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1. Palinode to the Woods
I.
The woods: a deep symbolic home
for dark desires and fears
unknown,
where quiet huts in hidden
glades
house lonely ghosts and silent
shades.
II.
Shadows cast by harmless trees,
their only voice the blowing
leaves,
devoid of menaces and moods,
they're not symbolic: they're
just woods.
2. The Devil is in the Woods Again
The house is over two hundred
years old,
from an era when slaves worked
the land there,
until they died young, their
stories untold
and graves unmarked. Like a pit
of despair
disguised as a rice plantation,
the air
heavy with suffering, ripe with
the sin
of those who trafficked in
pain, without care.
(And the devil is in the woods
again).
The forest closed in, and
creepers and mold
ate at the house, the woods
darkening where
light once shone. The property
never sold,
as the house fell deeper in
disrepair:
it had once been good land, the
price was fair,
but people would visit, look
about, then
drive away, as if they'd gotten
a scare.
(And the devil is in the woods
again).
I remember when my grandfather
told
me he met the devil. (I made
him swear
it was true). Down the dark
creek trail he'd strolled,
with his dog, when the devil
did declare
himself, and called grandfather's name, right
where
we stood, years later. I was
maybe ten,
looking through old trees and
thinking: "beware."
(And the devil is in the woods
again).
Grandfather quit drinking and
took to prayer
at night. (He died praying).
His land had been
cursed, though, and is still
dismal, sad and bare.
(And the devil is in the woods
again).
3. Walter
Walter was out in the woods
digging,
finally gonna
build on his vacant tract.
He'd rented a back hoe and a
bulldozer,
since he didn't wanna bust his
back.
Walter was gonna
build a little cabin,
a place where he could sit and
relax,
since he'd read that pent-up
stress
increased the risk of heart
attacks.
He asked his cousin Daniel to
help,
they took turns working the
back hoe,
as they dug down a bit to lay
the foundation
in the spot where the cabin
would go.
Walter was digging, Daniel
loafing,
when the back hoe's blade was
jarred.
"Look n' see what I
hit," yelled Walter.
"Might be a root, 'cept it felt too hard."
Daniel peered down into the
trench,
then waved to Walter to turn
off the hoe.
"Looks like something
metal, Walter,
maybe a pipe or a barrel, I dunno . . ."
Walter climbed down from the
digger,
grabbed the shovels and they
dug by hand.
They scraped the soil from the
object,
which turned out to be an old
metal can.
"What the hell do we do
with this?
And what's it doing way out
here?"
"I dunno
. . . guess it could be dangerous,
'cause it's gotta been buried
for years."
"It's not really all that
heavy, though,
so I doubt that it's fertilizer
or gas."
"Go get something to pry
the top off,
then let's dump it over there
in the grass."
Daniel came back with a hammer and
spike
and started whacking at the
barrel's top.
It was old and pretty well
rusted on,
but soon it cracked, with a
small wet pop.
"Phew . . . that don't
smell right,"
said Walter, as he gagged and
held his nose.
They pried the top off, peeked
inside,
saw a leg bone, feet, and some
toes.
Walter and Daniel ran out of
the woods,
drove straight home and called
the police,
who carried off the body,
studied it well,
said she'd been there fifty
years, at least.
Walter never did finish that
little cabin,
he sold the wooded lot, never
went back.
Three years to the day after
they dug up that lady,
Daniel found Walter dead of a
heart attack.
4. The Light
They told us we had to stand in
a certain spot,
far enough away from the road
so that the lights from passing
cars
didn't cause us to lose our
night vision.
We looked due west, down the
tracks.
There was an overhead trestle
about fifty yards out.
We couldn't see it clearly late
at night,
except as a starless black bar
above the rail bed.
A little bit further out, the
trees closed in around the tracks.
The line had been abandoned for
twenty years, at least.
If you hunkered down, it looked
like a darkened stage:
trees as curtains, dark trestle
making the arch.
Rosamund, Will and I brought a blanket out that night.
It was cold, and the three of
us passed the flask.
We'd heard the stories since we
were little kids.
We were out there to see the
light.
The stories went something like
this, depending on who was doing the telling:
A nameless conductor had died horribly
on the line,
And his restless spirit still
rode the tracks,
when the weather and moonlight
were just right.
The old folks said you could
see his lantern,
waving slowly from side to
side, bumping a little up and down.
They figured he was alerting
folks along the way
that his phantom train was
coming through.
