grain in the hold in the Boundary Waters

Mary (Elvira) Ravlin Gould, Jan. 2020

BRIGHT ANCHOR

I was wheeling my mother Mary around

the old people’s home yesterday.

We came upon the Ash Wednesday

service, by chance, & rolled on in.

The genial priest lifted up the Book

& prayed for us all

& traced a cross of charcoal

on our brows (despite my mother’s look

of wary puzzlement).  & we rolled on.

Her father was an engineer.

Master of grain elevator

& sewage plant, he built his own

brick house along the Mississippi

back in 1929, or so –

Barnett & Record Co.

John H. Ravlin (everlastingly).

Granddad, your fathers came from Dublin

whirled by coracle & shamrock

to Vermont.  By hard knock

grace & cornucopia, they ventured in

to the interior.  You heard violins

of Verdi… Elvira

(some serene Barber adagio)

& in great lofty mountainous grain bins

of full, deep faith, one mustard seed

of your stern secret mother

glints – compassionate anchor

for Milky Way (ark’s cornerstone, indeed).

2.27.20

John H. Ravlin in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (1940s)

This old man goes rolling home

SPRING-STEP

Sunlight glints in flash-of-gold

on blue-gray lashes, curling

sea around each green-

black pupil glancing from cold

Pontus-depths, like lacquered pearl.

Each soul hath such a wild

wee isle – immurèd child

of even-star, whose raven whorl

beams out of everwhirr – bright

innocent prinkster, fleet-

footing the complete

spring-step, so shamrock-intricate;

Tara, Soissons, Iona know

how low she twirls, she droops

before her leaping swoops

a coign... Elijah – let her go!

Light-nimble Columba... thundery-

coot’red Geraldine... – fits

Geraldine, the crown fits

Geraldine!  In a wheel of clay

through the eye of time – in a ray

of light, through a feather-

full of waterfalls... there,

there!  Look there!  A catenary

clover-span!  Four-folded spire,

planted on copper penny-

whistle... one milky-

black Eire-eye rose Paycock-fire!

3.17.16