|
 Jim
Peterson
has published four collections of poetry: The Man Who Grew Silent
(The Bench Press, 1989); An Afternoon with K (Holocene Press,
1996); The Owning Stone (Red Hen Press, winner of The
Benjamin Saltman Award, 2000); and The Bob & Weave (Red Hen
Press, 2006). He has also published two chapbooks: Carvings on a
Prayer Tree (Holocene, 1994) and Greatest Hits 1984-2000
(Pudding House Publications, 2001 and 2003). His work has been
published widely in such journals as Poetry, Georgia Review,
Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Texas Review, and
many others. His novel, Paper Crown, was published by Red Hen
Press in 2005. His poetry won a 2002-2003 Fellowship from the Virginia
Arts Commission. His plays have been produced in regional and college
theaters. He is currently Coordinator of Creative Writing at
Randolph-Macon Woman's College. He lives with his wife Harriet and
their beloved Welsh Corgi, Dylan Thomas, in Lynchburg, Virginia. |
TUNDRA
For more than one
year
I have wanted to
talk to a crow.
Coming down the
Beartooth Pass today
I spotted a giant
one, a raven maybe,
ranting on the
dead limb of a tree
on the low side of
the road.
No one was in my
rearview mirror
so I stopped and
rolled down my window.
With each
embellishment
he dipped his head
and lurched,
the whole tree
twisting in a mad loop.
He spoke to
someone on the high side
above my head out
of sight and ignored me.
“What are you
doing?” I said.
He stopped his
exclaiming to look at me.
“What are you
doing? What are you doing?”
I was in a great
mood from hiking
fifteen miles of
Beartooth tundra.
I never thought he
would look at me,
but he did, for
five seconds, maybe six,
his eyes black
beetles in the sun.
He was so black
the light loved him
and fell from his
back like thrown knives
bouncing off a
rock.
“What are you
doing? What are you doing?”
I could see in his
eyes
he knew who I was
exactly.
“Stupid human,” he
said,
then lifted from
that limb like a helicopter
from the chaos of
a battlefield—
filled beyond
capacity
with the wounded
and the dead.
First
published in Great River Review
|
THE GUISES
We left the sun behind us
as the trees threw out their
shadows
and began to draw them back,
seeking in our separate ways
those same blue peaks on the
horizon
growing sharper and darker
in the diminishing haze,
aware only dimly of each
other
but already reaching for the
guises—
those old mountains
like voices out of a cavern
with bottomless pools.
Each of us grew small beneath
them,
the white glinting of stone
under the spruce and fir,
clouds of mist drifting from
hidden falls.
Everything had to be ferreted
out,
even the spur of an ancient
trail
in the silver glare of
sunlight
among the she-balsams.
I was grateful for the shade
of the first ascent,
chunks of smoky quartz
half submerged in the clay,
the trail unfolding before me
in rising switchbacks,
exposed ridges,
descents into boulder fields
bathed again and again
in the scattering shrieks of
hawks.
But neither of us could hear
anything that night
above the din of stars,
waiting beside our separate
fires
for the small target-faces of
raccoons
drunk on the smell of coffee
and bread.
All around us the birds
which give everything
thoughtlessly every day
had entered their perfect
sleep
while we lingered in our half
dreams,
the night sky expanding to
hold us both
turning in our voicelessness
like the small white ash
floating above a flame.
From: The Bob and Weave, Red Hen Press, 2006
|
NO BITE
Not enough claw
in the mountains,
not enough snow
deepening the
slopes.
Not enough covert
eyes,
not enough wind
to blur the
vision,
not enough silence
to seize the
claptrap of words.
Not enough
footprints
in the woods,
predator and prey,
no more walking
sticks
left in good faith
at the trailhead.
Not enough getting
lost
in the back
country,
exploring and
holing up
on the high
cliffs, the day
so long even the
rocks are shaking.
Not enough bite in
the winter air.
Not enough story
left in the ink,
not enough
character
driven to the
brink
of decision.
Not enough risk
in the telling or
the living.
Not enough blood
in the word.
From: The Bob and Weave, Red Hen Press, 2006
|
SAVIOR
In the enormity of
bone and flesh
that splits the
night with blood and breath;
in the rising
brushstroke of pastern, fetlock,
cannon bone and
stifle; in the rolling sloop
of dock, croup,
withers and poll
I discover my
body.
In the barrel that
takes to the grip of thighs,
the flank that
accepts the needling heel;
in the mane where
I bury my hands at last;
in the forelock
and muzzle of that long face;
in the chin
groove, jaw and throat
that swallows my
words like cracked oats;
in the two black
eyes that glean the full circle
of horizon; in the
shell-song of each ear;
in the heart, in
the heart, the horse who bears me away.
First published in Georgia Review
|
Carolyn
Kreiter-Foronda
