Monday, May 6, 2024

Poem for Sam Silva

 

Poem for Sam Silva

 

It’s the shithead, he’d say

When he called, meek-voiced

Deep in the need to read me a poem.

 

Four, five times a week

We sent each other envelopes

Stuffed with typed poems

Searching for one reader

Learning the line, making a voice,

 

End of the 80s, the most boring

Decade in American history.

Sam was paranoid schizophrenic.

My wife thought I was crazy, too.

 

Mr. Peeler, you’ve got to hear this,

He’d say when he called

In his booming Voice of God

From the house in Fayetteville

Where he lived with Rachel the artist

Who he worshipped

In love poem and love poem.

She saved him every day.

 

I would listen to him.

Then we would compliment each other.

Throwing life preservers through land lines.

We didn’t know yet how obscurity

Would settle over us like a protective shell,

Delivering us from the worse things

We might become.

 

Now we are old men,

Sam only able to write haiku,

And me, well, look at this shit.

 

But there is nothing more relaxing

Than an hour of his latest e-book.

No longer a shithead,

No more Voice of God.

He’s damned good at it.

Mas Mas, my old friend.

 

 

Friday, March 8, 2024

GOAT

 

GOAT

 

I drove to the city my father was from,

Past farm fields and blocks of industry.

I was early and in a hurry,

Following the roads we’d taken

When Dad’s extended family met

At the country church he attended as a child.

Rain fell and I listened to a data scientist

On NPR who had done a lengthy study

To prove who had best played

Basketball in the NBA and concluded

That Mugsy Bogues when compensating

For size is the all-time GOAT.

I missed a turn, thinking about this,

Caught up in the speaker’s nerdy enthusiasm.

I took another wrong road

And a big drink of water.

I felt like a poem becoming a prose piece.

Rain continued to fall as I sped

Through the city my father was from,

Barely noticing the half-abandoned downtown.

I called my old friend on the cell.

Why don’t you get your phone to guide you?

He said. I don’t have that kind of phone.

My dad’s been dead nineteen years.

And never had a cell phone.

I thought about watching Mugsy Bogues

The one time I went to the Dean Dome,

When he almost beat Carolina by himself.

Just as I saw the meeting place ahead,

And wondered if maybe there is a world

Where he is the GOAT.

 

Thursday, February 29, 2024

Thursday Poem

 

Another Time

 

This morning I scraped all the

Skin off my face so I could

See myself in the mirror.

The light in my head flickered.

An explosion like a bomb

Went off below our field.

I talked till I listened.

It was the day I came back

From witness protection.

I stood at this chalkboard

Again wondering what was next.

A cannon blast. A gong.

Cloth ripping in the sky.

Every dog howling.

The neighbor’s rooster alarming.

It’s coming back, the words,

The sensations,

The great grey lifting.

I am me another time.

 

Monday, January 8, 2024

An Explanation of Life and Times

 

The Best That I can Do

 

The pandemic year of 2020 coincided with my retirement, one of the few things I’ve done without a second thought or a regret. Even with helping keep grandkids the first two years of that time, I was gifted with an enormous amount of writing time, more than I had allowed myself during working years. I wrote the verse narrative series called The Life and Times of Jaysus Christopher Duende and Darrell Cobb Runkle in late 2020 or early 2021.

Without looking at the year’s work, I would guess that it was the fourth or fifth full length piece I wrote during that stretch of public downtime. Jaysus was a joyful writing experience, a buddy story about two misfits turned loose on the open country roads of my neighborhood. I remember how good I felt about it when I finished. I had never had so much going on in one of these little poetry stories. And I’d never had one to fall together so well or so organically. I had no idea where the narrative was going until it went. I couldn’t wait to get it into the hands of some readers just to see if they got what I was doing.

