Ides of August

end-of-summer sky

we call out names of those stars

close enough to hear

~ arem

Fishermen and Poets

Against the Wall 

Like the beaded-pine wainscot

of his backwoods tavern, up north,

Clarence has darkened over the years,

hearing the lies of fishermen and poets;

the truths of hunters, fresh from the kill.

He’s been scarred by bar fights and carelessness, but

cleaned up and preserved by Irene,

who sees past his rough edges.

What’ll happen, he worries,

when the shot-and-a-beer woodsmen are gone,

when the kids want him to replace his old jukebox,

want him to replace the music of his life ?

Like his old paneling,

he may be replaced, too - by some modern miracle  -

shining and impervious.

Until then, he watches and listens;

soaking it up, gaining color - and

telling his stories under a flickering beer sign:

a bear in a canoe, going with the flow.

~ Ralph Murre

In looking at some old poems, I came across this one, written in 2004, and which appeared in my first collection, Crude Red Boat (Cross + Roads Press). There are a few from that era that I still like.

Preview

Here's an excerpt from something I'm working on:

. . . you have to know that in that time and place, they were Ma and Pa.  Most everybody's parents, unless they were thought to be putting on airs, were Ma and Pa.  Baths were taken on Saturday nights.  You went to church on Sunday mornings.  Yes you did.  Public schools were mostly walked to, had one classroom and two outhouses.  Catholic kids, though, were most likely to go to St. Michael's.  Several rooms.  Indoor plumbing.  Hail Mary, full of mackerel.  We all got along fine and settled minor differences with fistfights.

   In our little school, Miss Nedra Quartz held sway over the eight grades, or as many grades as had students in a given year.  She was it.  Teacher, nurse, theatrical director, janitorial overseer (we kids were the janitors), cop.  Palest woman I ever saw, when she wasn't red with rage, which was fairly often.
   And yes, we did walk to school.  Just a mile and a half for me, through snow and rain and dazzlements of all sorts, for a few years.  Then, Miss Quartz's brother bought a station wagon which became our schoolbus.  Comfy, but without dazzlement.  Unheard now, the curses of blackbirds, the scat-song blessings of bob-o-links.  Un-sniffed, the  wild roses in fencerows, as we traveled the graveled and dusty distance in a wood-sided Ford, assuming everybody in the whole world liked DDE, DDT, and Wonder Bread . . .     ~ Ralph Murre

ZERO

Imagine my surprise, when in a shameless act of self-googlization, I learned that I do not exist. Not in these United States. 0 people named Ralph Murre. Which I take to mean "zero". But it might be O, I suppose. As in "Oh, people named Ralph Murre, why are you here, googlizing, when you could be sitting on the terrace of some pleasant taverna overlooking the sea, writing the poems that would save the world?" Alas, no, all I can see is zero. A circle of nothing. It gives me pause . . .

on this hillside

where blossoms have drifted

we wait for fruit

~ Ralph Murre (?)

Question:

from a photo by eddee daniel

when a poet

attempts to be a painter, too

how can he afford

all those shades of blue?

~ arem

Hunger Games

so much to observe

so much to comment upon

must he also eat?

~ arem

The Thing About Steel

The freighter American Spirit was in port here for repairs lately, and seeing her proud name rusting away seemed to cry out for some sort of Independence Day comment, some little State of the Union report. I think the ill-kept stern of the ship provided a fine digital blackboard and a fine metaphor.     ~ R.M.

Insel und Halbinsel

a peninsula, it doesn't matter which one

a ferry boat at the end of it

the island of last chances out there somewhere

at the ticket office, a long queue

~ ralph murre

Confronting the Big Guys

A book I'm reading says the Buddha talks about four qualities of horses: the excellent horse, who moves upon merely seeing the shadow of the whip; the good horse that runs upon feeling the lightest touch of the whip; the poor horse, which doesn't go until it feels pain; and the very worst horse doesn't budge until the pain penetrates to the very marrow of its bones. What the hell kind of buddha would say such a thing? These may be qualities of horses as seen by the cart-driver, as though the only reason to be a horse is to serve man. What does the Buddha know about being a horse? Old Arem feels that among horses, the most revered is doubtless the mustang, the wild cayuse running free, while the hardest-working Dobbin is probably thought to be the biggest fool. An even bigger fool, though, might be a person who without question follows any man-god-myth, whether the Big G., the Big A., the Big B., or whomever.   ~ RM

