15 April

SAY WHAT
1992, 2011

I am going to practice
taking note of what I say,
not what I mean,
or think I mean,
or say I didn’t mean
when I don’t care for
some response I get.

14 April

TOO LITTLE TOO LATE
2008, 2011

When a mutual friend,
whom she had been just about to inform
that news of him
was the last thing she wanted,

told her that he had said, in reference to her,
“I so screwed up,”
she found herself aloof,
dispassionate, barely curious

which of his multitude
of indefensible actions
he might finally be beginning
to acknowledge,

and she knew for sure she was done with, over, gone.

13 April

Rickshaws in the Snow
for Marta

Note: The Polish city whose name is generally written in English as Lodz actually has diacritical marks gracing three of its four letters in Polish, and these make it sound like “Woodge.” You are likely to encounter rickshaws – rikszy in Polish – if you visit, which I highly recommend.

I know the game
of hide and seek
with spring,
last year’s leaves
rustling in a tree
while this year’s
sruggle to unfurl
in a wind I do not feel
down on the ground as we turn
the corner
onto the long stretch
of the street
that people think of
if they think
of Woodge at all.

I know how summer
hovers suddenly,
briefly in between.

I know the thorough
chill of autumn
on November’s
Independence Day
as I shiver in the rush
of air against
the bicycle that bears us
south down the old part
of Piotrkowska
no one cares about.

But I yearn to know
the cold that settles in to stay,
the slushy muddy tracks
of three wheels plying
their way up and down
the long straight street
shaped by twin hidden rivers.
I dream of pedalling my own
rickshaw in the snow.

4 April

Before The Maze
1996

The sky is so wide I can see past any storm.
I have such desire for union, but I am alone here.

It is called The Neck, a narrow ridge dividing two vast families of canyons.
When we met, I was not paying enough attention.

Red, rough-hewn temples, cryptogamic earth, the mysterious marriage.
There is nothing more important than commitment.

Flash flood, water crashing down the sky, down the gutters, down my neck.
I hate it that I must leave everything behind.

We are overlooking the earth falling away, away down canyon after rivulet.
When I lost the canyons, I lost my voice.

Forgive me for my trespasses into your sanctuary.
The Flint Trail, jagged, steep, where we stood at the top afraid,

before the rain washed the road away.

2 April

The alchemy of language
2006

William, I too rise early,
write poems every morning.
I set my standards low, and wait
until later to tinker with what comes
to me, what always comes, the way
the river flows to me, the woods
gather in grace around me.
But that is all we have
in common. Though I long
to write the mystery and magic
coursing through each molecule,
each moment, William, I am sick and stuck.
Not so far from your tranquil Lake Oswego
lurk the trailer parks on 82nd Avenue
that I escape daily but only
for an hour or so by
following your example.
Show me the way further, William,
take me beyond the Clackamas County
line, get me out of Felony Flats,
give me something to write
about besides addiction,
failed get-rich-quick schemes,
small betrayals, fistfights in tavern
parking lots, scrap metal, children with wary eyes
and dirt and snot smeared under their noses.
Make me a new life. Teach me the alchemy
of language, shine the light up ahead
to where the curtain finally falls
on this sad, sordid, stupid
white-trash drama.

1 April

Just look,

the blossoms
on the cherry trees
entreat,
even if this year
you think that you’re
past caring.
You don’t have to feel
a thing, they promise.

And so, against
my better judgment,
at the edges
of my damp, stolid
scaffolding
of a soul,
gentle mysteries
begin to stir,
unfold.

2006

31 March

BECOMING A WALRUS
Blagoveshchensk, Russia
2003, 2011

In Russia, they call the people who dunk themselves in icy rivers morzhei, “walruses.” When I scampered up the ladder through the hole in the foot-thick ice on the Zeya after a swift immersion, I was christened Morzhishka, which I like to translate as “Dear Little Walrus.”

I don’t like getting wet or cold, but I needed to do something significant. The heirs to the KGB had confiscated my passport for “Illegal Journalism,” and expelled me from the country I had called home for a year and a half. I was trying to view this as an inconvenience and not a catastrophe.

It’s magical thinking, of course, but when they reconsidered and let me stay, it crossed my mind that this was a fair trade for making a commitment to do something I was sure I wouldn’t like one bit.

Strangest of all, I ended up liking it a lot. Not only those few seconds when I was submerged, but also the fuss of three Russian matrons getting me dry and dressed warmly, and the thermos of tea on the ride home, and telling this story to so many amazed listeners, and writing it just now for you.