Poems from Catching the Limit
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Some poets explore environment to better expose an internal landscape.
Thalman is such a poet, exposing Oregon and our heritage.
Kirsten Rian
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CATCHING THE LIMIT
I troll along the south shore,
where other fisherman say
the angling is no good: too shallow,
too many weeds. With their fish finders,
they cluster off Princess Creek,
but I don't see them catching anything.
The lake lies flat mirroring sky.
An osprey rides the currents,
until he spies a trout,
folds his wings and drops
like a swift mountain stream
falling over the edge of a cliff,
plunging talons first
into his own reflection . . .
Emerging in a fury of spray,
wings widespread, using them as oars,
the bird strokes against the surface,
flapping steadily to reach the air again,
nosing his wriggling prey into the wind.
I point the bow at the spot
where the osprey caught the rainbow.
More times than not, that is the place
my pole starts to bend.
"Catching the Limit" first appeared in Calusa Review,
republished in From Here We Speak: Oregon Anthology
and Your Daily Poem. com.
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INHERITANCE
In Grandfather's shop, I search for a pair of gloves,
but none seem to match. Either the right or left
has been lost in an act of forgetfulness.
I find a few that could be sculptures Rodin would have admired:
a hand gripping an invisible hammer, another resting as in a lap,
one pointing like it knew the correct direction.
His daily sweat soaked into the leather
making the palms shiny as calluses, fingers ridged
until stretched like skin, worn again.
I try them on and my fingerprints embed
on top of his. My hands ready to rake twigs and cones
blown down around the cabin all winter.
First place: 2006 Marylhurst Review contest.
Republished in Your Daily Poem.com.
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HIGHWAY TO THE COAST
Thick and green, the hills rise
on each other's shoulders.
High ridges disappear in fog
make me wish I was born of water.
At the divide, I taste the cool ocean air,
the way a deer finds a salt lick,
and roller coaster down a narrow road
that does not believe in a straight line.
Blackberry vines
crawl through barbed wire fences.
Small towns occur like a whim.
As if in a coma, they merely survive.
I tune in the only station
and listen to country western.
Static gradually drowns the singer out.
Rounding a corner, he pops to the surface
for another breath,
simply to sink back still singing.
Fir shadows lace the road.
Bracken cascades embankments.
At the next curve, a farmhouse is half finished--
boards weathered raw. Chickens roost in a gutted Chevy.
Scattered among these hills, families
rely on small private lumber mills,
the disability or unemployment check,
the killing of an out of season elk.
"Highway to the Coast" first appeared in Caffeine Destiny,
republished by Deer Drink the Moon by Ooligan Press -
Portland State University Press, davejarecki.com, and
Your Daily Poem.com
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IN THE DESCHUTES
I walk this mountain trail
with black powder on my back,
blasting caps in both hands,
a killer
of stumps,
a maker
of pits.
Shovel dirt,
plant the charge,
string wire behind a tree,
yell,
Fire in the hole!
A chipmunk takes shelter.
Fire in the hole!
A blue jay mocks.
Fire in the hole!
I touch it off,
and where the stump used to be,
the sun
as through a high church window
suspends dust.
"In the Deschutes" first appeared in the Wisconsin Review.
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| Chickadee and Rhododendron by Mark Thalman |
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