Graffiti

On the walls of this cave,
my paintings of the hunt
for the perfect excuse,
umber on dolomite illustrations
of my near-conquest of the fear of success.
Close to the fire,
where we might have huddled
and invented language,
my drawings of the vision
I hoped to have,
and in the deepest recesses,
the undervalued reliefs
which I carved in your absence
to commemorate the time
we were almost together.

Sometimes still,
the sputter of a torch
where I sketch.
Sometimes still,
the possibility
of dreaming.

~ Ralph Murre

"Graffiti" appeared in Crude Red Boat from Cross+Roads Press

Another Side

The photo shows another side of the Keweenaw Peninsula, and has nothing whatsoever to do with another side of my writing, which I am proud to say appears at the excellent Haibun Today site, and to which this link may direct you >>> http://www.haibuntoday.com/ <<< (go there now)

~ RM

U.P. North

south in green summer
around the foot of Green Bay
a green car turns north

As we’ve done before, and I’ve done before that, we point toward the Keweenaw – once copper rich, now dirt poor – the Upper Peninsula of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. North of Green Bay and the Fox Valley’s fortunate, farmlands fall away quickly, and so does any evidence of recent prosperity. Forest and bog slide by a million trees at a time and we get into the big land of Tookaway. Took away iron. Copper. Silver. Took away first-growth timber and First Nation people. Took away everything of value. But the invaluable remains, flourishes. The rivers flow. The trees grow. A few people eke out a life.
In Houghton, browned men and yellow machines dig at the pavement. The dirt. The history.

an old man walking
as if bearing a great weight
his soul enormous
through a thin jacket
against the cold of summer

The railroad tracks have been removed from the lift bridge to Hancock; the taking away complete. Quincy smelter ruins of the past fight for the right to co-exist with condos and other ruins of the present. Wavelets of blue water make a chuckling sound as they nibble at foundations.
Climb the long hill to Calumet. Behold glory gone so quickly there was barely time to screw-up its old quarters. Barely money to re-muddle the red-on-red stone and brick of the place, now deemed unsuitable for Mom, Pop & The Oh-So-Average Kids, but not yet vacated by the denizens of depression; the drunks, the drifters, the drop-outs.

from a red stone stoop
in Sunday morning brightness
his unshaven stare

In a nation that’s just getting back to hard times, behold a place that’s harbored them for a couple generations since the mines have played out. Behold the look of uncommon wealth gone away. We may all get used to it. But look at the handsome buildings left behind; left for the taking. Look at the epitaph of The Good Life. Look at the good folks fixing up in spite of churches out of business along with their parishioners, dance halls along with dancers, milliners with mills.

in an empty street
as if something might happen
a cameraman

Even some of the taverns have closed, unlikely as that may sound. Even some of the best of them. Elegant emporiums of leaded glass and leather-backed booths, of mahogany and madness. A few remain.

the darkened windows
with their neon signs gone out
Sunday morning bars

In the vacuum, after the great sucking sound of the removal of resources has subsided, come the artists and poets and other marginalized people with imagination, drawn by the low rent and high ceilings of the place, drawn by the Big Sea Shining Water so close at hand, the Woods, the Cliffs. Drawn by the very fact that this is a place away. They fix things, some. They fix more. It starts to get pretty nice. They win a few. They lose a few. If they win too many, they lose it all, because property values go up to the point they can no longer afford to stay. They find a new town, I suppose, and make it safe for realtors and re-zoning. In the meantime, Calumet is just the mix of heaven and hell that I like to visit when I can.
May our friends, the fixer-uppers on the Keweenaw Peninsula, stay ahead of the forces of gravity, entropy, and the tearer-downers; but not so far ahead as have our friends on that over-priced peninsula of Wisconsin, which we call home.

south in green summer
around the foot of Green Bay
a green car returns

~ Ralph Murre

Like a Bridge

The thing about a bridge - The Golden Gate, The Mackinac, Brooklyn, London, Pont Neuf, or Monet's Garden - the thing about a bridge is that its utility is lost on no one; its symbolism is lost on no one. It is as pure and straightforward a thing as mankind has created. Is it in spite of, or because of that, I wonder, that there are so many designs, so many ways of solving what is, essentially, the same problem? Oh, I know any engineer would tell me, rightly, that each is a unique problem, but my point is that 100 engineers would design a hundred different bridges to get the same path across the same same stream. Vive la difference!
A bridge, a home, a lighthouse, a fireplace, an airplane - all utilitarian things that also have tremendous symbolism, and all have been designed in almost as many ways as have snowflakes or pebbles on a beach - alike, but not alike.
I suppose I'm writing not about bridges at all, but about the beauty of the human mind; about whatever is that instinct that makes us want to create, to BE, something different.
Perhaps we should celebrate our difference with each bridge we cross.
~ Ralph Murre

Spotty

detail of image from Como Park, St. Paul ~ don't know who the artist is

"See Spot run," they said, and I did, but noted that he couldn't change his spots. Could he spot six differences between the drawings, I wondered, could he find the G-spot, could he spot me a C-note, or at least a 10-spot? Was his high-C spot-on? Should he have been in the spotlight? Could he spot a stoplight? If he were bathed really well would he be Spotless, or would he still be seeing spots? My memory is a bit spotty on this point.

