N a p a
l m H e a
l t h
S p a
: R e
p o r
t 2 0
0 9
DAVID COPE
Annum Lyrae: January to March
January
brother John dead at 58, lung cancer, two days after my birthday—
thirtysome years hard work & laughter, falling asleep together before
TV ballgame after weeklong crash of job & routine—I'd thought after
losing father & mother, Death might pass my door for a time, clocks shouting
in my open ears endless procession of friends & relatives eyes all cast down,
only memory to shake them awake & recall the laughter. now deep night
snowstorm, I shovel by streetlight: Anne joins me—"you're too old
for this, Da." I recall those nights the sound of my shovel kachunking
snow in rhythm on my mother's long drive thru oak woods, the river beyond—
alone with vast yellow full moon late night haze, Venus & scattered stars—
now Marinus too is gone, madman sailor & mentor, wild old "Slim" who
never pulled a punch; I sit in a pew alone in my dream as his daughter & son
sing him out with all the tender ferocity a child may owe a good father,
grieflights in their eyes & the whole crazy familial crowd swayed, a long
moment. the days roll together—chicken soup & challah, bread of angels,
bags of paperwork, endless procession of students, poets, administrators:
the light of poesy now brighter in my dream, fully awake first time in years,
& I see the end of routine—hard not to look to that less-distant day & lose
myself in these rhythms, my last bright dream song. I have given up my last
hope, the planet spinning closer to disaster. thus I look into my children's eyes
as they work toward their years in the machine laden with dreams: there
is only memory, the lost voice, the bread that gives life when there is none.
February
white pine sapling half-buried in snow—shovel around the feeders
that finch & sparrow might find the seeds, rabbit tracks pellets piled
around the rose bush, branches gnawed above snow—red sunrise,
dump compost on the heap, thousands of tiny footprints around the pile,
then the thaw, the sapling freed, & on to Chicago AWP madhouse
crowds hoary professors goggle-eyed writers poets naive students jam
the hotel where Norman Mailer sat & watched cops beat protestors,
1968, not far from where Allen & Dick Gregory led children away from
carnage with only mantra & song—behind, "the whole world is watching."
predawn hike by Art Institute where Ken Rexroth got his education,
coffee & scones among workers wolfing quick breakfast catchup chatter,
others' frenzied rush along sidewalk, panting & stumbling to deadlines,
streets already jammed with honking traffic mad taxis begging gangs
hitting up naive travelers, rotund banker types swaggering in arcadelight—
I fled the conference, book promos disguised as lectures, thousands
blabbing all at once, desperate booksellers lined up in rows, "half off,
sonny"—for me, it was the UN CONGO/WOMEN exposé, survivors
& fallen mothers, child soldiers impressed to slaughter millions, awake O
justice denied—& in the park, headless sculptures march beyond steel
& glass behemoths, shouts & horns, almost silent here, almost silent now.
March
white dawnlight thru my windows, thru fronds of cycad & spathphylum—
fierce light after months of storm & sigh, turning from death to death—
now foreclosures—gruff men once hipsters or marines hair trimmed back
after thirty years, pushing mowers snowblowers shooting hoops with kids
thin women with long hair & hard wise eyes, tough women at the mailbox,
all gone after long decades, houses gone dark, curtainless windows, empty
driveway—fat cats disappear with millions after shanking the economy,
thousands tramping streets, fruitless, families coming apart nowhere to go.
after painting ceiling where roof leak burst thru last summer, I sit alone
silently & listen, tender moments passing, ephemeral yet precious after
so much death & sorrow. In my dream, we scatter roses on the river in July
where last year we spread our mother's ashes, just upstream from her old
bedroom, near moraine bank where I once risked all to save a drowning dog,
clambering across ice & falling in myself, later feted on evening news—
the procession of the dead, everyday dia de muertos, mother father mentor
brother father of a friend now racing thru my brains, their fragile memory
all that remains—easily scattered, lost, erased to all in deadline & routine:
thus this fierce light thru fronds raising my eye to this day, this touch.
April
past blackened ground, ashpiles, twisted red pine boles
scorched yet still alive, miles of trunks cut & sawed, logs
stacked for the trucks to come, brush piles once canopies
swaying in light breeze on a day blue as this, I wander
to moraine's edge, down thru pinetop juniper balsam
beavercut aspens laid flat or standing in groups, mists
clearing on the river below, down to the good ground.
I'll arrive, journey's end, greet brother & old friends,
stare into campfire ashes where flames lit last night's
madhouse tales: finally, all deaths end for a time:
offload my kayak, clear ground & stake out the tarp,
set up tent & arrange pad, sleeping bag, pillow, camp kit,
moccasins & lantern, writing pad & books, unzip windows
& lie sideways in shade that I might ascend on currents
racing among high pines oaks & maples, lose myself in
flashing wavelights, hairpin turns, sinkholes, chopwaves
pushing back upriver, thru cedar swamps & past high banks,
to great lake beyond. now, lie still & listen, let all that go.
above shattered
boulders granite piled
like giant
cathedral razors of clouds,
lost in memory's excited
voices, bear bells ahead sun
in zenith, we pause for
water in silence, near the great
scar where the avalanche ripped
spruce from mountainside,
shattered trunks & branches
in sliding white death thunder—
field of bright columbines
scarlet gilia penstemon beard-
tongue heartleaf arnica sprung up
where dreamtime song begins.