Just a reminder: On Jan. 13, I'm beginning a new RANDOM WRITING poetry workshop series. It will be held on the 2nd and 4th Weds. of each month, at the A.I.R. Studio Gallery in Kingston. The workshops are scheduled to run from 6-8 p.m.
For the first half, I'd like to hear what you're working on, and be open to feedback from others there. In the second half, I'll offer a writing prompt, or you can go with an idea inspired by the writing of others, or your own mind breaths.
$10 per night, 6 workshops for $50. Call to confirm or with questions: 845-339-8686, or e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
You and your father and Karen Carpenter
drive slowly out onto the lake
as far as it's safe, then farther,
windows rolled down, doors unlocked;
or, leashed to a rope for safety,
you or your father slinks across the surface,
cigarettes sending up signals
to the other fishermen:
it's safe, it's safe, it's safe,
then farther still.
You haven't told me yet about the
hairline cracks in your solid Minnesota,
midwest fields, woven plaids of green and grey and brown,
or how to cut a hole in a foot of ice
to get through to the real water,
where fish don't know it's Christmas again,
just when they thought it was safe.
Fish House- Lake Mille Lacs
Purple rising into pink, into blue,
slateful of snow, one narrow path
plowed up to the fish house,
a fancy one you say, not the
plywood shanties you remember.
I know that blue from Catskill winters, twilight,
punctuated with acorns, twigs,
irreverent leaves freckling the surface.
That clean, blue sheet across the frozen water
must be crisp and neat the whole season
but for a hole, a few footprints,
a few lost souls whose fins freeze
quickly in the Minnesota air.
Many Lakes, you say it's called--Mille Lacs,
Ojibwa by way of French traders,
heat-seeking Canadians just steps
from the border, and with this solitute,
lines we draw between countries,
between each other, declarations
blow apart into so many blue stars,
nestled together in the sky above this shack.
The windows glow yellow, bright,
a bit of warmth in all this consistency,
hope for the fish that remain
that somewhere in this frozen landscape