Chasing Utopia Read online

Page 4

I like being

  The moon

  To your sun

  In Toni’s spiral Milky Way

  ARTICHOKE SOUP

  let me die

  in a bowl

  of artichoke soup

  from Guy Savoy

  surrounded by garlic

  cloves and zucchini

  blossoms

  please wash me down

  with a 2002 Ramey Cab

  I love the bread tray

  too

  as long as a block

  I’ll have the lemon

  bread and the seaweed rye

  tucked under my arms

  my smile will be

  enhanced

  by goat butter

  my sautéed quail

  is floating in

  I know

  I know

  I have to go one day

  so please let it be

  in pureed artichoke

  no oil

  no wine

  just pure springwater

  artichoked

  soup

  ON KNOXVILLE, TN

  This poem was a love poem to my grandmother. I spent my summers with my grandfather and grandmother and ultimately lived with them during my high school years. I was born in Old Knoxville General Hospital; the first person in my family not born at home. I am a Tennessean by birth and that proud state has produced, nurtured, and helped create a lot of writers, composers, and even a statesman or two. I am from Appalachia. The Tennessee mountains with the early evenings and that great morning light made storytellers out of all of us. From Davy Crockett and his “bear” tales to James Agee to Dolly Parton. Parton is also a great businesswoman so her contributions reach beyond her art. I think you always write what you love. Whether it’s your grandmother or gourmet cooking or mountains and rivers. Sunsets kissing the tallest building or chipmunks scattering off to bed. I like the quiet. And I like the sound of the quiet. I’m a mountain girl. I listen and make lists of what I hear.

  AFFIRMING MY BIRTH DATE

  Though I Have No Intention of Running for Any Public Office

  I became concerned because I know you spend a lot of time on the Web and you have discovered a lot of things about me that even I didn’t know and actually hadn’t questioned. For example, a few years ago you uncovered my real birth year so I quite naturally became concerned when you once again asked: Was I am I sure that I was born on June 7th? I wanted to ask my mother when you first questioned me but you had given me such a lovely box of stationery that I feared were you to be proven correct you might ask for its return though ultimately I could find no one so worthy of the note cards that I manufactured reasons to send notes to you. Now that they are gone I am trying to be a woman about this and face facts: I might actually have been born on June 6th.

  Unfortunately, the family has used up our allotment of Day Passes for this quarter so I could not zip up to ask Mommy and as you had pointed out she was probably not watching either the time or the day. I know it was at 6:00 A.M. that I first drew my breath on my own but that was only because I was upset that Dr. Presnell hit me. Even then I found beating the life into infants was cruel and unusual punishment making it a federal case but Mommy stuck something in my mouth preventing me from making my case. It would be twenty-six years before I remembered to bring that up again.

  But thank goodness the Fates are kind when Mother Nature and others of her ilk are hard-nosed. The Fates allowed me to call my grandmother who actually turned out to be the woman I needed to ask, since she was not engaged in the distraction of my beginning journey nor the anxiety my mother was probably experiencing while I began it.

  Grandmother remembers looking at her watch because she only had two watches in her life and Grandpapa had given her this one on their fortieth anniversary. Grandmother always adored, and that should be in capital letters, two things that were in a nonreciprocal relationship with her: Racehorses and Diamonds. She was madly in love with my grandfather, adored her three daughters, and, I think, took some pleasure in her six grandchildren but the capital letters still go to Racehorses and Diamonds. Her eyes would glaze over in ways I have no words for. Grandpapa couldn’t handle horses after they moved to Knoxville from Albany, Georgia. If Louvenia wanted horses she should not have sassed that white woman, he would laughingly say to me. I knew to keep out of it. But diamonds were another matter. As nationalistic as she was she could justify diamonds because they come from Africa so she looked at it as a rescue mission. One of the reasons I have never sought a Day Pass to talk with my sister is she took Grandmother’s diamond rings that my mother wore all her life and gave them to Thomas. Of course, it goes without saying I can purchase a diamond ring or earrings or things like that but to me it was never the diamond, it was that I know he saved up for them; earning extra money tutoring Latin and being a Poll Watcher and serving on the Grand Jury. Of course, I recently read they are no longer going to pay folk to be on the Grand Jury which I think will mean folk will decline to do so but that is not our question here. I am a big fan of paying citizens to do good things but I natter which I do not intend to do.