In the early summer of 2021, still deep in the pandemic, Red Hawk Publications, a boutique publisher at the school where I had worked for 28 years, came out with the volume, published in what appeared to be a blue horse notebook, like a found artifact, Robert Canipe, the Red Hawk editor’s idea. To me it was the perfect wrapper for the confection of ideas and oddball characters that I had sent marauding through 21st Century Trump country.

When Jaysus landed, I sent copies to two of the people who had in some way inspired what I’d written: Ron Rash and Fred Chappell. Both of them replied enthusiastically. I think Fred was more amused than anything. Ron said I was working without a wire.

The book sold poorly as expected. I had long since outlived my shelf date as a relevant writer. The only books I’d ever had to sell much at all were the ones I’d done about local and regional baseball history. And most of the people who really liked my work had died over the past twenty years. I had also been published a book nearly every year since the turn of the century, a stupid but common mistake for poets.

I did receive a smattering of replies to Jaysus from the smattering of readers who bought or received it. The closest I got to really talking about what I’d done in the book was in some explanation that I gave to Michel Stone, a writer buddy from Spartanburg, who is also a friend of Ron’s and recognized the plot elements that had been “sampled” from his One Foot in Eden. Otherwise, one reader spoke of it as a book about labor and economics, which it is. I might add that in Chappell’s letter, he allowed that the roads in Jaysus could have easily been the roads where he grew up in and around Canton, NC.

Which brings me to one of the things I wanted to say. Life and Times of Jaysus . . . is very much inspired by Midquest. There is a scene where Jaysus, the protagonist descends into the Henry River gorge to clean up a “mess” he has made. Much like the grandson must descend into the porch well to clean it in Midquest. Jaysus, a former professional football player must participate in a series of contests with his buddy and boss, Drunkle, in order to win freedom for himself and eventually for his family. The contests which include a swimming event in the nasty Henry River and daily motorcycle races on Old Shelby Road are a kind of hero’s journey for Jaysus. When his wife Mary, a former Canadian Football League cheerleader chastises him for letting Drunkle beat him in the swimming contest, he knows that his situation has gone as far wrong as it can and he must act.

In Ron Rash’s last two novels, I along with my buddy David Dickson had made appearances as small time thieves of drug dealers, so in the tradition of ball busting amongst friends, I knew I had to respond. In Jaysus, not only is the title character rereading One Foot in Eden as he did when in college at Duke, he is also unknowingly living some of the plot points.

Near the end of the book, the poems devolve into rhymes that among other things poke fun at the company that made the Hunger Games movie at the Henry River Mill Village site. I was in fact reading the selected poems of WH Auden while I was writing Jaysus, and by the final section I could no longer hold back the dam of formal poetics. Chappell said I’d thrown up a barricade of rhyme. And he was right.

Finally, I dedicated this book to my longtime colleague Jerry Sain, who was an All-American offensive lineman at Carolina. The Jaysus character is not in any way like Jerry, but working closely with someone for sixteen years does allow one an opportunity to hear all the stories. There was one included that is perhaps a little too personal and for that I apologize.

So without just outright giving the story away, this is some of what I wanted to say about The Life and Times of Jaysus Christopher Duende and Darrell Cobb Runkle. The story contains murder, a body hidden better than the one in One Foot in Eden, a biker gang called the Dusk Brothers, buried treasure and Spanish Conquistadors, Trumpers, mill hill baseball, accidental killings, and a surprise ending. It is probably the best that I can do.

Sunday, April 23, 2023

Conjunction

 

Conjunction

 

In the corner near where

Highway 10 and 321 cross,

Beside the park the city

Of Newton built,

The Henry and Jacob Forks

Meet in a sandy-bottomed

Green pastured paradise

To form the South Fork

Of the Catawba River.

After every winding turn

You can think of,

After passing abandoned mills,

Farms and parks,

Some people say that

The Henry becomes

A part of the Jacob,

Others who believe

That the Henry somehow

Gets there first every day,

See it all the other way.

Baseball Pome Process

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