Jayne Marek’s In and Out of Rough Water

Although Jayne Marek is a relative newcomer to the Pacific Northwest (transplanted from Indiana, where she taught at Franklin College), she is a fast learner. I imagine her striding about the landscape — trails, riversides, boggy acres — notebook, camera, and guidebook in hand — translating all of it into poems and photographs for an eager audience.

In addition to native flora and fauna, she has also made herself at home amid our regional poets. In this poem, she responds to William Stafford’s “Ask Me“:

 

 

 

To Ask Me 

for William Stafford

I will listen to what he says
in the poem of water and winter,
the ice crust of his judgment.
Wet branches drag into the sweep
of drifts, skirting the oldest tree
in its heaviness of heart. What he meant
shifts all the land around me,
a cold blue wind.

But who can say that hate or love’s
what swings the ice-bound branches
overhead. Can I trust him? —
that secret-heart, that man
of miles of blank fields pressing snow-fences
as if to flatten them —
the truth’s what the black bird says

on its wire:
a path is itself and nowhere.
What our feet can grip,
we may not see. So move.

Jayne Marek, In and Out of Rough Water (Kelsay Books, 2017)

 

Tim McNulty’s Ascendance

This afternoon I am Bellingham-bound, where I will be attending the 2018 Arbuthnot Honor Reading at Western Washington University, featuring Naomi Shihab Nye. I’ve spent the morning reading Tim McNulty’s Ascendance, a book which is so much about place that it could serve as a field guide. Look for yarrow, buckwheat, tall spindly ears of deer, pearly everlasting, Indian plum. Its five sections range from poems about his daughter (introducing her to the wild places has clearly been a great joy for the author); to poems inspired by paintings by northwest artist Morris Graves; poems about salmon and their rivers; poems depicting a season living in a mountain lookout. They are not all set in the Pacific Northwest, but they might all be said to share a northwest way of seeing, an appreciation of plantlife and animal life and the serious business of loving the planet.

In this poem, notice the almost haiku-like attention coupled with a metaphoric reach as large as oceans

Night, Sourdough Mountain Lookout

A late-summer sun
threads the needles of McMillan Spires
and disappears in a reef of coral cloud.

Winds roil the mountain trees,
batter the shutter props.

I light a candle with the coming dark.
Its reflection in the window glass
flickers over mountains and
shadowed valleys
seventeen miles north to Canada.

Not another light.

The lookout is a dim star
anchored to a rib of the planet
like a skiff to a shoal
in a wheeling sea of stars.

Night sky at full flood.

Wildly awake.

Tim McNulty, Ascendance (Pleasure Boat Studio, 2013)

Peggy Shumaker’s Toucan Nest: Poems of Costa Rica

These poems need to be read aloud. Jane Hirshfield, in a cover blurb, calls Toucan Nest, “a book of burnished, lapidary attention.” And it is. Each bird and bat is polished like a gem. The poems are dense with bright nouns, and repeated sounds. The lines in almost all of the poems are short, and short stanzas, too, leave white space as if the are images leap from the environs like birds from foliage. People crop up, too, guiding, pointing, speaking. I kept stopping to look up names and words (Gallo Pinto, bromeliad, trogon). If a poet’s job is to pay close attention (and it is), Peggy Shumaker here fulfills that role beautifully.

Here is one of the poems that I marked to reread:

 

Rain at Trogon Lodge 

Talamanca Mountain Highlands

Pura vida come purer,
bromeliads replenish
tiny lakes encrusted to their
calderas. Calla lilies
stiffen, sway.

Darting hummers, purple-
throated, green-winged,
whir feeder to fuchsia,
rafter to fig.
Drenched, the world

shimmers — pearls
suspend
along dark
soffits. Elastic
drops

shape-shift —
puddle, fishpond,
cloud breath.
Iguana’s drink, our
moist souls’ scrim.

Peggy Shumaker, Toucan Nest: Poems of Costa Rica (Red Hen Press, 2013)

 

C. J. Prince’s Fox

I am pleased to share with you this chapbook by a friend of mine, C. J. Prince. It was published (I want to say, produced, as it is a little piece of art), by Ravens’ Song Press in Bellingham. After my presentation on Emily Dickinson at the South Whatcom branch of the Skagit Co. Libraries in February, she handed me this book, autographed. It had slipped into a box with other papers and books, and only recently emerged. Clearly, it wanted to be read this month, while I was on this tangent.

Had I read the book by chance, without planning to blog about it, I kind of doubt I would have looked up Sobek. But now we know:

Sobek (also called Sebek, Sochet, Sobk, and Sobki), in Greek, Suchos (Σοῦχος) and from Latin Suchus, was an ancient Egyptian deity with a complex and fluid nature. He is associated with the Nile crocodile or the West African crocodile and is either represented in its form or as a human with a crocodile head.

And it seems almost a crime to include an entire poem here (the chapbook is very small), but it’s a short poem, and I have a feeling C. J. wouldn’t mind. Her poems are often political, and this one is no less so for being short. To learn more about C. J., visit her blog!

Sobek 

If Alligator brings you
a dead red rose,
know that things are amiss
in the waterways.
Be aware that Alligator
is protector
of flowing waters.
Turn off your faucet.
Send prayers.

C. J. Prince, Fox (Ravens’ Song Press, 2017)