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Lost and Found
LETTER
J. Richert
I left you at seven this morning
in the parking lot of the bakery,
a warni vv ind from the ocean
and the darkness as companions.
THE BLUE MOON TAVERN,
CIRCA 1990
The wall across from me is plastered with stall
that’s been there a long, long time:
formal 1910 portraits
a generic postcard from Montana,
bar codes and all, another
from New Mexico, a view ol Deception Pass
next to a Smithsonian cover.
and a big map of the British Isles
w uh someone’s ten-speed propped up on Scotland,
"EAT TH E RICH” in red.
1 can breathe in here though 1 hadn l expected to.
1 just wanted to run in and out in search ol my past,
but it must have been the smoke ol the Rainbow next d un
that I escaped so oltcn with my eyes sticanting.
It doesn’ t matter really vv hether 1 was ever here.
It doesn’t matter who was here
or how different everyone is from me,
or how many legends hang thick in this an.
For a while I just need to come here every day.
1 just need to sit at every table and look at every thing
I nev cr cared about even then.
I want to drink my coffee here w hile 1 can,
w here the turnover is slow
and nobody’s polishing anything.
1 drove up highway 26
w ith the smell of your whisky
and tobacco permeating
my car, my clothes.
And then 1 heard that Hugo died,
and, they said, at the height.
Warm from your bed, 1 find it hard
to believe that Hugo w ill no longer
w rite of lovers, or drunks he sutlers lor.
1 never got to argue with him
as I do w ith you
about the nature of pain
and the pleasure some poets
get from it.
Bit I would probably have tailed
vv ith him as 1 do with you.
1 could only have watched him
let his v ision extract
its last bitter price.
1 don’t even know
w hat more 1 want to tell you.
There’s no ending to this letter,
no ending to our struggle
to resist each other’s vision
even vv hile we keep on w ishing
to be seen.
Elizabeth Hobbs
Elizabeth Hobbs
VIEWPOINTS
This ocean loves pretty things
You've heard of sailors lured from their shipboard watch,
Seen beachfront dreamhomes pulled from their foundations
But small things don't escape her notice either.
Every summer I add a piece of jewelry to her trove,
Thinking myself the keeper
When I wits only the bearer.
Like a fool I return each year bringing gifts
A blown glass bottle on a silk cord,
Half a pair of hammered silver squares
And this year a thin strand of turquoise beads.
In my distraction she topped the clasp
And the trick went unnoticed
But true to my race, human as I am
I drug myself from sleep
Determined to keep what was mine
And traced my way as best I could
There, standing before her sunrise glory
She dared me to shuffle head down
Seeking a trille in the sand
I persisted.
She turned her head and cast a thousand shadows
Through the morning's prism.
How much do you love this vanity?
I scowl and shake my fist and hurry out of sight.
Oh I know of the beachcombing horde,
With senses tuned to bits of shell
And bargains in the shops
And 1 eye the seabird sidewise
Imagining a knotted treasure in the gut
Like the gold ring in Solomon's fish.
But I know it was her,
For when I got home
I found this poem in my pocket.
~ M A
SHE WHOM 1 DEEM BEAUTIFUL
We could blow up the moon, he said.
That would change everything.
She of course agreed, shuddering.
He grew excited, seeing his plan
as progress, moderating the seasons
and the weather, and new Eden.
finds an old snapshot
she cannot believ e to be hersell.
She is amazed to find her young self lovely.
Forty years of slow looking have not led her
to value her exquisite porcelain present.
And thus 1 ask her:
She remembered the wide beach
w hen the moon-driven tide retreats
leaving a smooth warm bed
with light enough for tracing
the spidery-silk roads love trav els.
Was the Ming vase more delicate w hen new ly fired,
the Rembrandt more to be prized
before the ink was dry?
TRILLIUM
4 NATURÆLïWDS
&
Elizabeth Hobbs
May 17, 1995
She closed her eyes to the blithe darkness
he created and mourned the loss
of moonrise,
the silv er hope hanging in night trees—
-
<
Elizabeth Hobbs
May 23, 1992
Friends of the
Columbia Gorge
BAPTISM
Thev named you Ophelia, lov ely liquid name,
though thev didn’t know what it meant.
And when your hair w as long enough to Boat,
they found a tall thin man of God
to hold y ou under the waters ol a muddy stream
until vou knew that sin was not to be trilled with
but sanctity made the chest ache and the breath come hard.
319 SW Washington, Suite 301
Portland, Oregon 97204
45
^-■---'■■■■■■11 ITT I
0
JIM WEATHERS
»
W HEEL P R E S S , INC.
2 8 S.W. I st A venue
Portland, Oregon 9 7 2 0 4
(503) 22 3 -4 0 2 7
10th Anniversary of the
Columbia Gorge Notional Scenic Area
Jo.vnn Honeyman
Anhur Honeyman
H O P E L. H A R R IS
Ophelia, sent harshly into the universal nunnery ,
expand your lungs, braid up youi stieanung han.
Sw im harder aw ay.
T he Isr H ar vesi F o lk A re F estival
Elizabeth Hobbs
May 14, 1988
Rainy Pay Artistry
OREGON
A N T IQ U A R IA N
holesale screenprinting:,///
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ats, & bumper stickers,
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738-8877
Portland, OR
HOURS: Friday 3-9 Saturday 11 6
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STEVE HAUGEN
JIM HAUGEN
"cKome 3s Whete Vhe / l i t 3s"
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1996
10:00 AM - 5:00 PM
Downtown Seaside & Quatat Park
C o n ta c t J u n e W a r n e r for in fo rm atio n
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