the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 461, Feb. 6, 2004
Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967)
“Through the mercies of
the Almighty, I had, in a good degree, learned to be content with a plain way
of living. I had but a small family; and, on serious consideration, believed
truth did not require me to engage much in cumbering affairs. It had been my
general practice to buy and sell things really useful. Things that served
chiefly to please the vain mind in people, I was not easy to trade in; seldom did
it; and whenever I did I found it weaken me as a Christian.”
—John Woolman (1720-1772), The Journal of John Woolman
The Osage, Otoe, and Missouria name for the
Missouri River was One Who Waits. The river flows, working patiently while
we're not looking, undermining our best and most scientifically engineered
efforts to use it efficiently.
Ultimately, we find the river is becoming
too expensive to maintain for the return. It flows out of its banks, regardless
of our flood control efforts. And, now, since developers and cities have
"discovered" floodplain and have federally backed flood insurance to
support them, it's no longer the poor who are getting it when the rivers rise.
(The poor were there, by the way, because everyone knew the rivers rose and
floodplain land was cheap--but no longer.)
The rivers and floods haven't gone away. The Corps of Engineers hasn't done anything different. The Missouri will flood again, will continue to return to its natural state. That's just its way. The river as a literary and historical event is not merely a metaphor for "letting things be, letting time pass, being patient and trying to live in harmony with the large forces that make rivers flow, like gravity and rainfall," as the professor wrote to me today. But it is also one for coming to terms with our own humanity, our own hubris as intelligent, well-meaning, ambitious creatures.
One Who Waits has significant literary connections,
from Twain to Faulkner, from Maximilian to Heat Moon. The painters, songsters,
folk artists have all incorporated the river into their work as not merely a
commercial and practical item, but as a presence, literally, a part of a state
of mind.
Interestingly, the Hidatsa and Arikara
Indians called the Missouri, The Big Medicine or Medicine River. While the
river is metaphor in this project, for passage to new worlds and perspectives
on life and maturity, I believe that the engineering efforts, and the arguments
and debates over them--in a sense, the rancor between men (and man toward
nature)--may be our time in the fog passing Cairo, Illinois, on the way to
greater things.
Today’s poem:
oak shaded and pine needled
free raptor claw and sunfish jaw
iridescent crawdads jet across hairy algae
a school of madtoms school
in the futz of tea-brown decay
while an unlikely darter trio—
two stippled, and orangethroat—
plot at the edge of the sapphire seep
for a run against the pumpkinseeds
a sculpin, an ancient old man, impatient
with the bluegill and shiner gossip
scuttles rock to rock
settles on the soft-shell’s back
an eye moves with it
as it hovers off the shell
and makes for the stick-tip of a nose
send short poems, short thoughts, fictions, or
nonfictions to the poetrysheet, where whimsy, subversion, and endless reruns of Soap are our highest values
submit/whimsy/subversion/bowling/archive
Poetry News!/contact/subscribe
all
material copyright poetrysheet and personally
recommended press, unless otherwise arranged with the authors. for information,
contact rev.
patrick dobson, 1132 e. 65th st., kansas city, mo, 64131,
816-333-7303.