Independence

So you're telling Jolly Old England the affair is off. Good for you. Good for you. She's got kind of a lot invested in your little Wild West show, though. She's gonna fight y'for it and it could get kinda nasty. And she is family. In the end, you're still gonna love her, y'know. You're still gonna love her people, wierd as they are. You'll still want to help her out if she's in a scrape. But go ahead n'tell her, if that's what you've got to do. Go ahead n'tell her.

~ Ralph Murre

physics

the notion of gravity
gains credence
as you fall
the notion of levity
as you rise
again and again

~ RM

Remembering Arvin

Photograph probably by Laura Murre

he was a boxer

and a pacifist

a socialist

who married a republican

a tireless worker

taken by naps

a short man

who stood tall

a whistler of his own tune

a rider of the rails

and one-time cowboy

a distruster of words

and teller of stories

a speedskater

a carpenter

given to long walks

a counselor

given to short talks

he was just kid enough

to be my old man

~ Ralph Murre

Lines Are Open Now

Red Boots & A Grin

Mike Koehler, at the inaugural reading from his book, "Red Boots",(see my post from June 4th) was swarmed by some who were already shoe-ins for most-favored-woman status, but sought to enhance their position. Here, Sharon Auberle and Ellen Kort vie for Crimson Cowgirl honors. It appears that the three poets had a reasonably good time.

~ Ralph Murre

hey, barkeep

dat's sumkinda fish y'got dere

not s'big as da one I pert'near caught a coupla years ago

but dat's sumkinda fish

What's Up

" So what's up at Little Eagle Press?", you ask - or maybe you don't - but I'll tell you anyway:

We here at Little Eagle Press – no, truthfully – I here at Little Eagle Press, am wildly proud to announce publication of the first book to receive the press’ R. M. Arvinson Manuscript of the Year Award. The book is Michael Koehler’s RED BOOTS, a collection from one of Wisconsin’s finest, which leads the reader through a good bit of Koehler’s life - his longings, his triumphs, his blues. Women. Brothers. The road. The loss of a father and the finding of a poet.
Michael Koehler seems to find the poem wherever he looks, but takes it home and polishes it beautifully before putting it on display. Somehow, he does this without losing a feeling of immediacy, a sense of conversation. Here's the first poem in the book:

MEDICINE FOR A FRIEND
Let me give you this:
Tall prairie grass humming like old women
gathered to quilt their long memories into
a tan and green and dark brown field
where, underneath, small things can be warm as the sun on sumac.
Take this, too:
The sky a peerless blue,
high clouds rippled like the flesh of walleye.
And here, in my heart,my love, one leaf that never falls,
waving like an anthem,
keeping the bare tree rooted to the earth.

There are poems here that will stay with you; poems that I believe will become a part of you. The book contains a rather handsome 82 pages, including 17 of my own pen & ink drawings inspired by this manuscript.

You may order RED BOOTS, by Michael Koehler, for $12. plus $3. s&h from:
Little Eagle Press
P.O. Box 684
Baileys Harbor, WI, USA 54202
littleeaglepress@gmail.com
Personal checks cheerfully accepted, until I get stung.
Thank you,
~ Ralph Murre

Currently available from Little Eagle Press:
RED BOOTS by Michael Koehler ISBN: 978-0-9823419-4-0 $12 plus $3 s&h
CROW INK by Sharon Auberle ISBN: 978-0-9823419-3-3 $15 plus $3 s&h
A SLENDER THREAD (2nd ed.) anthology by the Nota Bene Group
ISBN: 978-0-9823419-2-6 $12 plus $3 s&h
BAR CODE anthology ISBN: 978-0-9823419-1-9 $15 plus $3 s&h
PSALMS by Ralph Murre ISBN: 978-0-9823419-0-3 $12 plus $3 s&h

BOOKSELLERS: Please inquire about wholesale rates.

And if you're not already following Mike's blog (http://onehandarmands.blogspot.com/) , wake up!

A first impression of Red Boots, this from t.k. splake, the Bard of the Keweenaw http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/t-kilgore-splake-life-death-poet-trees/
ralph,
read and enjoyed the murre – little eagle press – title RED BOOTS, and of course the ‘title poem’ was a literary given, helluva fine verse, but, for tommy (the splake-smith) I liked as well the koehler poem “road trip,” which may say something about my bardic personality, red trippin’ ohhhhhhhhhh and yes,
and, goddammit, and, goddammit, the murre artwork was a plus, just as fine, nay excellent as the michael writings, more more more in the future, I AM HOPING, noticed that you are a pilot pen man, precise v-5, well, I buy my pilot razor sharp ii pens by the dozen, eh, I have this thing about pilot ii’s,
sun shining birds singing did the CLIFFS at first dawn, sore piggies and all, and same tomorrow, if there is not a serious chance of precip, again kudos and congrats on RED BOOTS – poetry and drawings
best
cheers
t.

