In 1918, my grandparents were invited by a colleague of my grandfather’s at the University of Missouri to visit them at the cottage they’d just bought in northern Michigan. It’s on a lovely, clear little lake, they said, with sandy beaches for the children. Near the end of that visit, my grandparents took a walk along the shore and came across a small white cottage for sale, $800. They closed the deal, long distance, over the winter. This was the year my father was born. My grandfather read a book on swimming and taught himself to swim, then taught the rest of the family as well as many neighbors. For years, there was an enclave of academicians on that side of the lake, all swimming properly.
Our lake is my own lifeblood. I learned to walk along its shores, I have been swimming in it every decent morning all my life. I want to spend eternity swimming breast stroke from our dock on down to the wider part of the lake on a slightly misty morning. The lake has saved my soul many times.
So, in gratefulness, I put this collection together, selecting from all the lake poems I’ve written over the years, and including some new ones. And since the water is so much a part of who I am, and since the Antrim County Chain of Lakes, which includes our lake, supplies over 60 percent of the surface water for Grand Traverse Bay, this book is my gift to the water. All proceeds from the sale of the book go directly to the Watershed Center, whose main mission is to protect Grand Traverse Bay and its entire 1,000- square-mile watershed. The steady and passionate advocacy of the Watershed Center makes a huge difference to this region and to all of the Great Lakes.
Dock
Say dock, dock: it’s just a hollow
of itself, the way the foot
echoes between wood and water,
the plank, plank of it
like piano keys, growing hollower
farther out under the stars.
Listen to the way dock’s closed in
by the tongue on one side, pushed out
at the far end toward the lake
with a duck-sound, quack-
sound, where they congregate
for crumbs. It’s even a tongue,
itself, saying nothing but
what you bump against it.
Or an arm, reaching out. Here
you’re willing to make yourself sociable,
declare yourself separate
from the trees. “Dock here,”
you offer. Here is a place
to stop. And it’s true. Indeed,
I have to stop at the end,
and think. The reason
for walking out here is
how the end goes blunt.
You feel your blood turn back
toward the heart, but
for an instant, you imagine,
it longs to keep moving out,
like Roadrunner at the edge of a cliff,
keeping on with nothing built
to hold him up. Turning back,
I carve a cul-de-sac in the air,
which is a comfort, and a sadness.
of itself, the way the foot
echoes between wood and water,
the plank, plank of it
like piano keys, growing hollower
farther out under the stars.
Listen to the way dock’s closed in
by the tongue on one side, pushed out
at the far end toward the lake
with a duck-sound, quack-
sound, where they congregate
for crumbs. It’s even a tongue,
itself, saying nothing but
what you bump against it.
Or an arm, reaching out. Here
you’re willing to make yourself sociable,
declare yourself separate
from the trees. “Dock here,”
you offer. Here is a place
to stop. And it’s true. Indeed,
I have to stop at the end,
and think. The reason
for walking out here is
how the end goes blunt.
You feel your blood turn back
toward the heart, but
for an instant, you imagine,
it longs to keep moving out,
like Roadrunner at the edge of a cliff,
keeping on with nothing built
to hold him up. Turning back,
I carve a cul-de-sac in the air,
which is a comfort, and a sadness.
Elvis at the End of History
It was him, Elvis, sheepishly
stepping out of my outhouse,
looking better than ever, the way
some old men slim down and loosen
their lines. He had left the door open,
the lid slightly ajar on the women’s
hole. As usual, I forgave him
everything. I acted normal, as if
I hadn’t been waiting under the trees,
last night’s full chamber-pot
balanced in my hand. I could have
said at any point in my life
that he was the one I was waiting for,
looking sleepily down from the stage,
seeing but not seeing me,
granting me reprieve in an instant
from my life, but holding me in it
like a star. It’s like if you ask
for Jesus, Jesus comes. It’s never
the way you think. There he was,
hair flopped over his eyes,
coming out of the last outhouse left
along the lake, and it there
only because of the grandfather clause.