He'd get closer and closer to
you if you didn't move,
until finally drifting off into
the swamp
somewhere along the tracks
between the trestle and the road.
Then he'd reappear in the
distance, do it all over again.
We scoffed about their old
ghost story,
told them all we knew about
natural phenomena,
things like swamp gas and St.
Elmo's Fire.
We had it all figured out as we
drove out to the tracks.
We sat there on the blanket
looking west
right at the center of the
darkened stage beneath the trestle.
Giggling, tipsy, tickling,
whispering "boo" in each other's ears,
until the light appeared.
And we got real quiet. And we
got real still.
And we didn't hear a thing,
but damned if that light didn't
start bobbing down the tracks towards us,
getting brighter as it came.
We sat there like we'd been
electrocuted,
shaking, unable to move or
speak.
We'd never actually seen swamp
gas or St. Elmo's Fire,
but we were pretty sure it
didn't look like that.
Will panicked first, right
about the time the light moved under the trestle.
With a wet sounding hiccup he
bolted for the road.
Rosamund moved next, a thin squeal emerging from
her throat as she ran,
her blanket and flask
forgotten.
I still couldn't move. I still
couldn't move.
I had that feeling I get in
dreams when I'm standing on a cliff,
and I know that any motion's
going to send me over the edge.
And I still couldn't move. And
I still couldn't move.
The light got closer. Maybe
twenty yards away,
when it slowly veered off to
the right and bobbed away into the swamp.
I watched it until it
disappeared into the mist, and then I looked up,
and it was coming down the
tracks again.
Rosamund and Will were yelling at me from the
road,
"Come on! Come on! Come
on!"
I heard the car start up; the
engine roared as Will stamped on the accelerator,
and I imagined being left where
I sat.
That broke the spell: I
screamed like I'd never screamed before and ran,
never looking back over my
shoulder as I sprinted for the car,
desperately afraid that the
light might have raced up behind me.
I didn't want to see that.
Rosamund was crying when I got in the car,
and Will pulled out before I'd
closed my door.
He dropped us off at home and
quickly drove away.
We never spoke about that night
again.
5. Green Swamp
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
Stamp, man, and stomp down in
my green swamp
The flytraps they chomp down in
my green swamp
Where alligators romp down in
my green swamp
The coastal plain, the rain,
Mary Jane, the mark of Cain,
drains the Piedmont into my
domain
I don't complain, abstain,
ascertain, explain, maintain,
just let the pitcher plants
juice my brain so
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
Stamp, man, and stomp down in
my green swamp
The flytraps they chomp down in
my green swamp
Where alligators romp down in
my green swamp
The longleaf pine, intertwine,
wind the jessamine vine
eight meters high up and
feeling fine
I wine the swine, refine,
resign, align the spine
pull up from the muck the
divine so
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
Stamp, man, and stomp down in
my green swamp
The flytraps they chomp down in
my green swamp
Where alligators romp down in
my green swamp
Stare, compare black bear and
bobcat there, beware rare air
step in the brown water with
due care
Sensory hair, prepare, be
aware, dare solitaire
ankle deep sinking without a
prayer so
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
Stamp, man, and stomp down in
my green swamp
The flytraps they chomp down in
my green swamp
Where alligators romp down in
my green swamp
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
C'mon and tromp down to my
green swamp
6. The Artist
he loved the smell
of smoke and ash
but more than that
the flames themselves
he poured the gas
through graceful paths
then gently torched
the tallest tree
the embers fell
as fires danced
he drifted like
a lonesome ghost
through flaming woods
his work of art
the wind blown sparks
like winking stars
7. Ritual
the wind blows round the standing
stone
rich with the fragrance of her
spells
inside a circle drawn with bone
she dances wrapped in veils and
bells
ash maidens hum their ancient
drone
naiads emerge from empty wells
the wind blows round the
standing stone
rich with the fragrance of her
spells
tied to the rock I weep and
moan
drawn here by her sensuous
smells
trespassing through their
sacred dells
a sin for which I must atone
the wind blows round the
standing stone
rich with the fragrance of her
spells
8. The Monster Tree
I know it's out there, watching
me.
I know it's there: the monster
tree.
When I can't see it late at
night,
I dream it might go on a spree.
I lay there overcome by fright,
and pray for chainsaws, fires
and blight.
I've told my family of my fears,
while wiping off my sleepy
tears.
But it appears they just don't
care.
The tree stands there and no
one hears.