Arem's Thought for the Day

Of course, the "coexist" bumper sticker is the property of someone else, some genius, somewhere. One of my very favorite things.  I hope my satirical addition to the icon is slightly offensive, but not outright illegal. If it's yours, your lawyers can contact me at the address listed elsewhere on this site. Perhaps we'll coexist in copyright court.   ~ RM

No Colossus

Just knocked out a little oil painting I thought you might like to see. Each year, The Hardy Gallery, situated in an old warehouse on the Anderson Dock, which projects out into Eagle Harbor at Ephraim, Wisconsin, sponsors a project wherein a couple hundred of us do work on 6" x 6" canvasses which are then assembled into a community mosaic, which is displayed for a while, then disassembled with the individual pieces going to buyers from near and far. The trick is that the buyer has no idea which piece he or she will receive.
For an inspiration for my piece, I was thinking about some of the classic sculptures located in harbors, and thought I'd paint something based on one of them. Which would be fitting for Ephraim? The Colossus of Rhodes? Nah, a bit grandiose. The Statue of Liberty? Hmmm . . . maybe. Then I hit upon it. The Little Mermaid? YES. She fits. 
By the way, don't get creeped-out by her flesh tones, she's bronze, OK?
It sure was fun to drag out my oils, which I hadn't seen for about five years.    ~ Ralph Murre

what she's having

who’s counting

six times in the course of a conversation

overheard at the sandwich shop

a woman exclaimed o my god

which is more often

than I’ve encountered that phrase

in my several courtships and marriages

so much is in the presentation

of sandwiches and things

~ Ralph Murre

Promises

   What shall I promise?

   Myself?

   Then what shall I promise

   Myself?

   I could promise

                                                    Not to promise

                                                    Myself.

   But I’ve broken

                         so

                         many

                         promises.

                         - Ralph Murre

While I'm fond of saying that I began writing in 1999, it's not quite true, since this one, recently unearthed, is from 1986. Lost forever, I hope, are a few pieces from the early sixties.  ~ R.M.

Bound for Glory

Bound for Glory

this train of black boxcars

     raining

this rain on the too thin roof

this black boxcar blue

this graffiti blue

this hue of spray-can

this spray-can’t

     sign of times

this sign of signing

     this singing     this song

  along the rails     this wailing

of a failing America

(or is this how it works?)

this boxcar with my name on it

this train of our names

this signing

this signature

this bounced check

this stacked deck

this black cloud thunder

     under

this trestle as long as a life

this train

            this ride

                       this other side

~ Ralph Murre

hear it?

the deafening weight of disappointment

the inaudible lightness of hope

a faint sound of lifeboats rusting

and from somewhere

an orchestra, laughter, dancing

~ ralph murre

White Bike at the Cross + Roads

Mentor to the midwest and publisher of Cross + Roads Press, Norbert Blei, recently sponsored a little event in the competitive sport of poetry writing, through his excellent Poetry Dispatch . Spur-of-the-moment, drop what you're doing and write a poem.  You can have a look at the results in his two most recent posts, "The White Bicycle" and "The White Bicycle II".  Some very good work here, and I'm happy to say that while my little piece didn't make the podium, it landed squarely among the best of the not-quite-ready-for-prime-time poems.  Good enough.  Here it is:

her white bicycle

the way she rode it

as much on clouds

as on concrete

as much from as toward

on a pavement of dream

the way I saw or didn't see

the way it didn't seem

she any longer needed me

to run along beside

the way the ride then

circled back in setting sun

the thing about a cycle

is the way it'll repeat

her white bike may come back

may lean up

again against my shack

who knows when a cycle

or circle is complete?