This was the end of our history
together, all that strangeness
in the crotch, the pulse hammering
the bass line, real life and art
straining to fuse, to end all
history. I was hearing in my mind
Won’t you wear my ring,
around your neck? but it sounded
like the sweet core of good taste,
like the gospel fleshed out,
saddened down to honky tonk.
“Excuse me,” he said. “The older I get,
the more often I have to pee.”
I agreed. I might have been humming
to myself, sometimes I don’t know
when I’m doing it. I can be
treble and bass at the same time.
stepping out of my outhouse,
looking better than ever, the way
some old men slim down and loosen
their lines. He had left the door open,
the lid slightly ajar on the women’s
hole. As usual, I forgave him
everything. I acted normal, as if
I hadn’t been waiting under the trees,
last night’s full chamber-pot
balanced in my hand. I could have
said at any point in my life
that he was the one I was waiting for,
looking sleepily down from the stage,
seeing but not seeing me,
granting me reprieve in an instant
from my life, but holding me in it
like a star. It’s like if you ask
for Jesus, Jesus comes. It’s never
the way you think. There he was,
hair flopped over his eyes,
coming out of the last outhouse left
along the lake, and it there
only because of the grandfather clause.
This was the end of our history
together, all that strangeness
in the crotch, the pulse hammering
the bass line, real life and art
straining to fuse, to end all
history. I was hearing in my mind
Won’t you wear my ring,
around your neck? but it sounded
like the sweet core of good taste,
like the gospel fleshed out,
saddened down to honky tonk.
“Excuse me,” he said. “The older I get,
the more often I have to pee.”
I agreed. I might have been humming
to myself, sometimes I don’t know
when I’m doing it. I can be
treble and bass at the same time.
For Grandmother Beth
Just one scandalous year past our
grandmother’s death, the second wife
stood homely and trembling ankle-deep
in the lake, taking on water and family
at once. Once, she told me, your grandfather
found the box of hair your grandmother
saved when she had it bobbed. She said
he cried, and I tried to imagine both
wives working it out in heaven. He took
this second one, taught her theories of
economics, gave her his grown children
and grandchildren, money and houses. They
used to sit at the kitchen table and eat
prunes, the same table where he ate
prunes with my grandmother. Regularity
took him to ninety-five, although
the last year in the nursing home
he couldn’t remember who she was, and even
years before that, at the lake, he’d
call her by his dead wife’s name. No,
Harry, she’d say, it’s Beth, Beth,
and lead him back to where he meant
to go. She never touched the money
he left her, saved it for his children,
took in roomers and lived on interest.
Now she’s dead all Garth Avenue
is gone from me, from us, the house,
the lilies on the valley on the north side,
oh, it would be a long list,
and who cares now but us. This
is what I have to say for her, who held
a place and saved everything as if
she had no needs or wishes, except
to be no trouble at all, and to die quickly,
a light turned out to save electric bills.
grandmother’s death, the second wife
stood homely and trembling ankle-deep
in the lake, taking on water and family
at once. Once, she told me, your grandfather
found the box of hair your grandmother
saved when she had it bobbed. She said
he cried, and I tried to imagine both
wives working it out in heaven. He took
this second one, taught her theories of
economics, gave her his grown children
and grandchildren, money and houses. They
used to sit at the kitchen table and eat
prunes, the same table where he ate
prunes with my grandmother. Regularity
took him to ninety-five, although
the last year in the nursing home
he couldn’t remember who she was, and even
years before that, at the lake, he’d
call her by his dead wife’s name. No,
Harry, she’d say, it’s Beth, Beth,
and lead him back to where he meant
to go. She never touched the money
he left her, saved it for his children,
took in roomers and lived on interest.
Now she’s dead all Garth Avenue
is gone from me, from us, the house,
the lilies on the valley on the north side,
oh, it would be a long list,
and who cares now but us. This
is what I have to say for her, who held
a place and saved everything as if
she had no needs or wishes, except
to be no trouble at all, and to die quickly,
a light turned out to save electric bills.
Continues...
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