It's just not right, it isn't
fair,
to live so near that monster's
lair.
Then one day I came home from
school:
The tree was gone! How very
cool!
And like a fool I danced and
skipped,
'til I was gripped by fingers
cruel,
and saw the hole that it had
ripped
into our house, where it had
slipped.
9. Overlook(ed)
stone paths sweep through
hardwood trees
wet sleeping meadows
upturned slate faces
crumble into the shadows
city seen on eastern bank
no sounds escaping
water on the falls
human noises negating
over the bare tree branches
blackbirds wheel and clot
nervous smiling dog
taking itself for a walk
two miles around the island
all alone today
how could such a place
just be overlooked this way
10. The Guitarist
That mad flamboyant guitarist
came walking out of the forest,
from where he'd last come just
two years before,
whoring, as we all knew.
Within days of his returning,
we could sense our wives'
hearts burning
while he played his songs in Old Market Square,
and shared stories so bold.
We'd forbid our wives to linger,
they'd react with scorn and
anger,
and go to market, where they'd
twirl and dance:
he made them feel like girls.
So we met to discuss options,
pondered strategies to stop
him,
empty words, since we knew we
were helpless,
unless God set us free.
This is the ninth time he's
returned:
he's been shot, hung, buried
and burned,
but then from the forest he
reappears.
We fear that we are cursed.
11. Somewhere Out Past Abington
Somewhere out past Abington
deep in the woods, while hiking,
I came upon a well groomed
lawn,
and a garden bold and striking.
Flowers I had never seen,
fruits I couldn't label,
nary a weed that I could see,
by a tree: a little table.
At the table, set for two,
(china, glasses, place mats,
silver tureen of little beans),
in a high backed chair a man
sat.
Smiling, waving, called to me,
used my name, said "Hi,
Jack!"
How did he know? And should I
go?
I set aside my heavy back pack.
Sitting down, look on my face
clearly showed confusion,
"No fear," he said,
"except . . . you're dead,
and this garden's an
illusion."
"Somewhere out past
Abington,
just across the small stream,
that's where you fell, best I
can tell . . .
no, you're dead, dead people
don't dream."
He reached out to take my hand,
I fled with a small shriek.
Ran through the woods fast as I
could:
found my body by the small
creek.
Turning back, I found him still
sitting at his table.
Pulled up my chair, said a short
prayer,
ate as much as I was able.
He's been gone now several
weeks,
per the moon and the sun.
I pull the weeds and plant the
seeds,
waiting for the next one.
12. Porter the Pyro
Out near Estill lived Porter
the Pyro,
who would dance n' spin like a
broke gyro
while burnin'
up woods,
peoples' houses or goods,
singin' "Look at the beautiful fire,
oh!"
13. Old Peck
It's been some time since we've
seen Old Peck
and people are starting to
wonder
about whether he's even alive
anymore,
it's been six days since he
stopped by the store,
and weeks since he called on
his favorite whore
for to spend all his ill-gotten
plunder.
It's been some time since we've
seen Old Peck
though we can't really say that
we're bothered,
since he tended to smell like
stale grease and beer,
and he'd probably not bathed
for the last several years,
livin' out in the woods with the bears and the deers
and that dim bastard boy that
he fathered.
It's been some time since we've
seen Old Peck,
and we really should do
something, maybe,
like round up the dogs and go
trudge through the trees,
just to check to see whether
he's well or diseased
or been eaten by wolves or
sucked dry by his fleas,
or just killed by his favorite
whore's baby.
It's been some time since we've
seen Old Peck,
well, at least since we've seen
him still breathing:
looked to me like he choked on
a cracked chicken bone
sitting down in his ramshackle
tarpaper home.
When we found him, though, he
was not there all alone:
that poor kid of his sat by
him, grieving.
It's been some time since we've
seen Old Peck,
it's been months now since he
was buried.
His boy stood there, crying,
alone by the grave
'til the orphanage folks came
and took him away.
And his whore? Well, she had a
new client that day:
I hear tell that they've since
gotten married.
14. Verdigris
pumps and pipe work deep in a
forest
churn the rivers and push the
creeks
algal blooms and bacterial mats
blossom where the pipe work
leaks
copper fittings (once gold and
shining),
couplings, bushings, (likewise
once clean),
grey-green skin now coats their
surfaces
wet from warm condensing steam
humming rotors pushing the
fluids,
viscous liquids, sticky and
green,
through moss carpets, onto the
surface,
oil their organic machine
that green liquid spreads and
tarnishes
everything over which it
spreads
pebbles, boulders, dirt, wood
and metal,
greens replacing blues and reds
verdigris, green, gris, grey grown oxide
pumped through pipe work, the
primal paint,
deep in a forest, rotors
turning,
hidden 'neath
a plaster saint
15. Palinode in Deibhidhe:
A Dialog
I.
