Let Us Consider

—Poems by Russell Edson, 1935-2014

—Anonymous Photos and Artwork

THE ADVENTURES OF A TURTLE

The turtle carries his house on his back. He is both the house and the person of that house.
    
        But actually, under the shell is a little room where the true turtle, wearing long underwear, sits at a little table. At one end of the room a series of levers sticks out of slots in the floor, like the controls of a steam shovel. It is with these that the turtle controls the legs of his house.
     
       Most of the time the turtle sits under the sloping ceiling of his turtle room reading catalogues at the little table where a candle burns. He leans on one elbow, and then the other. He crosses one leg, and then the other. Finally he yawns and buries his head in his arms and sleeps.
    
       If he feels a child picking up his house he quickly douses the candle and runs to the control levers and activates the legs of his house and tries to escape.
     
       If he cannot escape he retracts the legs and withdraws the so-called head and waits. He knows that children are careless, and that there will come a time when he will be free to move his house to some secluded place, where he will relight his candle, take out his catalogues and read until at last he yawns. Then he’ll bury his head in his arms and sleep....That is, until another child picks up his house....

METALS METALS

Out of the golden West, out of the leaden East, into the iron South, and to the silver North . . .  Oh metals metals everywhere, forks and knives, belt buckles and hooks . . . When you are beaten you sing. You do not give anyone a chance . . . 

 
      You come out of the earth and fly with men. You lodge in men. You hurt them terribly. You tear them. You do not care for anyone. 

  

     Oh metals metals, why are you always hanging about? Is it not enough that you hold men’s wrists? Is it not enough that we let you in our mouths? 

  

     Why is it you will not do anything for yourself? Why is it you always wait for men to show you what to be? 

  

     And men love you. Perhaps it is because you soften so often. 
 
     You did, it is true, pour into anything men asked you to. It has always proved you to be somewhat softer than you really are. 

  

     Oh metals metals, why are you always filling my house? 
  
     You are like family, you do not care for anyone.

What'll the Cockle Do?

THE DIFFICULTY WITH A TREE

A woman was fighting a tree. The tree had come to rage at the woman’s attack, breaking free from its earth it waddled at her with its great root feet. 
     
       Goddamn these sentiencies, roared the tree with birds shrieking in its branches. 
     
       Look out, you’ll fall on me, you bastard, screamed the woman as she hit at the tree. 
     
      The tree whisked and whisked with its leafy branches. 
       
      The woman kicked and bit screaming, kill me kill me or I’ll kill you! 

     

      Her husband seeing the commotion came running crying, what tree has lost patience? 
  
      The ax the ax, damnfool, the ax, she screamed. 
     
      Oh no, roared the tree dragging its long roots rhythmically limping like a sea lion towards her husband. 
        
      But oughtn’t we to talk about this? cried her husband. 
    
      But oughtn’t we to talk about this, mimicked his wife. 
    
      But what is this all about? he cried. 
     
      When you see me killing something you should reason that it will want to kill me back, she screamed. 

     

      But before her husband could decide what next action to perform the tree had killed both the wife and her husband. 
     
      Before the woman died she screamed, now do you see? 
     
      He said, what...? And then he died.

LET US CONSIDER

Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son; 
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping 
her shadow off a wall.... 



    Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows’ 
tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips 
in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given 
to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which 
saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in 
vanity....



    Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner, 
whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man 
who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for 
dessert served himself a chilled fedora....

 



THE UNFORGIVEN

After a series of indiscretions a man stumbled homeward, thinking, now that I am going down from my misbehavior I am to be forgiven, because how I acted was not the true self, which I am now returning to. And I am not to be blamed for the past, because I’m to be seen as one redeemed in the present... 
     
        But when he got to the threshold of his house his house said, go away, I am not at home. 

        Not at home? A house is always at home; where else can it be? said the man. 
    
        I am not at home to you, said his house. 

   

       And so the man stumbled away into another series of indiscretions...

Today’s LittleNip:

WITH SINCEREST REGRETS
—Russell Edson

              for Charles Simic

Like a monstrous snail, a toilet slides into a living room on a track of wet, demanding to be loved.
         
       It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets. In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.
          
      And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace ...
         
      The toilet slides away ...

_____________________

With sincerest (posthumous) thanks to Russell Edson, who always manages to shake up my brain when I get stuck in the prosaic. For more about Russell Edson, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/russell-edson/.

The Good Earth Movement Coop in Placerville will present Barbara West tonight, 6:30pm, plus open mic. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

And please note that the on-going Tuesday at Two poetry workshop, which meets in Placerville every Tuesday from 2-3pm, will move as of this coming week to the large crafts room at Placerville Senior Center, 937 Spring St, Placerville. Free; all ages welcome.

—Medusa

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