Writings
Thin Newlands rain
Remember when you wanted to be a poet
And you made us walk in the thin Newlands rain
For inspiration or something.
We passed a steakhouse with fire and people inside
Where only those with money went to
Sit beside the well-dressed ghosts from the empty mansions
On the other side of the railway line, you said.
And all you could afford was a 50-cent pizza on Main
Which you shared with me
In the thin Newlands rain.
You seemed happy then.
Remember when you said you’d be a rock star
As we sat on a wet railway bench waiting for a train
that snaked silently into the dark station
when it came
We missed it then but hoped for another
As we fastened our coats to keep out the cold and rain
And all the butterflies had already become ragged moths
with broken wings
That floated on rivulets of rain and stole our time, but
we didn’t know.
As you strummed the invisible strings of your guitar
and hummed a beautiful song that no-one ever heard but me
In the thin Newlands rain.
You seemed so happy then.
Remember when you wanted to be a movie star
as we left my room on the hill and your eyes sparkled
with fame
when the old man next doors said your beauty reminded him
of Ava Gardner.
I had no idea who she was
But you reached up and kissed his cheek
Making him happy and me love you even more
as your dream came true in that instant.
That night you danced like a crazy starlet on that wet
Saturday street
And sang your song that painted colour across a gloomy
sky
In the thin Newlands rain.
You seemed so happy then.
I remember coming back from the dust of that faraway war
Thinking I’d find you out in that thin Newlands rain
Singing your poetry that sparkled in the night.
But it didn’t rain, and you weren’t there.
The guns are silent but not the ghosts that I dance with
now
And this morning I cut a lock of my hair just like you
used to do
And tossed it into the troubled wind to see where it
would go
And I knew it then that I’d never hear your song again
nor the words of your poem as you danced like crazy
In the thin Newlands rain.
I hope you are happy.
The calling
I sit silent as the child and still on the roof
my good eye tracing with pain and hunger
and the sense of hibernating
satisfaction the path of my ancient Michigan moon
as it bulges and drifts behind the trees
above a quiet marsh that stretches far beside the
darkened woods inviting all of the birds
for a respectful playful silent noisy fly-by and
as I hear the bones rattle and grind in this
burnt and brittle ground I know
I have been called to paint my canvas
with a Chinese poem – I take my vows,
you said, you poet of the north a grizzled bear.
Now the night sets upon me with a sweaty grip
and I feel the ripples of a different range of ancient
hills
run wildly through my strangled bed as dogs
bark in the wild old night I see the same moon rise
and drift like Eybers’ soap bubble sliding in
behind the trees as drums are beat and
dreams go clear and dead ones again appear
– I have been called.
(Based partially on the radio
interview Joseph Bednarik did with
Jim Harrison on his poetry and
published in Five Points at http://www.webdelsol.com/Five_Points/issues/v6n2/harrison.html
– Table View 10 July 2012)
Where death may hide
So you thought death lay
waiting in the craggy stone
or in the chemical taste
of yellow powder
you saw it sneaking beyond
the shadows of the pale
limping callously within
the sniggers of revenge.
Once you saw it linger in
the plunge of metal
embracing the convulsions
of the dislodged heart
or so you thought it was simply
just the fog that veiled
the utter blackness of the
poisoned liquid night.
You never saw it seek you
out from inside the
safe embrace of love
divine, you never knew that horror
stooped inside such gentle
art.
