Thanks, Sherman. A few days ago there was an article in the NYT about trees, how their growth rings show precipitation. It's hard for me to read articles about trees dying or facing death. One blood, one pine is what we are.
It's good reading a Sherman Alexie poem again. I had a small chap book by him... It was light blue. I can't recall the title. But I'll tell you! I went to war with that little book and it taught me a thing or two. It's been a few years now since I sat on my bed so focused on the language in that little book, thinking "my God... How does he do it?" He was doing gymnastics with words! He was doing par kor on the effin page! So I went out the next day and swiped an anthology of rebel poets. Get my love of language back on a proper track! Yes sir! But those Alexie lines kept rolling across my tongue... sticking to the roof of my mouth and soft palette like crows spitting out fricatives of derision, laughing at me.... daring me to write. The next day I drove like a banshee to Barnes and Noble, shifting that bitch into 4th with a sneer. "You think you can make me write!?" I yelled at my inner Alexie. I bought a Best of American Poetry, Kinnell's Book of Nightmares, and just to be contrary a Korean cookbook. But when I sat down with a cup of black tea, 3 stevias, Alexie's name jumped out at me from the cover of the Best of American Poetry. No! I shouted! I looked closer and read that he was the guest editor that year. No! Alexie's language haunted me! "You can't make me write! I am the Master of my private Idaho, not you!" I knew it was getting out of hand. "My poetry comes when I say so! You may try with your luscious liquids gently enfolding an image or two. Or think that a gruesome metaphor couched amid little puffs of 'p' and gentle mouthings of 'm' may force a less experienced poet to become infected with literary lilts and other onomatopoeias (sp?). But not I!"
I crawled into bed exhausted and dreamt I was John Wayne and Sherman Alexie poems in buckskins and face paint were waiting to ambush me, up around the bend. (To be cont....)
I think my grief for the destruction of Native culture has become a huge part of my personal cultural. I think my theology is all about grief. Perhaps that bleeds through.
I had an English teacher in high school, that insisted a poem has only the meaning the Poet meant for it. I knew in my soul she was full of it, but thank you for confirming I can take what I want from your work. And I prefer your Eucharist to mine.
I love this picture of eternity, growing together as tree roots, mingling with the earth. We will all become one with ancient trees and stardust. That is a true eucharist.
I’ve been dreaming of the old growth redwood trees in Yosemite close to be burning down. Thousands of years old. Can you imagine. I just watched the Jan. 6 hearings. So fascinating I couldn’t stop. Lock Trump up now and throw away the key.😷🔥
Thanks, Sherman. A few days ago there was an article in the NYT about trees, how their growth rings show precipitation. It's hard for me to read articles about trees dying or facing death. One blood, one pine is what we are.
I didn’t see that article. I will look for it. Thank you for the kind words.
It's good reading a Sherman Alexie poem again. I had a small chap book by him... It was light blue. I can't recall the title. But I'll tell you! I went to war with that little book and it taught me a thing or two. It's been a few years now since I sat on my bed so focused on the language in that little book, thinking "my God... How does he do it?" He was doing gymnastics with words! He was doing par kor on the effin page! So I went out the next day and swiped an anthology of rebel poets. Get my love of language back on a proper track! Yes sir! But those Alexie lines kept rolling across my tongue... sticking to the roof of my mouth and soft palette like crows spitting out fricatives of derision, laughing at me.... daring me to write. The next day I drove like a banshee to Barnes and Noble, shifting that bitch into 4th with a sneer. "You think you can make me write!?" I yelled at my inner Alexie. I bought a Best of American Poetry, Kinnell's Book of Nightmares, and just to be contrary a Korean cookbook. But when I sat down with a cup of black tea, 3 stevias, Alexie's name jumped out at me from the cover of the Best of American Poetry. No! I shouted! I looked closer and read that he was the guest editor that year. No! Alexie's language haunted me! "You can't make me write! I am the Master of my private Idaho, not you!" I knew it was getting out of hand. "My poetry comes when I say so! You may try with your luscious liquids gently enfolding an image or two. Or think that a gruesome metaphor couched amid little puffs of 'p' and gentle mouthings of 'm' may force a less experienced poet to become infected with literary lilts and other onomatopoeias (sp?). But not I!"
I crawled into bed exhausted and dreamt I was John Wayne and Sherman Alexie poems in buckskins and face paint were waiting to ambush me, up around the bend. (To be cont....)
Wow, thanks for the kind and funny response.
What a powerful poem! And such comforting imagery. But why do I feel like crying every time you mention Eucharist in your poems?
I think my grief for the destruction of Native culture has become a huge part of my personal cultural. I think my theology is all about grief. Perhaps that bleeds through.
I had an English teacher in high school, that insisted a poem has only the meaning the Poet meant for it. I knew in my soul she was full of it, but thank you for confirming I can take what I want from your work. And I prefer your Eucharist to mine.
Beautiful
Thank you, Tim
Thank you, Kathy! I’m far better equipped to deal with the emotional effects of insomnia. So I’m good right now!
You increase my perception of the every day, so in lieu of tobacco or a braid of sweetgrass in gratitude, I give you a poem:
In the Kitchen with Sherman
From the Subaru or studio
Across miles and mountains
His voice is welcomed
Into my day with a tap
Warmth radiates over the digital waves
I feel as if he's across my table
Having just popped in for
Coffee and one of my famous scones
He's worn, weary, and tired
Energy of connection and story
Caffeine and sugar rouse him to
Tell me...what stirred today,
What lurked behind the years
But mostly, just good to see you
Glad for the day you were born.
Wow! That’s very kind, Magpie!
Can I just say...Damn, that is a fine piece of liturgy!
Thank you! Many many of my closest friends are Catholic! That’s how it goes for Indians!
This literally took my breath away! Thank you.
I love this picture of eternity, growing together as tree roots, mingling with the earth. We will all become one with ancient trees and stardust. That is a true eucharist.
Thank you, Annie! Stardust has particular resonance today because of the images captured by the Wells telescope.
I love this poem, Sherman. I am so sorry for your sleepless nights. That has to be so hard. But, I am grateful for the fruit - this amazing poem!
That's a one-two punch of a poem if I've ever read one.
Thank you, Andrew. I love the name of your press.
Such an interesting dichotomy!
Thanks!
I’ve been dreaming of the old growth redwood trees in Yosemite close to be burning down. Thousands of years old. Can you imagine. I just watched the Jan. 6 hearings. So fascinating I couldn’t stop. Lock Trump up now and throw away the key.😷🔥
So many fires happening at once..
Beds and sleep
Keep us
A foot or two
Above the earth.
Nice!
Loved the imagery this brought to mind. Going to have to take a break at the cemetery.
Ah, yes, you know the trees there…