Along the Minnehaha

Poetry enlists the descriptive, inscriptive, epitaphic, encryptionologous powers of writing - which are obviously formidable - in its campaign of resistance to time.  The poet stubbornly proposes a spiritual orthogonal (an upright L) in opposition to the horizontal flow of history, events, distractions, decay, necessity, time, death, chores, etc, etc.

Perhaps I'm delusional, yet by the same token I do have a sense of being one of the most indomitably resistant poets in America.  Everything I do in this realm seems to oppose the practical, the social, the amenable, the common-sensical, the professional approach.  It's been like this for so long I've lost all perspective on it, anyway.  I do what I do, it is what it is, it's become second nature.  People may object to the obsessive-repetitive characteristics.  Perhaps they're right.  I have no way of knowing.  Let the chips crunch where they may.


Heidi, it’s been many a year
since we went a-Maying together
down Arthur St., in Hopkins
(Glastonbury? Mendelssohn) –

but next door, in the autumn rain
a misty hawthorn silvers
bright chartreuse berries
for the birds (windhover, crane,

starling) who may alight someday.
Just down the ancient lane
my father’s granite urn
abides, along the Minnehaha;

ravens stitch the cooling air
above the stream – a shade
those oak-leaf hands once made
over our heads (good chevalier-

Samaritan).  Yon turtledove
coos from a russet square –
fieldstone embrasure, where
vaults rise on sable ribs (alcove

beyond alcove, into the light).
Bring me your thorny ring-
around-the-rose, Heidi;
I’m ready now to dance & sing

athwart the maypole-chariot.
One drop of scarlet raven-
ink, one graven letter’s
steely prong... (one grail-griot).


Hawthorn in the rain

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