Ode to Working Group II
“When the seagulls follow a trawler, it’s because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea. Thank you very much.” – Eric Cantona
a flock of sandpipers in the freshly flooded marsh
a host of oaks tilting toward recognition
a hundred herons poking out from the muck
an avalanche of stones multiplying in the mountains
an eagle hunkered on a branch in the fog
another attack by a smack of jellyfish
another urban heat island on fat slabs of cement
a pika in the mine of our changing climate
a pelican hunched along the iron tracks
a solitary raven in the stone-gray sky
a thimble of ginger to settle her cough
a thousand catastrophes blooming under the sun
autumn brought ferocious dreams of fire
bald eagles decimating colonies of cormorant
bats flapping before a mountainous full moon
because not all certainty is created equal
because some people like it the way it is
crick glistening beneath a thundering sun
death did not mean the end of the relation
drought so bad they prayed for hurricanes
“Finally, he said with satisfaction, it’s an earthquake.”
fire thrumming heat through the peat underground
fists of iced oats beneath a half-moon sky
flames leapt across the crowns of trees
glacial lakes where ice vacates space
he called it “a perfectly safe pipeline”
he lived in the city when it went underwater
hurricanes swirling from the earth’s rotation
I have a joke I’ve been trying to tell you
I’ve tried so hard to mend these regrets
in the abundance of water, this chalky land
islands firing from the center of the earth
it takes six days to cut down a mountain
like a full-grown woodpecker who keeps on pecking
like scratches and scars in a glacier’s wake
more paper permits punching holes in the seabed
my anxiety rippling like a rusty river
my mind a permafrost region of sorts
my mouth a graveyard of past indiscretions
my theories all crammed in a cold metal box
refinery flares hidden by the curve of the earth
she snapped photos of things I just couldn’t see
shrugging my own private glacier-to-slush pill
smacks and smacks of jellyfish clogging the water
solar panels at sunrise, wind turbines by night
something about the barn’s feathery weathering
stop signs flapping like flags in a haboob
suppressing cirrus clouds on the meeting’s agenda
that solitary daisy in a field of green
that’s when I started to notice the birds
the Cascades that spiny range to the west
the fallen snow made the clear-cut clearer
the ruffle of a scrub jay’s wings on landing
they developed their film in the mighty Rheine
though the bus rolled off, I kept on waving
tornados not just columns of air in rotation
torrents of rain—islands washed to the sea
two geese ensconced on a column for power
‘Virtue’s no business model,’ he said on the air
we didn’t do anything for just one reason
we measured our time through artificial snow
wet, wet weather—season’s cadence out of sync
what touched the river must be washed today
when flattery’s no antidote to calm the roiling sea
when not taking sides meant taking the wrong one
when red-winged blackbirds rained from the sky
when the earth’s chassis starts buckling under
when the ground held firm with the promise of profit
when the reset button cannot be punched
where green meant a chemical, a flavor, a flow
where one tectonic plate pressed under another
where rock dust tempered the explosive load
where we try to live in the Cascadian Zone
where wind turbines swirl with the heat of the future
wild, wild weather not jarring the mind
Williams’ fleshpale smoke in the brickstacked sky
Wishbone in a chicken—the luck of other lands
Bienvenidos
★
Alone, alone for the tears all gathered
A grainy shelf of sand on a bed of concrete
A trove of tiny shells strung along the seashore
Arm in arm in arm beneath disheveled bevel of sky
★
Cervantes called poetry an incurable malady
Colloquia, chemistry, the curvatures of time
Franco not swayed nor moved by music
Grace hailed through restraint, persistence, will
He looked too young to look that old
His life an embroidery—tightly threaded and decorative
Leaves flaring and falling under the thrum of the sun
Lone saxophone belting in a Barcelona park
Miró brought blades of grass to Paris for clarity
Orwell called the system a swindling machine
Our books caressed by a thousand hands
Our words thunderbolts flopped in a trough
★
Picasso’s mom gave Miró a cake to take to Paris
Small knots of men, arms flapping in the park
The crisp crackle of fireworks in the wake of the win
The streets snapping back with each Barça golaso
We nibbled baguette in the small hours of morning
We wrested those moments from a swirling tide
When the good stuff’s stuffed in an appendix at the end
When we nestled in the knowledge we were wholly unknown
Where ambulances bellowed like a band of bagpipes
Where pacing meant lacing the speed and calm
Where tremors rippled down thin strips of diction
While parrots traced parabolic ribbons in the sky
Sources: Ode to Working Group II
• Vito Acconci, “Plot,” 1974.
• Kathleen Hennessey, “Mitch Daniels Blasts Obama for ‘Trickle-down Government’,” Los Angeles Times, 24 January 2012.
• Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, “Summary for Policymakers,” in: Climate Change 2007: Impacts, Adaptation and Vulnerability. Contribution of Working Group II to the Fourth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, M.L. Parry, O.F. Canziani, J.P. Palutikof, P.J. van der Linden and C.E. Hanson, Eds., Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, 2007, pp. 7-22.
• On the Media, “Is Huffpost Good for Journalism?” National Public Radio, 29 April 2011.
• William Todd Schultz, Tiny Terror: Why Truman Capote (Almost) Wrote Answered Prayers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).
Sources: Bienvenidos
• Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote (New York: Penguin, 2003 [1605, 1615]).
• Pablo Neruda, Spain in our Hearts: Hymn to the Glories of People at War, Trans. Donald D. Walsh (New York: New Directions Books, 2005 [1973]).
• George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia (New York: Penguin, 1989 [1938]).