Dear April your daffodils are as late as I’ve ever seen them
their yellow buds ease open like swimmers dipping a toe into the cold and the wet
I’m sitting on the ridgetop and as i wrote that last line two deer came up behind me caught my scent and bolted, bounding down the steep, rocky slope toward I-99
Dear April today is a moss and lichen day, the tree trunks dark with rain under heavy skies and the gray-green sleeves of their upper limbs
It’s almost axiomatic i think that any place where you have a close encounter with a charismatic creature becomes forever marked by your memory of its presence. approaching this stone seat where i had a brief staring contest with a coyote a month ago, i noticed a somewhat wolfish piece of old lichen-encrusted pine
earlier, standing in the kitchen i’d started humming that song “the bare necessities” from Disney’s original animation of the jungle book and a few lines of a new bear poem came to me:
as for the bare necessities
Balu I am still lookingI have been unbearable
to some but like youI am a sluggard
I go to the fancy antsmy tongue works far
harder than my teeth
yeah I thought i’d just throw in a fun little riff on a Bible quote there because I have an imaginary audience of fellow KJV nerds. oh hell yeah
Dear April I read one poem in the course of half an hour sitting in the woods. is that good or bad? Charon’s Cosmology still
there aren’t too many poets so brilliant that a practiced reader can’t anticipate where a poem is going from one line to the next but Simic is one of them
there are natural landscapes like that, so full of surprise that even a practiced hiker can’t imagine what’s around the next bend. we call such places old growth if they’re forest
if we truly pay attention they confound every effort at an easy narrative
there’s nowhere i’m really going with this thought but feel free to expand upon it at your leisure
but there is a terrifying arbitrariness to our choice of narratives isn’t there
what does this mean in the age of the novel and the TV script that it might not have meant in the age of the ballad and the epic, i wonder. in slower times people might’ve had more time to think their own thoughts but history suggests that many if not most of those thoughts, especially where war was concerned, were utter dogshit
in a time of war we are reminded of the immense destructive power of official narratives, our propaganda more insidious than Russia’s because, at least in its liberal version, so few members of the professional/managerial class even recognize it as propaganda
and so we are being memed and emoted into a war that could end nearly all life on earth
Dear April there was a raccoon on my Mom’s back porch late this afternoon when i got back from my walk and at first we were excited because, you know, not really all that many raccoons up here
but then we noticed how skinny and how scroungy her fur and she seemed to have a limp no wait she’s staggering oh hell poor thing must be rabid
and our neighbor came over with a shotgun because all i have are rifles and a shotgun is the right tool for this grim but necessary job but the raccoon had disappeared probably under my house
Dear April i won’t lie: seeing that raccoon stagger felt like a haiku moment
poets are monsters
I don’t want to end on such a dark note so let me instead leave you with a haiku by a living master of the art, John Stevenson
this is from his 2004 collection with Red Moon Press quiet enough (one of the two books that came yesterday from bookshop.org)
leaves budding
John Stephenson
a little girl
spinning in her dress
such a pure, perfect, timeless moment. with that is-it-or-isn’t-it-a-metaphor frisson I get so often with Buson