~ Ralph Murre

Blue Traveler

Steady, As Water

spring ice-out

the long lingered goodbye-ing

dusky dockside bar

Through air the color of the pigeons swimming in it (sulfur, foundry, tannery, coalpile, salt) and light as much from furnaces as from fluorescence in this backwater corner of a blackwater harbor, drunk with old wine and new love, the second mate swings up on deck; sleeps there. Tomorrow, there’ll be a farther horizon and, perhaps, a soaring bird without a name.

port-of-call

two perfumed letters

one from his wife

Sparse beard, watch-cap affectation, misfit among misfits, trickless coyote, would-be lone wolf, would-be sea dog; living and hating his dream, loving and hating its crew.  A woman here and there.  The threat of security, the security of the unknown.  Another day on the inland sea.  Another season.  The laughing gulls circling.

winter lay-up

irregular gait of sailors

friendly front street pub

~ Ralph Murre

VIII.

VIII.
I may go back to blues, back to blue-black times
when rhymes and little pills didn’t cure the ills.
Joy-killer realities, banalities like paying utilities –
but it’s so hard to paint in the dark – back to a fridge
of don’t-know glowing meats, rancid eats, few beers,
pickled herring, pickled beets, picking up the beat
of trash-can slam, picking up jobs of poor-I-am and
picking up women in good-night dreams, bad-night bars,
rusted cars in South-Side parking-lot wake-ups, staggering
to fourth-floor walk-ups, singing blue of our break-ups,
if we’re singing at all.
~ Ralph Murre

This is Verse VIII (if you haven't guessed) from my longish 15-verse poem, Psalms, from the book of the same name, still sometimes available from Little Eagle Press. Each verse is accompanied by one of my pen & ink drawings.

Of Desire

Wanted

That thing you wanted
Or I wanted you to want
That thing I gave

Was a little like the flower
I picked from the neighbors’
To give my mother and

That thing I wanted
Or you wanted me to want
I want still

Steal it if you have to

~ Ralph Murre

This one also appears in the Museletter, from the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets

Another Time

Another Time, Maybe

Wasn’t there a time when it all seemed o.k.?
Mantel clocks faithfully wound, maternity wards
thriving, Montgomery Wards thriving,
a Ford in the garage? An occasional world war
or mob lynching, the atomic removal
of a couple of cities far away,
a case of Schlitz in the cellar?

Wasn’t there this background music,
a bearded man conducting a thousand strings
and Dinah Shore and a summer of cicadas
in a Hollywood Bowl of Cherries?
Wasn’t it just swell? And didn’t you get
that orange box of Wheaties with Eddie Matthews
when your dad got the job at the gas station
after striking for a couple of years at Kohler?

Didn’t you shine your little shoes and put on
your little suit and snap your bow-tie
on the white collar and look up
the skirt of the angel costume on the stepladder?
And how hard was it to swipe a pack of Luckies?
Wasn’t there a time when feeling-up the Schmidt
girl in her pointy little bra was pretty good?

And wasn’t it great to go to art school
and draw nude models and swipe packs
of Gauloises at the Knickerbocker? And
wasn’t it great when your brother
let you come along to a park and build
a fort with his buddies and then
that old guy drove up and was real nice
and wanted to see your . . .
touch your . . . Oh, that’s right,
you can’t remember that, can you?

And wasn’t it fun the time you and Billy
put sand in the fuel tank of that bulldozer
and busted the windows out of that cabin?
And wasn’t it cool when you didn’t get drafted
and got to mess around with chicks
who burnt their pointy little bras?

And wasn’t it nice when Ike, in his gray suit,
and Mamie, in her navy blue dress
with the little white dots looked up from golf
and told us everything would be o.k.?
Wasn’t that nice?
And weren’t her gloves just so white?

- Ralph Murre

note: The picture was found on-line and digitally altered. The poem is from my Crude Red Boat (Cross + Roads Press)

Writer!

My congratulations to everyone concerned at "The Writer" magazine, which, with the April issue, celebrates its 125th anniversary! What lasts a century and a quarter?

The fact that a piece of my work is included in this publication is a matter of some pride, and I am sincerely grateful to Marilyn L. Taylor for including my poem, "April", in her Poet to Poet column, where I am in the good company of Annie Parcels, Bruce Dethlefsen, and a few others you may have heard of, i.e., A.E.Stallings, Elizabeth Bishop, and Emily Dickinson. The column this time takes a look at narrative poetry.

