Poet, 40 years ago
—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
awaken, my feeble mind. the sun
has almost cleared the eastern mountains
and a regal purple light holds
the sky in its arms. life awaits.
* * *
what has to be done today? nothing. just more poems. i sharpen a pencil and reach for my notebook, both of them seem somewhat wonderful this morning. the perfect black paper. the smell of the pencil. then the door in my hand opens up and the first poem walks through. welcome to the world, little one. sit here, next to my coffee.
* * *
the suitcase itself is cheap and beat up, inside;
there is one change of clothes, old and threadbare;
dozens of letters that were never mailed,
all in envelopes, addressed with neat handwriting;
one apple and one hunk of cheese;
a map of a place far away, never visited.
the letters are tied together in a bundle,
which is large, bound by twine.
the knot is an elegant double half-hitch.
the apple and cheese are wrapped in wax-paper,
inside a small paper bag with the top rolled shut.
if you open the map, there is a place marked with an 'x,'
a small town beside a lake in a large valley.
time is passing. it rains for a few minutes,
but then it suddenly stops.
Jobe, Bring a Grandpa
like a rolling pebble on the mountainside
starts off the vast avalanche, things
that begin so small can grow so large
and beyond any control.
a ladybug flutters its wings and so a storm is born.
like the ladybug (or the pebble!), this storm is tiny at first,
but in time comes to grow in both strength and experience.
it might rage and destroy, or it might soothe
and nourish the dry and scorched earth.
who among us can predict the twists of the future?
ah, look—the ladybug is taking off.
my friend, a storm is heading somewhere else.
* * *
i don't believe in fate or destiny, but i believe in the fresh snow on the yuba river boulders. i have faith in the mud of the river trail and the long, graceful arc of a redtail hawk as she circles the river canyon. i believe in the tiny avalanches of a chickaree scrambling up a pebble scree. fate? destiny? you can keep them. i'll take something that is real, the yuba river.
* * *
love is not worship, my son,
and often it is just letting go.
remember, the sun sets at night;
it doesn't die a flaming death.
and it rises in the morning;
it isn't born anew, emerging
from between the bloody thighs of the earth.
every morning we welcome the light
and every night we let it go.
love is not worship, son, and neither is life.
welcome and farewell,
welcome and farewell,
welcome and farewell.
(for wlj)
* * *
a fly has come to mourn my son with me.
so quietly he has landed on the table
where i sit alone through the long afternoon.
respectful and patient, he waits while i weep.
Retirement Plan for Poets
imagine a battered life.
imagine abuse, endless, and in many forms. physical. verbal. psychological. sexual.
imagine the years spent drenched in sweat and stale body odor. filthy.
imagine a crown of thorns and the feel of your blood drying on your skin, on your face.
imagine a battered life.
imagine your blood in your eyes.
imagine the smell of urine. everywhere. inescapable.
imagine fear without definition. imagine a deer, an elk, a mountain goat, a bystander on the corner as the bullet goes in.
imagine a battered life.
imagine a wall covered trophy heads, the eyes all staring. some of them are human.
imagine the hunger, the cold, the fear, the indifference, the isolation of years spent on the streets. no relief, not even for a moment.
imagine rape on a scale of millions. a culture of rape.
imagine a battered life.
imagine murder on a scale of millions. a culture of death.
imagine an ocean of blood, red foam on the beaches, corpses bobbing in the tide.
imagine the rain forest burning, the cities burning, the burning piles of the dead.
imagine the face of the child left behind, the witness.
imagine a battered life.
imagine a battered life.
imagine a battered life.
* * *
the world opens to you
and gives all of its beauty,
and you repay the world
with your own death,
giving your body
back to the world, to feed
the earth itself.
in this way, every thought,
every breath is beautiful,
and so even death
becomes beautiful, too.
* * *
life is a not a contest.
take the warmth that lives inside you
and build yourself a church, a holy place,
for your own soul.
at dark, if you haven't finished, so what?
every day, start building
all over again.
everyday,
just pick up where you left off.
sacred. just being here, living,
is sacred.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
—James Lee Jobe
this life is light, and light is this life. it is the light of being placed inside the simple frame of a body, moving across the skull of the world, across the pieces of time that help to define us. and what's left beyond that? our choices, friend. our choices define us, too.
_________________
Thank you to James Lee Jobe for his fine poems and pix this morning! Next Friday (2/16), James will be hosting The Other Voice in Davis at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Davis on Patwin Road, featuring The Poets Quartet (Iven Lourie, Myra Traugot, Howie Deutsch, and Beverly Korenwaser) plus open mic, 7:30pm.
And tonight at 6:30pm in Sacramento, Women’s Wisdom Art will present its Second Sat. Art Show Reception and Reading at 25th & R Sts. in Sacramento. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Dinner is ready…
—Photo by James Lee Jobe
—Photo by James Lee Jobe
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
