YOKEL ( 4 ) ~

Fitzcarraldo

The time we worked in the woods

Cutting trees in the old sugar stand

Opening back up to the light and the

World some of the largest maples we

Had ever seen, Sweetheart called the

Job our Fitzcarraldo, after the Herzog

Film, when they cut a wide swath over

The mountain in a jungle to pull the

Ship over to reach another waterway —

But we were after no waterway

Just cutting tree after tree and

Brush and piling it all but still

Like the movie Sweetheart

Said she had the same opera

Music playing in her head

for Susan

Preacher

If you don’t think a name

Or job description means

Anything let me tell you about

Preacher’s place when the high

Winds of summer went through one

Year and shook his woodland hills

Where at the base was built some

Time ago a prefab log cabin by the

Date I liked to look at on the stone

Chimney and though the cabin wasn’t

Much and Preacher came from out of

State to visit he must have lived here

Long enough for a guardian angel

To watch over his place because he 

Hired me after one of those storms

And said I might want to bring Native

And his tractor along and when we

Got there, sure enough, tall white

Pines had flopped down in the winds

As if placed by a higher being

And not a scratch to any of the

Four sides of the dinky cabin 

With its many windows vista

But it was something to see

The building boxed in by trees

That took most of the day to cut

Innuendo

Curious-lady always used to think every

Man in the village was a peeping-tom

Until she decided, in fact, who was her

Peeping-tom. Since Curious-lady lived

With her mother and was attractive with

A pink ribbon often trailed off in her

Chestnut hair we liked visiting with 

Her while tolerating these lame brain

Stories of nocturnal visitors she got-a-

Good-look-at-this-time. More often than

Not she would stop in the middle of a

Conversation and ask us pinpointedly

Just who was that woman or man we

Were with the last time she saw us and

When satisfied would nod her head and

You could almost see her gears turning.

Months even years later Curious-lady would

Remind us about our friends as if waiting

To hear a little more, needling some secret.

The peeping-tom in the village was a little

Guy who had a lowly government job in town.

His wife was nuts and kept a human scale

Baby doll in a glass top coffee table in their

House and a life-size doll in colonial dress

Out by the old stone water well. It’s too much

To think about. Though Curious-lady when got 

Going liked to talk about how peeping-tom 

Dressed the doll and other cruel innuendo. 

This is somewhat of a clue how folks made

It through these long dark winters.

Rule of Thumb

don’t stay

long in

any

town

with

out a

real

hard

ware

store

_______________

Bob Arnold

Yokel

Longhouse

2011

TOYS, DREAMS ~

Toys, Dreams



Tonight my mother was born



her infant cry

filled our house

at the outskirts



bathed and so clean

I wrapped her

                        in a diaper

and laid her in a crib



from the corner I brought

toys

         blew twice

into a small plastic trumpet



Made the black wooden horse rock



____________________

Novica Tadic
Night Mail: Selected Poems
translated by Charles Simic
Oberlin College Press

WALKING TO EXTREMES ~

R E A D      M E

McPherson & Company

2008

SUFI ~

I M M E R S E

Shambhala

1996

LONG DREAMS ~

She climbed Everest nine times

and set a world record – so why doesn’t she have sponsors?

C L I M B

photograph ~
Kayana Szymczak/The Guardian

LAURA VAN DEN BERG ~

I N T E R V I E W

UNDERLAND ~

R E A D      M E

Norton

2019

IDA O' KEEFFE ~

I D A    O'  K E E F F E

Dallas Museum of Art

Yale

2018

YOKEL ( 3 ) ~

Earrings

He’d plow snow

All his life and

First with his

Father lights

Whipping the

Woods recall

From a heated

Cab tonight

Coffee thermos

Between the legs

And his own

Two boys riding

Along no matter

How late but damn

Things are getting

Strange how he’d

Never seen a woman

So pretty on this

Back road nor with

Four earrings in

Each ear and her

Friend had one

Stuck through

Her nose

Poet

Poet came to visit us from Arizona —

Not a country boy but with poet causes. 

He stood right up in the Howard 

Johnson’s next to our table and

Where his bus had come in and

Did a little routine that still

Makes me laugh. 

Back home in our woods 

Where he stayed a week

Poet wanted me to show 

Him how to split wood,

And then in the evening

Walking the flickering

Darkness of fireflies he

Asked, what were those?

Stars

Bigger as the night got later.

Nearing winter.

I’d walk out last thing of the day.

Bring in two armloads of stovewood.

For the next morning.

That’s when I heard the gunshots.

Unreal. In the middle of nowhere.

Louder than anything I’ve heard for weeks.

Native knew I could hear him jacking deer.

No one else in the world was down here.

One of those things we never talked about.