My contribution:

April

In boots near new from blue-
walled Harborside Resale shelf,
through mud snow crocus snow mud,
April walks down the crow-caw morning,
the dog-sniff morning, gathering
graveyard plastic flowers displaced
by storm and faded by sun
as she’s done this time each year,
and puts every one around granite grey
with his dying and carved with the life
of her long-ago Eddie who married another,
who married another, then left
early in a Chevrolet roar
at a hundred and more in fourth gear
it is said, of his leaving,
as old men grieve and drink to the dead.

~ Ralph Murre

Going Taupeless

Spring is officially here. Isn't it time you painted something? And by "paint", I don't mean beige, taupe, or ecru. A bolder shade of gray. Paint comes in colors, too. Real colors. Isn't your neighbor vacationing this week? Wouldn't this be the time to start? His house or yours.

~ arem

'88

From that granite you might have used
to mark my gravesite, carve instead a
short column too small to support your
carefully balanced weights of worry,
carve an orb to bowl over the top-heavy
tenpins of your fear, or just chip away
at that stone in your search for truth,
‘til only gravel remains. Scatter it along
the path you walk each day, and that
little pain in your heel can be in memory
of me. It is as much truth as I know.

~ Ralph Murre

Dream On

And Yet

I have walked the broken surface
of your roads
and heard commerce rattling by
I have seen the raven
dodging Dodges and Kenworths
and Cadillacs for his meal

. . And I have dreamed

I have cried the sour tears
of your skies
and tasted the acid in the rain
I have seen the gleaming trout
gulping amid baggies and Bayliners
and bargeloads of hybrid bounty

. . And I have dreamed

I have listened to Sunday sermons
from pulpits
and heard your gods denied
I have seen the holy men
begging for crumbs from the table
and going unfed and crazy

. . And I have dreamed

I have known the laughter
of children
and seen them by the yellow busload
going to their lessons
and rehearsals and recruiters
and heard the laughing stop

. . And yet I dream


~ Ralph Murre

In the spirit of Good Used Poems, here's an old one, previously published in Soundings, in Clark Street Review, and in Crude Red Boat (Cross+Roads Press)

Going Down With the Ship

What unreliable vehicles are poems. Even the great ones rarely take you where you want to go. Poet and reader alike can only sit idly by, hoping for the best. I suppose the reader can jump ship though, at the first sign of trouble, while the writer, like the good captain, must ride her down. ~ RM

March Fourth

Remind me -- what classic text was it, that in part read,

". . . and we'll march forth, trailing arbutus behind us . . ." ?

~ RM

Just Moonlight

The moonlight behind the tall branches
The poets all say is more
Than the moonlight behind the tall branches.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .~ Fernando Pessoa

It is just moonlight, there
as a god is just a god
a hummingbird just that
with its ruby throat
tall branches not really
reaching for the sky
just the moonlight, there

. . . . . .~ Ralph Murre

My thanks to poet Barbara Larsen, who passed along the Pessoa quote.

Oscar

Joan, Juliie, and Juliette

There doesn’t seem to be a major award ceremony
for best daydreaming,
though I imagine long limos
and carpets in the streets
and, perhaps, Juliette Binoche
confidently holding my elbow.
As the giddy reporters recede
and camera men are beaten back,
( I modestly assume they’re focused on Juliette)
we settle into the thick plush
of the multi-tiered theater and
anxiously await Best Performance
in a Leading Role; Domestic Daydream,
Comic or Tragic; Male.
I am, of course, honored simply
to be mentioned in the same breath
as my rivals, and Sam Shepard
and Penelope Cruz hand me
the weighty statuette. Penelope, in congratulation,
( and a see-through gown cut down to here)
kisses me for an embarrassingly long time
which makes Juliette frightfully jealous
and I am speechless, except to thank
Walt Whitman and Mohandas Gandhi
and no one can explain why
Joan Baez and Julie Christie
rush the stage before I can be led off
to safety where I find that
I am in a laundromat;
driers slowly turning,
a light rain tapping the window.

