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Sidekicks
by Ron Koertge
They were never handsome and often came
with a hormone imbalance manifested by corpulence,
a yodel of a voice or ears big as kidneys.
But each was brave. More than once a sidekick
has thrown himself in front of our hero in order
to receive the bullet or blow meant for that
perfect face and body.
Thankfully, heroes never die in movies and leave
the sidekick alone. He would not stand for it.
Gabby or Pat, Pancho or Andy remind us of a part
of ourselves,
the dependent part that can never grow up,
the part that is painfully eager to please,
always wants a hug and never gets enough.
Who could sit in a darkened theatre, listen
to the organ music and watch the best
of ourselves lowered into the ground while
the rest stood up there, tears pouring off
that enormous nose.
"Sidekicks" by Ron Koertge, from Life on the Edge of the Continent. © University of Arkansas Press, 1982.
How happy is the little Stone
by Emily Dickinson
How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—
It's the birthday of the poet C.K. Williams , born in Newark, New Jersey (1936). His two greatest passions in high school were girls and basketball. He was a good basketball player, 6 feet 5 inches, and he was recruited to play in college. But then he wrote a poem for a girl he was trying to impress, and she was actually impressed, and so he decided he should be a poet instead. He dropped out of college to move to Paris because that's where he thought a poet ought to live. He didn't write at all while he was there, but he did realize that he didn't know anything and should probably go back to college. He said: "It was an incredibly important time. Not much happened and yet my life began then. I discovered the limits of loneliness." He went back and graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, and started publishing books of poetry, books like Tar (1983), Flesh and Blood (1987), and The Singing (2003), which won the National Book Award. (From The Writer's Almanac.)
Commuter Buddhist
by Jeffrey Harrison
I'm learning to be a Buddhist in my car,
listening to a book on tape. One problem
is that, before I've gotten very far,
my mind gradually becomes aware
that it has stopped listening, straying from
the task of becoming a Buddhist in my car.
I'm also worried that listening will impair
my driving, as the package label cautions,
but I haven't noticed that, at least so far.
In fact, I may be driving with more care.
There's a sensation of attentive calm
that's part of becoming a Buddhist in your car.
A soothing voice drones on until the car
is transformed into a capsule of wisdom
traveling at high speed, and you feel far
from anywhere but where you really are ...
which is nowhere, really. The biggest problem
is getting the Buddhism out of your car
and into your life. I've failed at that so far.
"Commuter Buddhist" by Jeffrey Harrison, from Into Daylight. © Tupelo Press, 2014.
Breath
by Charles Deemer
There are moments in life
so unnatural to normal breathing
that I hold my breath
for as long as possible
with the mindless faith
that when I finally inhale
I will be revived with pure
oxygen and a new wondrous
landscape filled with beauty
that takes my breath away
and all the past difficulty
of breathing will be as forgotten
as last night's nightmare.
For My Son, Reading Harry Potter
by Michael Blumenthal
How lovely, to be lost
as you are now
in someone else's thoughts
an imagined world
of witchcraft, wizardry and clans
that takes you in so utterly
all the ceaseless background noise
of life's insistent pull and drag soon fades
and you are left, a young boy
captured in attention's undivided daze,
as I was once
when books defined a world
no trouble could yet penetrate
or others spoil, or regret stain,
when, between covers, under covers,
all is safe and sure
and each Odysseus makes it home again
and every transformation is to bird or bush
or to a star atwinkle in some firmament of light,
or to a club that lets you, and all others, in.
Oh, how I wish for you
that life may let you turn and turn
these pages, in whose spell
time is frozen, as is pain and fright and loss
before you're destined to be lost again
in that disordered and distressing book
your life will write for you and cannot change.
"For My Son, Reading Harry Potter" by Michael Blumenthal from No Hurry: Poems 2000-2012. © Etruscan Press, 2012.
Negative Space by Ron Koertge
My dad taught me to pack: lay out everything. Put back half. Roll things that roll. Wrinkle-prone things on top of cotton things. Then pants, waist- to-hem. Nooks and crannies for socks. Belts around the sides like snakes. Plastic over that. Add shoes. Wear heavy stuff on the plane. We started when I was little. I'd roll up socks. Then he'd pretend to put me in the suitcase, and we'd laugh. Some guys bond with their dads shooting hoops or talking about Chevrolets. We did it over luggage. By the time I was twelve, if he was busy, I'd pack for him. Mom tried but didn't have the knack. He'd get somewhere, open his suitcase and text me—"Perfect." That one word from him meant a lot. The funeral was terrible—him laid out in that big carton and me crying and thinking, Look at all that wasted space.
"Negative Space" by Ron Koertge, from Sex World. © Red Hen Press, 2014. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)