The Greatest

While I live about 100 yards from a perfectly acceptable Great Lake, every now and then I take it in mind to go feel the cool breath of THE GREATEST. And the breath of Mother Superior was indeed cool this time. Set off yesterday on my mighty Rozinante at about 1:00 PM and rode ~ spent the night in Jim Harrison country ~ and was home by 3:30 PM today. Slew no dragons, didn't even see windmills. There were lighthouses. Derelict vessels. A really big lake. There was cold and rain, in tolerable doses. There was food and drink in tolerable doses.

a motorcycle

in the Michigan morning

of blossoms and rain

So why ride well over 500 miles to spend so little time with the object of my affection? The ride, my friends, the ride. It is a new season, and I rode to where it is even newer, backing up time just a little bit. That's enough for me.

~ RM

Things Alone

Things alone come to me.
The red dancing shoe I saw
alone in the winding roadway
of the Appalachian Gap.
The blue workman's glove
alone in a Calumet backalley.
A black-clad widow,
her chair in the street
of a Tarpon Springs afternoon.
Now this saxophone,
its voice in the night
of Hennepin Avenue,
one dollar and change
in the torn green lining
of the open case
at my feet.

~ Ralph Murre

night truck

the night truck

speeds in from the east coast

drops off morning

crosses the mississippi

early

- rm

To Laura, gone now

Aw jeez, Ma, I miss ya somethin' terrible.

Was There a Poem?

In her dark hands that milked cows and made lace,
hands that fixed tractors and wiped tears?
A poem in the dark hands
that built houses and kept them, that worked the earth
and folded to a heaven she was sure of?
Hands that hammered out justice and
handed out calloused caresses,
those hands that labored at the piano,
but changed flat tires with ease?

Was there a song in her dark eyes
that laughed easy, but cried hard;
eyes that saw good wherever it hid?
Eyes that struggled in darkness
to read the verses and read them again
until she saw light in the words?
A song in the dark eyes that bid me welcome,
the colorless eyes that I bid goodbye?

Was there a portrait in her dark face?

- Ralph Murre

(appeared in Crude Red Boat, from Cross+Roads Press)

An Open Relationship

photo by Dana Tynan

I was just looking, with justified admiration, at the photo of Joan Baez on the cover of her great autobiography "And a Voice to Sing With", when I found I had to explain that Joan and I have been together for a long time. Since before the sixties turned into THE SIXTIES, in fact. Oh, we've had an open relationship, to be sure - I'm OK with the fact that she's had other lovers, and she's never said a word about my infidelities - but she's always been there when I've needed her, which has been pretty often. Those times when I needed somebody with some heart, some guts, some brains, and a voice to sing with.

Maintaining a long-lasting relationship is easier, I suppose, when one of the partners is totally unaware of the existence of the other, as she is unaware of me, but she's been true to the spirit of our romance, and I am happy. I can only ask what great love is without its little oddness ? Her book talks of the old days, and of her waiting in a dream for Marlon Brando to come along and swoop her up on his Wild-One Harley. About the same time, as it turns out, I was living in Northern Cal and was waiting in a dream for Joan to pick me up along Hwy. 101 in her Jaguar. I mean, what else did she have to do?

Years later, after demonstrating the courage to stand up to some of the nastiest offenders of all that is holy, she came to sing in the little auditorium of the barely one-horse Midwestern town where I live, so I went to hear her, and to be in the same room with one of the great heroes of my life. I sent flowers backstage, but lacked the courage to try to meet her. Our relationship is still unflawed by an actual introduction. I've heard that love knows no bounds, so I'm not sure what this is. But it's something like love.

~ Ralph Murre

Sex in the City

The Sam Laud Enters Green Bay

The great vessel

after giving signal

and receiving signal

nudges strong and gentle

and slow

so slow

into the draw

and up the dark flow

bellows

a long and two short

and deep moans

Colored light

shimmers

all around

~ Ralph Murre

cul-de-sac

Does the path end

before anyone

is out of the woods?

-arem

Dangerous Machinery

in remembrance . . .

A Brief History of Our Products

Admittedly,

there were times of dangerous machinery.

Inquire of a Native American.

Ask a Jew.

Maybe a Cambodian could fill you in.

A Tutsi, if you can find one,

might know a little about it.

And do ask around when you're in Dresden

or Hiroshima.

Things used to get out of hand.

But you can relax now,

the new model is vastly improved,

(Dozens of changes for 2009!)

and we do not expct anyn prbolems.

*^x^xxzzt

Jsuttt st. bacccck & rlx. ax.xxxzt***Lax

~ Ralph Murre

hol⋅o⋅caust 
–noun
1.
a great or complete devastation or destruction, esp. by fire.
2.
a sacrifice completely consumed by fire; burnt offering.
3.
(usually initial capital letter) the systematic mass slaughter of European Jews in Nazi concentration camps during World War II (usually prec. by the).
4.
any mass slaughter or reckless destruction of life.