~ Ralph Murre

previously published in Wisconsin People and Ideas

this rose

the day is gone

a garden of flowers closing

but still, this rose

~ arem

Will and Testament

Will and Testament

They’ll need to know this much – the two strong sons –
to know what, beside their flesh and progeny, I leave.
The jack pines I planted, I’ll tell them,
over a half-century old, those that survived
the first summer. It was dry.
But they’re sold with the ground
that holds your grandparents’ ash, I’ll tell them.
There are the boats I built, I’ll tell them,
the green-painted boats. But those are sold too,
I’ll tell them, with the sunlight on the bay.
And the houses, I’ll say, drawn and built
by these hands. And yours, I’ll proudly add.
Sold now, but think of the times we had.
The roof-beams and hell we raised.
And the poems, I’ll say, here are the poems.
Couldn’t sell those, I’ll tell them truthfully,
or give them away. Here – I’ve books of them, Boys.
Thin books, it’s true, with few words,
but they’re like new. Here are the poems.

~ Ralph Murre

Self-Portrait as Cliff-Diver

Self-Portrait as Cliff-Diver

you've seen our brass and bronze
plummeting
to the sea
our naked intention
that long leap from the known world
into her unknown arms
you've seen us climbing back
facing the edge
startling
all over again

~ Ralph Murre

SECOND REWRITE: the storyteller

FIRST REWRITE (rewritten) Well, O.K. SECOND REWRITE:
So I'm laid up a little, you might say, since I scuffled some with Eldred comin' outa Buddy G's 'round closing, what with the ice on the walk & all. Now, Eldred's a kind of an ass, but ever since Fat Allen's got missin' somewheres, he's the only one of 'em left, 'cept for Bickner. So Eldred feels kinda bad 'bout gettin' the best a me, or somethin', an he comes up t' my flat, gets me some supper. Brings pints of peppermint & blackberry. That's how y' know he feels bad or he'd a just brung Aristocrat. That's what he gen'ly drinks, cuz he thinks the name of it puts him somewheres in the upper crust. He even asked Little Bickner t' come over & that's who we figured it was at the door, thank y' Jesus, cuz Eldred's bin tellin' me some kinda tale ain't got no end to it at all, see?
He comes back in the room an' "Hey," he sez, "what was at th' door," he sez, "it ain't Lil Bickner, it was Magdalene. She sez come right now, Lil Bickner's hurtin' some. So I'll jez finish my story an' we . . ."
Well, I can't hardly say nothin'. but I'm tryin' to rise up from outa my chair, tryin' t' get Charlie L.'s old cane, what I won offa him, under me. Eldred sees I'm aimin' to go. ". . . yeah, but my story," he sez, "now where was I?"
"What happened to Little Bickner?!!!" I sez, in that kinda way where y' could see I wasn't just askin' t' pass the time.
"Oh, I dunno, Ralph" he comes back at me as he sits him down in that lazy boy I bought offa Suzy when Fat Allen got missin', "somethin' 'bout down th' block, somethin' 'bout that crazy fella down there, but hey, that ain't my story . . . doncha wanna hear th' end to my story? It's just Magdalene at th' door, it ain't Lil Bickner, an b'sides," he sez, "his story's bout over, sounds like."
Well, I can't get the damn cane under me nohow, so I settle back down. Pour me a little bitta that blackberry.

~ Ralph Murre

THE ORIGINAL:
hey
what was at the door
it ain't Little Bickner
it was Magdalene
she says come right now
Little Bickner's hurtin some
so I'll finish my story an we . . .
yeah but my story
now where was I?
oh I don't know
somethin bout down the block
that crazy fella
but hey that ain't my story
doncha wanna hear th'end
to my story?
just Magdalene at the door
it ain't Little Bickner
an b'sides his story's bout over
sounds like

Not a dream, exactly, but having just fallen asleep, I woke at two o'clock with this little monologue running around my head. I jotted it down exactly as I saw it, heard it, and went right back to sleep. I have no idea who these characters are, but if you know anyone named Magdalene and Little Bickner, you might want to look in on them this morning. ~ Ralph Murre

29

29 days, on a good year,

and there are so few.
Rhode Island of months,
but big enough
for the long shadows of ground hogs,
the scarlet heart of love,
the big, fat Tuesday before the lean
- big enough –
for the full face of the moon
to smile over at the climbing sun
- big enough –
to allow hope and to start seeds on window sills
- just the right size –
to stand between two-faced January
and surly March
- just the sort –
to shine a bit more light
into a dark corner
while trying to straighten out the mess
the others have made of the calendar,
as sap dreams toward upper branches,
and saps like me, toward spring.

