Landscapes

New Corn

Roots

by John Piller

Mendota, Illinois

It's easy to believe you can go back
Whenever you desire, jump in the car
And drive, arrive at dusk—the hour

   You recall most vividly—and walk
Among the buildings spread across the farm,
Out toward the pastures, woods, and fields.

   There is music in the leaves, in the dense
Columns of green corn. The wind lays down
The tune. You can play it, too, simply

   By walking with eyes closed, arms
Stretched out, lightly striking the stalks.
Who wouldn't desire, like the children

   Lost in so many similar fields,
To sit down on the turned earth and drift
Away on the rhythms of his own

   First possible death? Rescuing
Voices come closer, veer off. Flashlight beams
Strobe over your head. You do not care.

   Each building you remember—hen house,
Sheep shed, corn crib, barn—caved in upon itself,
The walls and roofs collapsing with a final

   Percussive clap, since you last walked those fields.
No one you will ever know works that land now.
It is as green as Eden. Life rises in the roots, in the leaves.

No Vacancy

The Other Place

by William Logan

The leaves had fallen in that sullen place,
but none around him knew just where they were.
The sky revealed no sun. A ragged blur
remained where each man's face had been a face.

Two angels soon crept forth with trays of bread,
circling among the lost like prison guards.
Love is not love, unless its will affords
forgiveness for the words that are not said.

Still he could not believe that this was Hell,
that others sent before him did not know;
yet, once his name and memory grew faint,
it was no worse, perhaps, than a cheap motel.
It is the love of failure makes a saint.
He stood up then, but did not try to go.

Scoreless

Baseball and Classicism

by Tom Clark

Every day I peruse the box scores for hours
Sometimes I wonder why I do it
Since I am not going to take a test on it
And no one is going to give me money

The pleasure’s something like that of codes
Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say
So as brightly to picturize Eurydice
In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day

The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

Hartline Washington,USA

<!–StartFragment–>Don't wanna live in the city,
City is way too full.
I just wanna be where I can sleep
with both of my eyes closed.

Don't wanna live in the country,
I can't afford no farm.
So I'm in this little town, and I look around,
And there ain't that much to do.

[chorus:]
Let's go down to the cafe and count feedcaps,
and count feedcaps, in a row.
Red and blue and green over the coffee cups,
Stirrin' easy, fadin' slow.

JoAnn, you know how much I love you,
That's why I brought you here.
Where the rent is cheap and the fishin's good,
When it don't rain too much.

What is this look in your eyes, dear?
Are you tired of me?
You don't wanna read; nothin's on TV,
Don't look at your suitcase like that.

 

 Greg Brown  'Counting Feedcaps'

Cliff Ave

Home Fire

by Linda Parsons Marion

Whether on the boulevard or gravel backroad,
I do not easily raise my hand to those who toss
up theirs in anonymous hello, merely to say
“I’m passing this way.” Once out of shyness, now
reluctance to tip my hand, I admire the shrubbery
instead. I’ve learned where the lines are drawn
and keep the privet well trimmed. I left one house
with toys on the floor for another with quiet rugs
and a bed where the moon comes in. I’ve thrown
myself at men in black turtlenecks only to find
that home is best after all. Home where I sit
in the glider, knowing it needs oil, like my own
rusty joints. Where I coax blackberry to dogwood
and winter to harvest, where my table is clothed
in light. Home where I walk out on the thin page
of night, without waving or giving myself away,
and return with my words burning like fire in the grate.

Original Eco Car

Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River

by Robert Bly

    I

I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.

The stubble field catches the last growth of sun.
The soybeans are breathing on all sides.
Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats
In the small towns. I am happy,
The moon rising above the turkey sheds.

    II

The small world of the car

Plunges through the deep fields of the night,
On the road from Willmar to Milan.
This solitude covered with iron
Moves through the fields of night
Penetrated by the noise of crickets.

    III

Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,

And water kneeling in the moonlight.
In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;
The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass.
When I reach the river, the full moon covers it.
A few people are talking, low, in a boat.

Heaven and Earth

"Behold, the grave of a wicked man" by Stephen Crane Behold, the grave of a wicked man, And near it, a stern spirit. There came a drooping maid with violets, But the spirit grasped her arm. “No flowers for him,” he said. The maid wept: “Ah, I loved him.” But the spirit, grim and frowning: “No flowers for him.” Now, this is it — If the spirit was just, Why did the maid weep?

Far and Away

The Road and the End

by Carl Sandburg

I shall foot it
Down the roadway in the dusk,
Where shapes of hunger wander
And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it
In the silence of the morning,
See the night slur into dawn,
Hear the slow great winds arise
Where tall trees flank the way
And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road
Shall not commemorate my ruin.
Regret shall be the gravel under foot.
I shall watch for
Slim birds swift of wing
That go where wind and ranks of thunder
Drive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the travelled road
Shall touch my hands and face.

Out of Gas

Out of gas    Out of road    Out of car     I don't know how I'm going to go and I had a drink the other day    Opinions were like kittens I was giving them away      I had a drink the other day      I had a lot to say     And I said:  You will come down soon too  You will come down too soon   You will come down soon too    Soon enough you will come down, come down     You will come down soon too      You will come down too soon        You'll come down, come down      You'll come down, come down

 

 Modest Mouse