  I was born on June 7th because Grandmother was there holding Mommy’s hand. My father was there uncharacteristically being supportive until he saw he had another girl and then turned to my aunt Agnes and said: Ag, ain’t she ugly? Not really a question but seeking an affirmation of what his heart, I had to hope, and not his eyes, saw. I heard him. People forget even folk in deep comas hear what is being said. I knew Gus and I would face difficulties but at that point my grandmother, having allowed Dr. Presnell to beat me and Mommy to stuff something in my mouth to keep me from cursing the doctor out, said: I like her. Name her after you. And Mommy did. And I proudly carried that name until Mommy moved to Heaven. When I got to officially name myself. I am Nikki. Born June 7, 1943. No matter what the Web or the Birthday Fairies think. I am me.

  THE AMERICAN VISION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  ON THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL

  150 Years After Lincoln

  70 Years After Marian Anderson

  At this moment

  Resting in the comfort of the statue

  Of the 16th president of the United States

  Missing

  An equally impressive representation

  Of his friend and adviser

  Frederick Douglass

  We come

  On this day

  Recalling the difficult and divisive war

  We are compelled

  With a prayer in the name

  Of those captured and enslaved

  Who with heart and mind

  Cleared the wilderness

  Raised crops

  Brought forth families

  Submitted their souls

  Before a merciful and great God

  To acknowledge that The Civil War

  Was fought not to free the enslaved

  For they knew they were free

  But to free the nation

  From a terrible cancer eating at our hearts

  At this moment

  In which we are embarrassed

  By the Governor of our fifth largest state

  Who appoints a man to the United States Senate

  To which both he and his minion agree:

  The Letter of the Law

  Is more important than

  The Spirit of the Law

  Now

  When we are dismayed that the accidental

  Governor of the Empire State can find

  Just one more reason to rain pain

  And rejection on a family that has offered only

  Grace and graciousness

  After two hundred years

  When we rejoice that another son

  Of the Midwest has offered himself

  His wife and his two precious daughters

  To show us a better way

  We gather

  In recognition and understanding

  That today is always and forever today


  Allowing us to offer this plea

  For light

  And truth

  And Goodness

  Forgiving as we are forgiven

  Being neither tempted nor intolerant of those who are

  We come

  At this moment

  To renew and refurbish

  The American vision

  Of Abraham Lincoln

  12 February 2009

  I AM AT THAT POINT

  I am at that point

  In life

  When I reread

  Old books

  Bake my mother’s favorite recipes

  Snuggle with a sneezy quilt

  Listen to my old rock and roll records

  Feel comfortable

  And comforted in my old nearly ragged bathrobe

  I am keeping my house shoes

  With the hole in the bottom

  Though I no longer wear them

  And yes the smell is long gone

  From that bottle of Joy

  Which still sits on my bathroom dresser

  Embracing the old things

  Is a good new thing

  Like kissing you again

  And not really paying attention

  To whether or not

  The Redskins score

  I HATE MONDAYS

  I hate Mondays

  And Tuesdays

  And especially Wednesdays

  And Thursdays

  I despise Fridays

  because Friday nights come

  And Saturdays

  in the evening

  When other folk are getting

  Bathed

  And smelling good

  And dressing in something red

  And smiling

  I have a special place

  in my heart to hate

  I’m not fond of Sundays either

  And every day of the week

  Is awful

  I hate whole months too

  And seasons

  Do I ever hate Seasons

  Spring when everything is new

  Summer with its salty sweat

  Autumn when the gathering starts

  And that winter cuddle

  I hate it

  I hate hours too

  And minutes

  I even hate seconds

  I hate it all

  ’Cause I really hate

  Not being in love

  With you

  Anymore

  A SONG FOR A BLACKBIRD

  (for Carolyn Rogers 10-4-10)

  We look for words:

  intelligent intense

  chocolate warm

  ambitious cautious

  to describe a person

  We design monuments:

  the Pyramids the Taj Mahal

  the Lincoln Memorial the Empire State Building

  the Wrigley Building Coffins

  to say someone was loved

  We sing a sad blue

  Song

  We sing a river—no—bridge

  Song

  We sing a Song of a Blackbird

  To say

  You will be missed

  ICARUS

  I lived on Burns Avenue in Wyoming. I attended Oak Avenue School. I usually walked from Burns to Pendery to Oak Avenue. It was a beautiful school. We had swings and monkey bars and a baseball and kickball field. And I think my favorite memory is Mrs. Scott, who was my first- and second-grade teacher, taking us into the school ground one morning showing us how to pick dandelion greens. We took them back in, cleaned them, and put them on to boil. We had sour milk that we churned into butter while others were making corn bread. That was lunch one day and it was wonderful.