- Ralph Murre

first published in the Wisconsin Poets' Calendar, a few years back

Something New, Something Old

Little Eagle's RE / VERSE

A poet wonders; after the little mag publication, after the chap book is misplaced, after the anthology is relegated to the back stack of the university library, who will ever see my poem again? My Little Eagle Press has just begun a new website to extend the lives of those forgotten poems. Only previously published work will be posted, only some of the best work of some of the best poets operating today. The site is just beginning on its mission, but you'll get an idea of how good it's gonna be by looking at what's already at http://littleeaglereverse.blogspot.com . Come back often. I think this one will find a place on your favorites list. You'll always be able to get there from the links list at this blog, too. ~RM

Fishing

In this strangest of all winters here in Wisconsin, where there is very thin ice indeed, at a time when it should be solid and safe, I drag out this piece I wrote back in '06:

Northern

I lead you out onto these preliminary lines
like an old fishing buddy
walking on the season’s first thin ice,
unsure we won’t slip beneath the surface,
gulping at the depth,
but certain this is the day for keepers,
gleaming in cold silver and gulping, too,
as they slip into the sky above their homes.
I coax you toward the center of this verse,
towing tools of the trade in a little sledge
that follows on faith,
bore a hole through the fragile freeze
where we wait, shiver, wait.
I try simile, metaphor, then rhyme for bait
and I talk of patience
and barely notice the nibbling of a thought,
now hooked and struggling liquid,
muscle and tooth and blood
this idea, hungry, as a lover takes a lure,
a snap, a relaxing,
and it’s swimming free –
this thing I’ll never grasp –
hooks torn from its legendary flesh,
laughter from its lips.

Smile at me, swimmer, smile at me.

~ Ralph Murre

And this morning, reading from Pablo Neruda's Memoirs, I came upon this paragraph, about a time he spent in Russia:
"The work of writers, I say, has much in common with the work of these Arctic fishermen. The writer has to look for the river, and if he finds it frozen over, he has to drill a hole in the ice. He has to have a good deal of patience, weather the cold and the adverse criticism, stand up to ridicule, look for the deep water, cast the proper hook, and after all that work, he pulls out a tiny little fish. So he must fish again, facing the cold, the water, the critic, eventually landing a bigger fish, and another and another."

BUILT

BUILT
(the song of an ancient architect)

Now that I’ve drawn the dreams, driven the stakes
destroyed deserts by division and development
crammed construction into corn-fields
built boxes in bean-fields
Now that I’ve penned the plans, fucked-up the forests
for fortune and foreclosure, plundered prairies
for profit, lost the lakeshores
Now that I’ve cantilevered cabins over cliffs and
hurried highways into hinterlands
Now that I’ve populated the pines
and peopled the pristine
Now that I’ve roofed-over the rural
Now that I’ve floored-over the flood-plain
Now that I’ve blueprinted the Blue Ridge
Now that my pencil
Now that my client
Now that the mortgage
Now that the bank
Now that the zoning
Now that the economy’s in the tank
Now that your hopes are diminished
May I rest? Am I finished?

~ Ralph Murre

Attempted Allegory

Aids to Navigation

On a fog-bound beach, a man teaching a boy to skip stones. And on the Western Sea, the elders looking back to this featureless shore where they hoped we would build beacons, where they hoped we would build fires in the night. Those voyagers, their little boats bobbing, cannot find the way back to the safe harbor of our Turtle Island. Something about ancient lessons, distant stars, something about mystery always repeating itself. The dusk is here. Oh, Mother, come back, I will build a tall lighthouse. Oh, Father, steer this way. And Son, skip your pebble well. Mark a channel for me if I should sail the Western Sea.

