Getting the feeling out

IF IT HAPPENS, IT HAPPENS LIKE THIS: 

November by Keaton St. James

[Poem transcript: ”in the city at night, the buildings gleam whiter than milk teeth. buses pass me, packed full with people who today have laughed or wept or sang, danced around the kitchen with their good news or carried their bad news with them into the rain, asking sorrows to turn

cloud-gray, rise, dissolve. tonight i walk alone to the river & lean over the railings of the observation deck. streetlamp reflections churn golden swirls into the black current: the only constellations that have learned how to shine through the light pollution. i promise myself

take and eat, taste and see (wilt 2)

'Driving Home at Dusk in June'

inspired by a sweet post by a beloved mutual!

(ID in read more)

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas, how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took questions on how not to feel lost in the dark After lunch she distributed worksheets that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep without feeling you had forgotten to do something else— something important—and how to believe the house you wake in is your home. This prompted Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks, and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts are all you hear; also, that you have enough. The English lesson was that I am is a complete sentence. And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions, and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking for whatever it was you lost, and one person add up to something.

Odysseus rested on his oar and saw The ruffled foreheads of the waves Crocodiling and mincing past: he rammed The oar between their jaws and looked down In the simmering sea where scribbles of weed defined Uncertain depth, and the slim fishes progressed In fatal formation, and thought                                                          If there was a single Streak of decency in these waves now, they’d be ridged Pocked and dented with the battering they’ve had, And we could name them as Adam named the beasts, Saluting a new one with dismay, or a notorious one With admiration; they’d notice us passing And rejoice at our shipwreck, but these Have less character than sheep and need more patience.

I know what I’ll do he said; I’ll park my ship in the crook of a long pier (and I’ll take you with me he said to the oar) I’ll face the rising ground and walk away From tidal waters, up riverbeds Where herons parcel out the miles of stream, Over gaps in the hills, through warm Silent valleys, and when I meet a farmer Bold enough to look me in the eye With ‘where are you off to with that long Winnowing fan over your shoulder?’ There I will stand still And I’ll plant you for a gatepost or a hitching-post And leave you as a tidemark. I can go back And organize my house then.

NO ROOM FOR TWO., ryn selene

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