{"id":27549,"date":"2024-10-04T11:17:38","date_gmt":"2024-10-04T15:17:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=27549"},"modified":"2024-10-04T11:17:44","modified_gmt":"2024-10-04T15:17:44","slug":"the-woodsmoke-tang-of-elegy-in-the-autumn-air","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2024\/10\/the-woodsmoke-tang-of-elegy-in-the-autumn-air\/","title":{"rendered":"The Woodsmoke Tang of Elegy in the Autumn Air"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n

[Image: “Willows at Sunset,” by Vincent Van Gogh. Specifically, these willows are “pollarded” willows. Pollarding is the horticultural practice of trimming the new branches of a tree — willows, crape myrtles, etc. — every few years, which serves several practical purposes (including ornamental). The “pollard” refers to the bulbous knob where the new branches grew, which itself grows over time as new material gets added. Says the site where I found this image<\/a>: “[Van Gogh] used the image of pollarded willows in several paintings, and it seems to have been a form that he was attracted to. There is something stark and rather sinister about the truncated trees, particularly in this picture, as their spiky branches appear to form a grill across the picture surface and in front of the great, glowing sun.”]<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

October<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sooner or later, I thought,
the wind would begin to make sense
if I listened hard
and took notes religiously.
That was spring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now I’m not so sure:
the cloudless sky has a flat affect
and the fields plowed down after harvest
seem so expressionless,
keeping their own counsel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This afternoon, nut tree leaves
blow across them
as if autumn had written us a long letter,
changed its mind,
and tore it into little scraps.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Don Thompson [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and<\/a> (italicized lines):<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

I Imagine the Gods<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I imagine the gods saying, We will
make it up to you. We will give you
three wishes, they say. Let me see
the squirrels again, I tell them.
Let me eat some of the great hog
stuffed and roasted on its giant spit
and put out, steaming, into the winter
of my neighborhood when I was usually
too broke to afford even the hundred grams
I ate so happily walking up the cobbles,
past the Street of the Moon
and the Street of the Birdcage-Makers,
the Street of Silence and the Street
of the Little Pissing. We can give you
wisdom, they say in their rich voices.
Let me go at last to Hugette, I say,
the Algerian student with her huge eyes
who timidly invited me to her room
when I was too young and bewildered
that first year in Paris.
Let me at least fail at my life.
Think, they say patiently, we could
make you famous again. Let me fall
in love one last time, I beg them.
Teach me mortality, frighten me
into the present. Help me to find
the heft of these days. That the nights
will be full enough and my heart feral.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Jack Gilbert [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

On the Three Forms of Water<\/strong>
(excerpt)<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We are liquid and we are solid, oceanic
matter cloaked in the garment of being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As for the ocean: she is coming to collect us
and gather us back into herself, as when,
long ago, your mother picked you up early
from the nurse\u2019s office at school,
and gave you a kiss, and put you to bed,
where you slept without a care in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Campbell McGrath [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

\n

New Orleans Love Poem<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

As my tongue runs
down your spine in bed,
outside my parents\u2019 house
sea levels are rising,
the city filling, flooding,
predicted to disappear
in a hundred years. Outside,
the sky is glazed with light,
soap white. The Mississippi
shimmers. So much beauty.
So how wrong is it
to stay in this room?
To hold each other,
to keep our bodies
safe and alone together?
This house—pink stucco
latticed with mold,
water bubbles in the streets
from storm drains. Asphalt cracks.
And on our screens
bad news unfurls—
War. Fire. Drought.
In my childhood room, you mouth me open.
I close my hands
over your shoulders
then remember driving
to pick up our daughters
while a story about \u201cecological grief\u201d
played on NPR,
the summer after my mother died.
Outside: magnolia tree lashed with rain.
Tongue. Mouth. Hair.
How wrong is it now to take solace
in the ordinary?
We slide out of our clothes.
A hundred years from now
when the world churns on
without us, the bridge drowns,
braceleted with light.
And here we are, in another
winter of wrong
temperatures. I slip on
my mother\u2019s coat, flash
its red silk lining, invisible skin.
How I wish I could fill its pockets
not with smoke or flood water.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Nicole Cooley [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Spectacles of Daily Life<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are things you own
without knowing — boat slip
in your name though the skiff
changed hands long ago.
Your people\u2019s unquestioned ways—
prayer cards in the pocket,
canceled casino dice, votives
making a shrine of the bathroom.
These spectacles of daily life
are so small, possess so little mystery
they\u2019re hardly worth writing down.
I drive past Parc Fontaine
where my father lived forty years ago,
but never past his grave. Once was enough—
holding it all in, no ripple of ruckus
from us in leopard print or pearl snaps
still creased from Tractor Supply,
eyes locked on the coffin which was nothing
if not one of Earl\u2019s crab traps
baited with turkey necks
and sinking with no splash.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Alison Pelegrin [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

The ride back to the mainland was peaceful. The parrot-tongued woman was quiet, wearied by her day’s study of the lives of oysters, and Della had the beatific look of a satisfied birder. The boat captain set the autopilot and sat down in an aluminum chair with his book. The engine droned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Della turned to Roger. “I enjoy chickens,” she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But Roger was not surprised. She didn’t smile, and he didn’t expect her to. She was a serious woman, with her mind on birds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Not White Leghorns, though,” she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

“No,” said Roger slowly. “Certainly not White Leghorns.” He squinted thoughtfully. “I would think Golden Sebrights.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Yes,” she said, nodding emphatically. “And Silver-laced Wyandottes.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Buff Orpingtons,” said Roger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Dominiques,” she said, beginning to smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Punkin Holses,” said Roger, “Lakenvelders, and Salmon Favorolles.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she laughed out loud and hugged him tight with both arms. She smelled like pine trees and lichens and hot sand. How odd, thought Roger, that after all, this is what it took—not a flock of scarlet ibises or golden-crowned kinglets, but just the names of chickens, hovering in the air like the sulpher butterflies at the dump.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Bailey White [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Willows at Sunset,” by Vincent Van Gogh. Specifically, these willows are “pollarded” willows. Pollarding is the horticultural practice of trimming the new branches of a tree — willows, crape myrtles, etc. — every few years, which serves several practical purposes (including ornamental). The “pollard” refers to the bulbous knob where the new branches grew, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27550,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"federate","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Jack Gilbert, Nicole Cooley, Bailey White, et al.: 'The Woodsmoke Tang of Elegy in the Autumn Air'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,94,250,4878,251],"tags":[24,2553,2611,3015,3832,3905,4010,4529,5987,5988],"class_list":{"0":"post-27549","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-02_in-the-news","11":"category-art","12":"category-fiction","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"tag-nostalgia","15":"tag-natural-disasters","16":"tag-bailey-white","17":"tag-jack-gilbert","18":"tag-vincent-van-gogh","19":"tag-don-thompson","20":"tag-climate-change","21":"tag-campbell-mcgrath","22":"tag-nicole-cooley","23":"tag-alison-pelegrin","24":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/10\/willows-at-sunset_vincentvangogh.jpg?fit=1000%2C938&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-7al","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27549","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27549"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27549\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27554,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27549\/revisions\/27554"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27550"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27549"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27549"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27549"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}