~ Ralph Murre

The photo is a detail from a bronze sculpture I saw in Buenos Aires. I do not know the artist. It seems, somehow, to work with this little poem. ~ RM

Its Flavor

There used to be a popular, but bizarre song which asked, "Does your chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?" Well, in recent excavations here at the old Murre digs, I came across the little poem shown above, which was written quite awhile back, on the inside of a chewing gum package, which must have been the only paper in my pocket at the time. For me, it doesn't seem to have lost its flavor. ~ RM

Look!

Look! Out there –

just at the horizon -
the ship that carries everything
I hope for
and everything I dread.
That slow ship
that was just a dot
in the mist
seems to head this way
with the wind at her back.

~ Ralph Murre

Between

deep in the glen of winter
somewhere between this year
and that, a quiet chuckling
as clever time and stream
mock the fury of man
and permanence of rock
the joke they share
takes forever to tell
but there's no hurry

~ ralph murre

Just Because

Because they're young and short
and in parents' old robes,
are they less wise, these travelers?
Because her wings are cardboard
and a stepladder holds her aloft,
is she not an angel?
Because the star is of gilded paper,
is this not Christmas?

- Ralph Murre

Post # 500; Nearing Solstice

Yes, this is the 500th post here along the Arvinson Road. Heavy fog all the way, but I'd like to think that it's been a journey worth making, so far. Please have a look around the archives and see if you agree.
Now, in light of (or in dark of?) the coming solstice, I'll lay a piece on you that many have seen or heard before, and which we'll all soon be as tired of as we are The Little Drummer Boy, but a few people have told me they love my seasonal sermonette, so, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum, here it is:

In Dark December

Whatever you believe,
whatever you do not,
there are sacred rites
you must perform
in dark December.
Do this for me:
Pull together
the kitchen table,
the folding table,
and that odd half-oval
usually covered
with bills and broken pencils
and red ink.
Pull together family and friends,
cool cats and stray dogs alike.
Turn off everything
except colored lights,
the roaster,
the toaster, the stove.
Cook. Bake. Eat.
Yes, even the fruitcake.
Eat, crowded around
those assembled tables
with mismatched chairs.
Reach so far
in your sharing
that you hold the sun
in one hand,
the stars in the other,
and no one between is hungry.
Now walk together,
talk together,
be together
on these darkest nights.
Give and forgive.
Light candles and ring bells.
Sing the old songs.
Tell the old stories
one more time,
leaving nothing out,
leaving no one out
in the long night,
leaving nothing wrong
that you can make right.

~ Ralph Murre

of a certain age

Can we still write love poems
when the triumphs of our G.I. tracts
are more heralded
than the hunger of our hearts?
Neruda could not have written The Captain's Verses
under the gaze of nurses, but at the end of life
he said to Mathilde,
"It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
. . . I sleep
enormous, in your small hands."
and maybe that's where
the real love poem began.

~ Ralph Murre

Above the River

On that slope above the Rio Grande
two cows in a New Mexican sunset
their long shadows grazing
on the last stems of daylight
our little car rolling toward tomorrow
and everything made of gold

~ Ralph Murre

and thanks again

photo by S. Auberle

On a Tuesday, I guess it was, m'pardner & I rode down Deuce of Clubs Avenue and right into Show Low, when out of the clear blue Arizona sky I began t'feelin' a mite uneasy. Too many good eats, we reckoned. Tethered the horses 'n' set up camp at the local Holiday Inn Express. A sleepless night led to morning light which revealed my already ample belly swelled to about double its normal size and me, some kinda UNcomfortable.

Well, we saddled up and made the short ride to the nearest emergency room, where they shoved a tube up my nose & down my throat, which had roughly the same effect as we'd get stickin' a bloated cow -- it ain't all that pretty, but it works. Then they proceded to take a bunch of high-falutin' photos of my innards. An obstruction of the bowels 's what they showed. Surgery 's what I needed.

Now, I gotta thank some folks who made it possible f'me to be home alive 'n' writin' t'y'all today: first, the ER staff of Summit Healthcare, then, Dr. Burke De Lange & his ace surgical team, and then, the entire Summit Nursing & tech staff, all of whom must have come from up around Lake Woebegone, 'cause they're ALL way above average.