Occupied

Early morning

Walk into

The woodlot

Where birds sing

Soon enough

Our voices and

Sound of bow saws

Where birds sing

Where birds sing

We stop work and

Listen awhile

Until we sing

_______________

Bob Arnold

Yokel

Longhouse

2011

CRAWFORD, SAVOY, SUGAR ~

Before coming to Vermont at twenty years of age

I was raised in the Berkshire hills and around

the New Hampshire White Mountains.

Recently Longhouse went back on a road

tour to some favorite locations ~

Crawford Notch coming in from the south

on the edge of Savoy, Massachusetts

and looking to the White Mountains

from where Robert Frost had a peek

in Sugar Hill, N.H.

VASKO POPA ~

In the Village of My Ancestors



Someone hugs me

Someone looks at me with the eyes of a wolf

Someone takes off his hat

So I can see him better



Everyone asks me

Do you know how I'm related to you



Unknown old men and women

Appropriate the names

Of young men and women in my memory



I ask one among them

Tell me for God's sake

Is George the Wolf still alive



That's me one answers

With a voice from beyond the grave



I touch his cheek with my hand

And beg him with my eyes

To tell me if I'm alive too




translated by Charles Simic


______________

Vasko Popa
New York Review of Books
2019

JAMES TATE'S LAST POEMS ~

M A T T H E W     Z A P R U D E R

Ecco

2019

The Government Lake

BY JAMES TATE

          The way to the toy store was blocked by a fallen tree

in the road. There was a policeman directing traffic down a

side street. I asked him, “What happened?” He said, “Lightning

in the night.” I took the turn and drove down the street

looking for a way to turn back. Other streets were blocked by

fallen trees, and I couldn’t find a way back to the toy store.

I kept driving and soon I was on the outskirts of town. I

got on a highway and drove, soon forgetting the toy store and

what I was supposed to get there. I drove on as if I was hypno-

tized, not noticing the signs for turnoffs. I must have driven

a couple of hours before I woke up, then I took the next exit

and had no idea where I was. I drove down a straight tree-lined

lane with farm houses on either side. There was a lake at the

end of the lane. I pulled over and parked. I got out and

started walking. There were several docks along the shore.

I walked out on one and watched the ducks swimming and diving.

There was something bobbing in the middle of the lake. I stared

at it for a long time before I realized it was a man’s head.

Then, a moment later, it was a coconut. No, it was an old tire

floating right side up. I gave up and started following the

ducks. They would suddenly fly up and circle the lake and

come down and splash land again. It was quite entertaining.

A man walked up behind me and said, “This government lake is

off-limits to the public. You’ll have to leave.” I said,

“I didn’t know it was a government lake. Why should it be

off-limits?” He said, “I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave.”

“I don’t even know where I am,” I said. “You’ll still have

to leave,” he said. “What about that man out there?” I said,

pointing to the tire. “He’s dead,” he said. “No, he’s not.

I just saw him move his arm,” I said. He removed his pistol from

his holster and fired a shot. “Now he’s dead,” he said.

Poetry, 2019

DUNCAN MCNAUGHTON ~

~ Look What Came In The Morning Mail ~

Somewhere in the Stream

Duncan McNaughton

Blue Press

126 Washburn Ave.

Santa  Cruz, CA

95060

_____________________

Hocus Locus Focus.      Pocus

Back in the 20th century he

was dating a chorine on the side, he'd

meet her at the stage door with an armful.

So he was blooey for a girl with shapely

legs, so buttons. Of florigens. From Brooklyn.

Dating in the sense that made sense back in

those days, radio sense in the carbon

sense on the bedside table. No remote,

nothing clamorous, nothing to get to

the point of, other than the two Jacks.

Kerouac was Bob, Spicer, Ray. Live on

The Great Black Way, as live as Kafka's ears,

Cocteau's smoke rings, Mayakovsky's, for

example, ascot. After they'd hunted

down Guevara and mutilated his

corpse — well, he couldn't get to sleep with her,

he couldn't get to sleep without her. Nets

kept him awake, the passions of heroes.

______________

Barrientes Barbie

JOHN KOETHE ~

Fear of the Future



In the end one simply withdraws

From others and time, one's own time,

Becoming an imaginary Everyman

Inhabiting a few rooms, personifying

The urge to tend one's garden,

A character of no strong attachments

Who made nothing happen, and to whom

Nothing ever actually happened — a fictitious

Man whose life was over from the start,

Like a diary or a daybook whose poems

And stories told the same story over

And over again, or no story. The pictures

And paintings hang crooked on the walls,

The limbs beneath the sheets are frail and cold

And morning is an exercise in memory

Of a long failure, and of the years

Mirrored in the face of the immaculate

Child who can't believe he's old.



______________
John Koethe
Walking Backwards
Poems 1966-2016
Farrar, 2018

BURROUGHS ~

W I L L I A M   S.   B U R R O U G H S

Texas

2019