CHARLEY PLYMELL, HAPPY BIRTHDAY ~

 

CHARLES   PLYMELL

! H A P P Y    B I R T H D A Y !

Poet

Publisher

Printer

Native

Born April 26, 1935

Holcomb, Kansas

"The only way to stay out

of trouble is to grow old"

Orson Welles

The Lady From Shanghai

photograph by Mark Reinertson

Charley sent it to me last weekend

CHERRY VALLEY EDITIONS (ARCHIVE) ~

Something wonderful I recently pulled out of the archive —

the catalog of books once upon a time published by

Cherry Valley Editions.

Charles and Pamela Plymell, and back when they

published my first book of poems Rope of Bells (1974),

Joshua Norton was also part of the merry printing pranksters.

Some may recall Charley Plymell was one of the first to

publish then unknown R. Crumb. 

As I recall my book was published in 250 copies and 

went out of print almost immediately, 

I'm not sure why, no one knew me at all,

except Pam, who I was in regular correspondence with,

and in each letter I tucked in another poem.

Pam had a plan.

The CVE little books were printed by xerox on kraft paper —

ingenuous as far as I'm concerned — stapled and

light and easy to move along and to this

day I covet the copies I own.

Charles & Pamela Plymell

1966

Cherry Valley Editions

LAMP ~

Lamp

After supper

No longer summer

A windy night ahead

We sit in the kitchen

One lamp

Read before the fire

Nothing else in our lives

Boots drying

Rain on the windows

Finding Open Water

There are these things

That make lovely creatures

More lovely —

A red-tailed hawk sweeps

From one moment of the hillside

To another

Rising mist will not lose him

  

3 deer wade into the shoulder of a field

They feel safe in the holler of rain

Then you, rolling up your pants

Before a bicycle ride

Your hair just touching the ground

I tell you I will do something with that

Your smile makes the beginning of all this

Loss

Put no trust in nothing, not even yourself

Yesterday was like summer, today snow blows

I’ve walked six miles with an axe and wedge

Actually make my living near a river running bright water

Home to a small hawk found mangled in the woodshed

Eyes opening, I load my rifle but won’t use it

Instead talk with the closest thing to me right now

Heavy gloves moving back short feathers

The break in its neck, claws no use, eyes closing

Rope of Bells

It is the

Rope of bells

You have put behind the door

That let me know

Whenever one of us goes

To the privy

The woodshed

The outdoors

Lovely

 

 
 

 _____________________

Bob Arnold
some of these poems were first published in
Rope of Bells
CHERRY VALLEY EDITIONS