Thanks, too, to the several of you who caught wind of these developments as they unfolded and kept me under the cozy blanket of your prayers, your good thoughts, and your good vibes. Much appreciated, all around.

The biggest "Thank You", though, is reserved for m'pardner and friend, who mostly dragged me to the hospital and then hovered for a long week, like an angel with wings of light. Thank y'kindly, Miss Sharon.

~ Ralph Murre

Thanks

Thanks to The Night

thanks to the night
for showing her moon
thanks to the morning
the late afternoon
for the long shadow
that makes you tall as your dreams
thanks to the schemes of twilight
the novel and ancient ideas of streetlights
revealed in their glowing cones
thanks to the bones of your ancestors
for the little you
thanks to the dewy flower
the clock in the tower
for not taking this moment
thanks to the sea for blue

- Ralph Murre

And thanks to all of you for looking in.
Now, I'll be out of Blogland for a couple of weeks.
Later,
~ arem

EL

chicago window
el train slicing grey morning
someone's life inside

~ arem

Guess what! More of my work, indeed some of my life, is featured on Poetry Dispatch! Forgive the overt enthusiasm, which is not my usual way, but this is a big deal for me. Please have a look at http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2011/11/13/ralph-murre-crude-red-boat-psalms-the-price-of-gravity/

Staggering

To that ancient white-tail buck we saw Saturday, south of Manitowoc, who is almost surely somewhere else today. You touched us deeply, Old Deer. (He's hiding in plain sight in my drawing, above.)

Great Stag, staggering
beneath weight of your years
told in antlers
weight of injury or infirmity
told in your gait
come down through that grass
this light
this November light

Cross the county road
yes, yes
cross and stumble a last time
to drink a last cool drink
of Lake Michigan
of this gold and silver light
Safe home
Old Father
good night

~Ralph Murre

LETTER

An Open Letter to My Grandchildren

Hi, Kids ~

I’m not sure what your parents may have told you about some things, so I am writing to set the record straight. I do not want you to grow up without knowing the whole truth. For instance, why does Grandpa always seem to want a nap? The simple fact is that I am still very tired from the hard work I had to do as a boy. You know we had no PlayStation or GameBoy. We would build stations to play, but then they invented the railroad and they took our stations for that. We would catch wild boys in the forest hoping to play games with them, like maybe checkers, but the checkerboard was still just a distant dream of scientists, so our game boys would grow up and sell insurance or real estate, and we’d have to start over.

Of course, as you know, we had no TV. The letters “T” and “V” had not yet been thought up, which was true of most of the alphabet. We just called them our ABC’s, because that’s all we had. You could call a cab, but that was about it. And cabs were too expensive, so we had to walk everywhere. No, we had no TV, but we did have radios. The trouble with those early radios, though, was that they were steam-powered. If I wanted to listen to hear the weather report, let’s say, to see how many feet of snow I would have to walk through to get to school, I needed to get up at 3:00 AM to gather wood to build a big fire in the boiler of the radio, so there would be enough steam pressure to get a report by five o’clock. At this time, the rest of the family would arise and they’d all sit around the radio to warm up, while I’d make their breakfast.

Then, before school, it was time for my paper route. I would deliver the morning newspapers to all the people of the town, shoveling the sidewalks of the elderly and looking in on the infirm, many of whom I would nurse back to health before seven by butchering a chicken and making a nice kettle of soup with dumplings, which I liked to serve with a little arugula salad on the side. When I had time, I would do a few loads of their laundry and tell entertaining stories while I packed nourishing lunches for their little children. My schoolmates and I would have a few simple chores before classes could begin, but nothing much. Re-shingle the roof if it looked like rain. Install indoor plumbing. Re-decorate the teachers’ lounge. Things like that. We’d study hard for twelve to sixteen hours and head for home, after sweeping up and mopping the floors and getting fuel for the next day’s heating.

Back at home, I’d usually eat a cold supper while doing four or five hours of homework and I’d be ready to crawl into bed right after stitching up a few quilts to keep my brothers warm.

So, now you know the way it was.

Your loving grandpa,

~ Ralph Murre