"That Harris is
half-baked, ma'am,
bedbug crazy, unnerstan'?
Don't mess with a man o' that
stripe,
'less you're the thrill-seekin' type."
II.
"Ain't no dull moments
most days,
what with the hell we both
raise.
Runnin' free out here in the woods,
me n' Harris get on good."
16. Location Location
Location
This dirt road, it goes nowhere,
just a big loop through the woods,
a place for folks who live here 'bouts
to dump their household goods.
That washer in the bushes?
It belonged to Missus Greer.
She musta used it twenty years,
'fore dumping it out here.
There's ovens and there's sofas
scattered all among the trees.
I hear the clank of rusty tin
whenever there's a breeze.
I live here in the middle
of this forest dumping ground,
a happy little camper in
this trailer that I found.
17. Play
we ran into the woods, down to the
creek,
picked our sides, chose rocks and sticks,
played war there, after school each day
until we were called home at dinner time
we marched in formation, platoon drill,
with antique rifles, firing pins removed,
column left march, eyes right, present arms,
tourists took our pictures as we passed.
we roll through the desert day after day,
sleep in our boots with pistols on our chests,
dreaming often of our woods and creek,
wishing we were back there, playing war
18. The Cedars of Chalybeate Hollow
Just look at them there cedars,
man, they're gorgeous and they're fragrant,
above the springs
with the red iron water,
they've got to be quite ancient.
We sit beneath them resting,
soon the half of us are snoring,
but we'll wake up
real quick, just as soon as
the chainsaws start their roaring.
We'll cut the trees to pieces
and then sell them in the city,
where fancy folks
put chips in their closets
to make their clothes smell pretty.
19. The Dreadful Couch
That black shed back in the woods,
it was old,
and my grandmother said it was haunted.
But I didn't believe in such nonsense and lies
so I walked back there last year, with curious eyes,
pried the door off and saw inside, to my surprise,
just a couch, like the one my wife wanted.
I drove my old pick-up truck back to the shed,
pulled the couch out, and wrapped it up tightly,
took it off to some store (where they cleaned it up nice,
sewed some splits, patched some stains, for a very fair price,
while I waited, exchanging small talk and advice
with the owner, who thanked me politely).
So that night after dinner, I unveiled the couch,
and my wife, she was quite pleased and tickled.
Then we moved things around to make room in the den,
and we found just the spot for the couch to fit in,
at which point we sat down to watch Oprah and friends,
and to eat the cucumbers she'd pickled.
Since that day, things around here have not been the same,
and that couch is the root of the issues:
it goes drifting around the house all through the night,
and it cries out whenever we turn on the light,
and it jumps out of closets, and give us such frights,
and it chews up our pencils and tissues.
So then one day I caught the couch out in the yard,
and, quite vexed, well, I grabbed it and tied it
to my truck, and took off, with it dragging behind,
and I guess that it seemed I was out of my mind
when the cops pulled me over. I've since been confined.
Damn that couch and the evil inside it!
Now I'm stuck here in ward seventeen (it is locked).
And the couch? It crawled home to Grandmother's.
She walked it back out to its black little shed,
and she locked it away with a nod of her head.
And my wife bought a little plaid love seat instead,
where she sits, watching Oprah, with others.
20. Crimes Against Nature
And here's the spot where they
did pause
Before the whirling ball of
claws
And there's the place where
they did stand
And swallowed eggs found in the
sand
And then on that dark Saturday
They served us beetles on a
tray
And just one time, I think,
they found
A broken wing upon the ground
And over there beyond the trees
Is where the hid a sack of
fleas
And once down by the riverside
They choked a fish until it
died
And over here's where they did
fall
Before a huge brown verdant
ball
And in the woods one day, I
swear
They burned a mass of writhing
hair
And once upon a time, I think
They tossed a sack into the
brink
And happily ever after they
Commit atrocities every day
21. Lost and Found
i.
The forest amplifies our darkest fears,
it seems as though we've walked in here for years.
ii.
We crawl out of the woods and walk the rails,
until we find another set of trails.
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