Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

Archive

Volume 16 Number 3, December 2015

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OCTOBER IN MONTANA: four poems

by

Per Brask

 

 

WISDOM ROAD (for Donna and Kat Healy)

 

the I Ching

told us

follow wisdom road

a yellow path

luminous with aspens

in fall dress

on Montana’s high plains

little did we know

wisdom comes

in wind gusts

at 65 miles/hour

stranding us

in Billings

with little choice

but YAM* for nourishment

wanting to see

western art, you know

old masters

like Frederick Remington

and Charles Marion Russell

instead we hurtled

into Willem Volkersz’

‘Persistent Memories’

of childhood lost

in Amsterdam

166 children

from his school

lost their lives

in KZ camps

before he sat

in their former seats

blond handcrafted

wooden suitcases

each with name and dates

a boy in neon

his suitcase

packed to leave

wooden clogs

some for infants

in a heap

the shaft of a spade

engraved ‘guaranteed

lifetime’ protrudes

the mound

rows of wooden benches

reminiscent

of carpentry class

with perfectly placed

stepped-out-of children’s shoes

in front

next to a staircase

of stacked cases

a soulbird escaping

its top - later

crashing a Sunday

afternoon tea fundraiser

we meet two of Billings’

few Jews

Kat and Donna

daughter and mother

carrying the spirit

who help us mourn

shiva-like

Volkersz’ memories

and we laugh together

for

as the YAM T-shirt says

art matters

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* YAM = Yellowstone Art Museum

 

 

A  GLIMPSE

 

on this our Canadian

thanksgiving day

we relished

our chicken

and vegetables

turkey sandwich

with olive spread

and roasted peppers

while watching

sleeping behemoths

above Bozeman

blazing manes

sun-painted

grace

a wily artwork

master fly fishermen

still drinking downstairs

skipped, hopefully

the poets gathering

for open mic night

at the tea shop

weren’t practicing

all day long

because there are many

more divine

letters

coursing through

those hills

than the M

that forms the eye

of the behemoth

to my left

now that the sun

is almost down

 

 

BLANKETED WARRIOR (for Carol)

 

is the name of the horse

you’ll meet

on the walking path

behind the library

he stands there in all

his scrap metal glory

the third, maybe

fourth of his kind

we’ve come across

in Montana, sensibly

fitting her landscapes

and the life here

not far from the warrior

sits humpty dumpty

on his bench posing

a photo op

not to be resisted

and we don’t

the retired New Yorker

we meet by the horse

now settled here

gives us hints

of where to continue

our walk and after

a few laughs together

and talking

about the joys

brought by grandchildren

and what wouldn’t we

do for them

we continue down

the graveled path

lit by aspens reaching

a more passionate yellow

in the fall sun

then back over

and down the ridge

to the library

where they have twelve

of your books

on their shelves

you a warrior

here too

 

 

COTTONWOOD CREEK (for Willem and Diane Volkersz)

 

cottonwood creek

takes a turn

down below

in the backyard

a sandy half-moon

of beach left over

from a flood

a fire pit

where dead branches

offer up

their fervor

cottonwood and aspen

in a declension of yellow

provide cover

for elk, bear and wolf

sometimes a cougar

that’s the good grammar

of habitation

in the artist’s studio

situated up the hill

light streams in

at the right time of day

for sculpture-creations

that tell stories

of beauty and horror

of going through and

of arriving in places

empty wooden chairs

hang ready

to play their part

in the future tense

in the high-ceilinged

log home

the artist and his wife

exhibit artlessly

the how

of loving

the world

and each other

for fifty years

is there a more

advanced grammar?

a more intricate ecology

of mind?

 

 

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