The North Coast times-eagle., May 01, 2004, Page 11, Image 11

P A G E 11
N O R T H C O A S T T IM E S E A G L E , MAY/JUNE 2004
I was only
marginally
there.
I hung back
hearing words
spoken
through
darkness
into darkness
and bracing
for the break
Inside
still woods,
I sing silence
knowing,
knowing
that the
skip and miss
is a shallow
breath
away
in the reaches
of your eyes —
a brittle echo
breaching
sanctuary.
HAYDEN DEUFEL
c o p p e r s o il
Ah, but if
you loved me,
in cool glades
we could rest.
And I would
let fall
my veil
of shards
walking
freely past
the dragging
boughs of
memory
into sunlight,
fully new.
Let me
call you
to the strength
of morning.
With words
shaped in
the circle
of my arms.
I hold for you
a healing
of fresh wonders
and clear sight.
THE ANSWER
i dug deep into those autumn-colored roots of olive
and burnished chestnut, so
i could find rocks stained with sky (you know that copper soil)
and keep them in my dusty chamber that wind (rain, storm,
ducks on wing, afternoon smooth as cream, white sky, stars on black ice) —
couldn’t get to them,
but it found me, stained in soil (and 4pm sunset, and aching throat,
fly away now, tangled ivy on pinching bare cold rock, those russet hills,
taste of earth on lips),
tearing root from weed from ground, disconnecting nature’s wires,
not pliers but bare hands (cold white pale damp fingers, rims of dirt under slim-
crescent fingernails) to blame
when i was off there, you know, and though some say
i should i can’t see the stars in the flag they burned into ash on the streets
Leaving the house,
the house will be
left completely,
from cellar to
attic my absence
entire.
Do I enter the world
the same,
my presence felt
from cloud
to ditch?
Only in departure whole.
Arrival
is always partial.
-MARGIT LIA BOWLER
Margit Bowler is 14 and a freshman at Astoria High School. Her poem “copper soil” won second
place in Category IV (grades 9-12) of the 2004 annual Oregon Student Poetry Contest, which
is sponsored by the Oregon State Poetry Association, and is one of ten poems from Oregon to
be entered in the Senior Division of the Manningham Student Awards competition sponsored by
the National. Federation of State Poetry Societies Inc. She is the first student in Oregon to win
a fourth award in the annual state contest.
-BILL KNOTT
DEPTH PERCEPTION
NO VIOLINS
(VIOLENCE IS WRONG)
-ANON
On the porch nextdoor,
in the traditional vein,
barbecue smoke billows,
and hisses in the rain
-BENJAMIN EDWARD JEREMIAH
-TERESA BARNES
Ah, and if „<•»
you lovedme.., >
A
* £
MEMORIAL DAY
-JOAN MAIERS
the trees long for change
whispering they choose new roles
as goblins or kings
Immerse
yourself.
Come from
the river
no longer
a hunter
in hunger.
Rise!
Your body
unbent
by anger —
your mind
gone from
regrets —
your heart
to the
sparrow
singing,
singing
of open skies
and easy flight.
This poem was wntten in pencil on the back o f wallpaper
from an Astona house that was deconstructed. Liam Dunne,
who helped take the house apart, found the poem. He read
it aloud on KM UN recently and asked if it was familiar to
anyone listening and if they might know the poet’s identity.
Liam believes the poem is an onginal and that the poet will
remain eternally Anon.
Mud shows no character in these waters.
It defies scansion,
but lapis deeps carry
treasure for any kingfisher.
The ready shore bracelets the pressure
slapping against this place,
draws a line around the endangered
as well as the spirits that lift off gray surfaces.
Gravity marks the stares of the skeptic;
pharaoh foundering in the bulrushes must have counted
every bassinet before claiming
the abandoned infant.
You are powerful,
I am powerful too!
You think revolution is change,
I think revolution is acceptance.
For you the revolution is coming,
For me the revolution is here.
Hold firm to what you believe;
For it is the tree that will ground you when
The propaganda comes.
GET READY FOR CLASS WARFARE
But remember violins is wrong!
Without
compromise
and beyond
loss,
it is
my fullest wish
to watch you
naked
past fear
in the truth
of
your first self.
Listen.
In stillness,
a hundred,
hundred voices
drift
away.
Remaining
is the one
pure note
in which
your life
began.
Let go
the stones
of circumstances.
Two generations of papa's
in long black raincoats wet,
cook meat and sneak smoke stogies,
till their mamas see, I bet,
JOHN NY POTSEED
PSALM 104:14, "He causeth the grass for
the cattle, and herb for the service of man. ”
like hobos cookin redmeat,
alongside universal tracks,
in soggy, loyal tribute,
to those not coming back...
-THEDA SPRACKLIN
G E N E S IS
Laurel & Hardy at the mouth of a cave,
Abbot & Costello tending the fire,
Marie Dressier picking a raspberry off a nearby bush,
and the Dead End Kids gnawing on bones.
Mae West sampling a bit of wild deer.
Mmm, she is saying, pas mal. Now, Arnold Schwarzenegger,
coming home from the hills, is dragging behind him
the carcass of his archenemy, Sylvester Stallone.
A dinosaur or two wandering about in search of
Bamum & Bailey. Maria Ouspenskaya, sitting on a rock,
and remembering, in terror, the Great Ice Age. B-r-r, she is saying,
it was so cold even the Wolf Man died.
Then a ripple of rain in a neon sky,
Peking Man singing “April Showers,”
Java Man scribbling more of "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu,”
and the Mutant Ninja Turtles, deep in the dark of the cave,
painting on the wall of the cave, “The Last Supper.”
Plant that herb,
Spread that seed
Compassion and sense
Is what we need
Cultivate cannabis
Far and wide
Out in the private
Countryside
Not near roads
Or in ditches
Make them spend that money
Those sons of bitches!
The war on drugs
Will be waged with peace
They spend our billions
We plant our seeds
When the world returns
To happier times
We’ll charge them all
With their heinous crimes
PRAYER TO GRANDFATHER RIVER
Ancient waters, what wonders thou hast seen?
Thou hast watched mountains grow and wither away.
Thou hast helped to carry their memory to the mighty ocean.
Thou hast fought great battles with their molten rock
and had to learn new paths
Thy water has been the blood of a million beasts, the
sap of countless plants
Across the eons thou hast flowed ever strongly from
mountain snow to ocean breakers.
Thou hast watched as life came in new forms and
returned to the soil.
Thou hast carried them in thy embrace to the sea and
watched as their being returned again in the form of
rivers of fire.
Carry on mighty river and with the blessings of the
Great Spirit may you flow until the Earth itself finally
returns to the sky from which it came
-KYLE HOLGATE
-ROBERT MAZZOCCO
-D BOUGHAN