  School in those days had morning break where you had a half pint of milk and shortbread cookies, recess where you could play, and though we had “graduated” from nap time we still got afternoon break, then home. Home was, for me, a few chores and homework. Actually, I finally landed a job because Aunt Lil would let me wash her dishes for, I think, a quarter a week. I thought I was needed but ultimately got old enough to understand she was just trying to be a good aunt.

  One winter it seemed it just snowed and snowed. I was a little girl so I don’t actually remember the ins and outs but Oak Avenue School ran out of coal. We would have to go to Wyoming High over on Wyoming Avenue.

  There was a walk that was a shortcut but it was not a place we went to very often. Usually, if we were going to that section of Wyoming we walked all the way down Burns and turned left. I walked to school with my sister most days and there were other friends along the way. We didn’t realize why our parents seemed so upset. We would all just sort of meet up and go to Wyoming High for a couple of days. I think we didn’t have a real sense of segregation at that time; we just looked at it as something new. But everyone kept telling us so often how to behave and what we might run into and to do well in classes that they probably made us nervous. We bundled up and went. I don’t have a memory of those class days other than playground. We, the Oak Avenues, all stood together wondering what we should do when a couple of kids came over and asked us to play ball.

  Time would bring different attitudes but at that point Wyoming High welcomed Oak Avenue and we played together. I like to think friendships were made. If Icarus had existed then we would have written poems. And celebrated our differences.

  WHEN THE GIRL BECAME A POET

  (after Garret Keizer)

  when the girl became

  a poet

  she was so happy

  now she could sing her own song

  tell the tales of her people

  be a truth giver

  contribute

  something beautiful and useful to the world

  unfortunately

  the New Order declared the Arts

  an enemy

  so she went underground

  and became a stealth professor

  when the student became

  a poet

  he was delighted

  he took to smoking a pipe

  and wearing frayed jackets

  more and more he was

  unfortunately

  incomprehensible

  and if there was light in his truth

  the smoke coming off that place

  obscured it

  but he was so full of himself he ceased

  eating

  and was last seen lying

  in a gutter

  reading a ten-year-old

  review of his chapbook

  when the clouds became poets

  they formed beautiful sentences

  in the blue and sometimes at night

  using the contrails

  there was mystery and amazement

  and people were up all night long

  deciphering the message

  of the clouds

  unfortunately

  the bat . . . too . . . had become

  a poet

  and she had a tale to tell of flying

  by the scent of fresh fruit

  sort of like Columbus sailing

  on his Search for Spices

  the bat dodged Owls

  and the nets of scientists

  while sharing her verses aloud

  unfortunately

  she cried

  when she realized poems

  were her true calling

  not night flights nor

  evading predators

  but she was such a fragile creature

  with no pockets like the kangaroo

  nor folds like the walrus

  she was vulnerable

  to the vestiges of

  wind and weather

  she feared for the pride

  she took in her muse

  her fear turned

  to depression

  and she drank herself

  to an early death

  by carelessness around

  a ten-year-old boy with a slingshot

  W
HEN GOD MADE MOUNTAINS

  When God made mountains

  He made runaway slaves

  With no book knowledge of the North Star

  Nor botany classes describing moss

  On the north side of trees

  He made black men and women unafraid

  Of mountain lions and Florida

  Panthers and no matter what

  Teddy Roosevelt tried to show: bears

  do not like people

  not the cuddly little Koala

  not the fierce Grizzly

  not the mighty Polar

  nor the humble mountain

  Black bear . . . all bears and their dens

  Are to be avoided

  God did make the jackrabbit who could be snared

  God made the possum who is slow

  God made the clever raccoon

  And rivers sweet with fish

  He made berries and nuts and green leafy things

  Which were safe and good

  To eat

  When God made runaway slaves

  He knew they would need a friend

  Not only in nature

  But of a human kind

  So he sent Mountaineers

  He sent white people who would not be a slave

  Nor own one

  Who would not kill a slaveholder

  Nor die for one

  He sent a free white man

  Who believed in change

  And a free white woman who believed in him

  And they made their home

  Amid these mighty mountains

  They liked to have a drink or two

  So they welcomed Johnny Appleseed

  Who brought stories and fermented applejack

  They liked heroes so they welcomed the traveling preacher

  With his message of a man “who has trampled out the vineyard

  Where the grapes of wrath are stored”

  They liked to sing so they welcomed

  The runaway slave with his banjo

  And friendships were formed

  When God made mountains he made men and women

  Who would need each other

  Who would respect each other

  Who would carry the Word so that all men

  And women could be saved

  When God made mountains

  He said “Come unto me, ye who need rest”

  And they called it Appalachia, the Original Word

  For Peace

  And some folk said: This cannot be Done