnell at the University of Massachusetts some years ago. His Holocaust poetry is among the work of American and British poets examined in Professor Susan Gubar’s book, Poetry After Auschwitz (Indiana University Press, 2003).  He has also published in Ms., Midstream, Stuff (The Boston Phoenix), Exquisite Corpse, notus/new writing, Modern Haiku, Longhouse, Poet Lore, The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The Café Review, Shirim, The Adirondack Review, Flumes, New Works Review, Sanctuary, The Hartford Courant, Paramour, aspen leaves, The Boston Monthly, The Ardis Anthology of New American Poetry, Blood To Remember: American Poets on the Holocaust, and Veils, Halos and Shackles: International Poetry on the Oppression and Empowerment of Women.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem by Janet McCann

 

 

 

 

SLEEPING IN A COLD ROOM

 

amid blankets and dozy dogs

griefs fade the politics blank

air fills with invisible snow

 

body sinks into the bed

exhales the day and all its threats and burdens

cold air replaces passion

 

moon shines in on humped up pillows

sounds of triple breaths

the white darkness almost solid

 

she will wake at dawn

with a cold nose

a clear head

inhabiting herself again

 

 

Journals publishing Janet McCann’s work include KANSAS QUARTERLY, PARNASSUS, NIMROD, SOU'WESTER, AMERICA,  CHRISTIAN CENTURY, CHRISTIANITY AND LITERATURE, NEW YORK QUARTERLY, TENDRIL, and others. A 1989 NEA Creative Writing Fellowship winner, she taught at Texas A & M University from 1969-2016, is now Professor Emerita. She has co-edited anthologies with David Craig, ODD ANGLES OF HEAVEN (Shaw, 1994), PLACE OF PASSAGE (Story Line, 2000), and POEMS OF FRANCIS AND CLARE (St. Anthony Messenger, 2004). Most recent poetry collection: THE CRONE AT THE CASINO (Lamar University Press,  2014).

 

 

 

 

 

 

poem by Pepper Trail

 

 

 

The Trout Quintet Beside the River

 

 

Alone in the forest, on a bluff above the river

October – gray sky, maples red and orange

beneath the green black conifers

all silent but for the constant river

the scolding jay, the occasional raven

I thought of Schubert, his Trout Quintet, its perfection –

and there it was, in my pocket, on my phone

and so I set it free, and it flowed around me

like water around a stone, this conversation

joining the others, the cello and the raven

the strings and the wind in the bright leaves

the piano and the river

and I thought of my life

began to make metaphors of everything

the autumn leaves my dwindling days

the beloved birds my uncaptured words

the bluff the moraine of memory, leaning into collapse

the river time itself, ceaseless, beautiful, indifferent

but then a rippling run of the piano pulled me back

carried these banalities away around the downstream bend

returned me to this earthen seat

my head full only of music

seeing nothing but the beauty before my eyes

 

 

 

Pepper Trail's poems have appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Borderlands, Ascent and other publications, and have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Awards. His collection, Cascade-Siskiyou: Poems, was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.  He lives in Ashland, Oregon, where he works as a biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

 

 

 

 

 

 

poem by Paul Willis

 

 

Aeolus

 

 

Morning wind in the live oak trees,

    moving them in bosomy ways,

        one part pulsing, then another.

 

The breeze blows in

    from Cold Spring Saddle,

        thence from north of Point Conception,

 

the open sea, gathering freshness

    from whales, olives, ceanothus,

        billowing the breasted branches,

 

scattering the hooked green acorns,

    planting them with warm, full breaths,

        with little sighs.

 

Paul Willis’s recent collection, Deer at Twilight: Poems from the North Cascades (Stephen F. Austin State University Press), was a finalist in this year's book awards at the Banff Centre for the Arts.  Forthcoming in 2019 from White Violet Press is Little Rhymes for Lowly Plants.  Individual poems have appeared in Poetry, Ascent, and Los Angeles Review.

 

 

 

poem by Martin Willitts Jr

 

 

The Grasshopper’s Song

 

A grasshopper was bringing music,

but I wasn’t listening.

 

Instead, I heard the lament of someone

in anguish, almost begging to be understood,

insisting, You never loved me. It chirruped,

Love is such an antique desire.

This is the one song the grasshopper wanted to tell,

to fill to overflowing, but also, it wanted me to empty.

Since I had ignored both messages, the grasshopper

whizzed around me, scolding, Listen, listen, listen!

 

Light was snapping, so I listened

to that exquisite green music.

The song was like smashing pots,

but also like mending them.

 

I had to know and understand the difference.

I had to listen closely if I ever expected to learn.

The earth and sky were bearing down on me

all the time, and I never noticed. I wasn’t hearing

what they were singing.

 

They were chanting, Love me, Love me.

 

Martin Willitts Jr has 24 chapbooks including the winner of the Turtle Island Quarterly Editor’s Choice Award, “The Wire Fence Holding Back the World” (Flowstone Press, 2017), plus 11 full-length collections including “The Uncertain Lover” (Dos Madres Press, 2018)  and “Home Coming Celebration” (FutureCycle Press, 2019). He is an editor for Comstock Review. 

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