Backyard Brief: Ethan’s Playground

New dog, new world

 

Backyard Brief: Great Blue Birthday

January 21, 2017

Blessed on a mild, mid-winter Saturday by a close encounter with a great blue heron, we spotted him from the bridge over Tuscarawas Race. We paused at the threshold between the Coventry Oaks and Tuscarawas Meadows areas of Firestone Metropark in Akron, Ohio.

After a vigorous hill walk with views of downtown and a water tower, we came upon deer and dog tracks and droppings at the base of the bare field. Ahead, whispering, my husband called me to the bridge, toward the woods.

Shielded by leafless branches, the gray, reflecting apparition scarcely twitched before us, though our own insides leapt at the sight.

The long and short of it: 

Caught fishing, eating the fish, and switching banks to fish some more.

Wading, spying, preening, going about his business, he seemed to get used to us lingering there on the bridge as our crouched legs cramped up. Along with my shoulders and hands, they stiffened as I strained to capture, to hold, to know something I did not yet know.

With better sense, my husband stood before I did, and soon a rowdy family came along the path beside the great blue’s bank.

I finally rose but could not unbend without help; all my leg muscles and joints seemed to rebel as one mob. Grace belonged wholly to the heron.

Thus ended the suspense as it withdrew in silent flight down the race, perching on a stone in the water, perhaps to fish again. Our day was complete, our own next meal an easy catch.

A happy “10 and 30th” birthday to another seeker, indeed. And, with this photo gallery of its signature bird, happy 3rd anniversary to the fledgling pond called Philosofishal.


All images © C. L. Tangenberg

Thirsty?

Cool the heat wave.

Of Water Made, to Water We Return

Of Water Made, to Water We Return
an original, free verse poem

I. 

I'm having trouble with showering,
arms raised to wash shoulder-length, 
water-heavy hair; with bending.

I'm having trouble with her poem, as
with fantasy novels. Cryptic, obscure,
alien and alienating, brow-knitting.

Trouble with straight standing, as with 
these twenty-something-dirty-blonde-story 
inflections, clipped “-ton” suffixes caught 
in the throat, and profound platitudes like
approval seals on her three-person selfie.

A drink in each hand--one coffee, 
one water with lemon-cucumber ice--she
trots her foil-plated locks off to process.

I stay behind, brief neighbor, to sit, 
scalp burning, my own foils foiling. Later, 
a brow touch-up stings eyelids to itching, 
replacing the usual trimmed-end scratch 
on my nape and collar.

I'm lighter headed but neck-weighty
on the drive home. Eyes water, follicles
fry, emaciated eyebrows pulse and fade. 

I'm having trouble with salon and spa,
as with why anyone would want to live
in L.A. if they didn't have to. 

I'm having trouble with branding and
niche building, as with popes' art.

Douse these fires.

II.

I'm trouble with a spoon and fork,
less so with a knife. Deadly strikes
are stains on my shirt front, and down.

Water is conquered and conqueror.
Life giving. But whose life? 
Life of what? Of water, not me.

My drinking problem starts with 
the cup, the vessel--not beverage--its grip. 
But what of the wet part? It is I who am taken 
in, for I do the malabsorption shake.

Wet or dry, I struggle with much less 
clothing than women with corsets, 
bum rolls, and skirts (wet or dry) 
to the toe had to endure. 
I struggle all the same.

This bod goes boddice-less 
and bobs with bra to belly 
shelf, not a babe's in 
either sense. Bust 
but not sculpture. 

My left hip, wrist, and neck 
joints gather us in, the floods 
that come, to the water, to intumesce

in my right thumb's base joint. 
My thenar eminence, the blind and the lame--
lamb's blood, spent ink in the hour of palm
--neither bleeting nor praying. 

No mercy. No script, just scribbles.
No takeaways or peace grants. Just scrap 
and muscle cramps.

Two weeks and the left knee's bulging,
back to front, calf to cap, quad to shin,
through and through.

Ballooned after two weeks off drugs,
the aqueous drug. Stop-gap pre-filled 
solution. The syringe barely reaches 
my sinews, adding water under skin 
in a burn-like bubble where 
a pocket of tadpoles learns 
to squat, stretch, and 
croak. They are now 
the most dexterous 
of me.

III.

I have trouble rising and staying 
risen. Suggestible, my skull base 
sags under a top-heavy brain, my fat 
noodle. Yes, that must be it. And laptop 
computing, from eye and finger to synapse.

Results: conquered. Rest eludes as I fall
asleep . . . pleu snorge cawgh nuff 
— contact sports? — Hum, drone, 
womp womp, pulsing house fan 
flow. Groaning grunts of 
stuff and nonsense. My 
vessel pours through 
another edgeless 
vessel. No longer 
on edge, I 
dissolve.

Air swells with humidity-
empty particles, compounding 
the gray blanket 
over the earth, reverberating through 
the filter, the vents, window-frame 
cracks, holey screens, the air our 
eaves own, the outdoor gas 
mixture, and up into the 
ceiling of 
this dull throw. 

The pointless, endless, homeless 
expansion becomes virtual oceanic 
abyss, imploding every living thing 
of too much air and water. Contact sport. 

As I nod off, sitting here, my fingers 
sear with the strain of their own joints' 
enveloping erosions.

Aflame, the hand knows best unnatural heat--
come temperate or scorching summer; dry, 
cool autumn; or ice-white winter. 

But rather than melt, the fascia
adhere in knots to the muscles.
Sticky and stuck, locked 
in place.

Dissolution--by fracture, 
fire or flood--has a recipe: Add 
whiplash to blood splash out the nose, 
extract thyroid node (with butterfly wing 
and body) by knife, erode bones of edges 
pressure molded from misfired orders 
to swell; crush and shiver into 
sulk-hulking slump. Stew. Re-
hash. Overcook. Ignore. 
Serve nothing and 
no one.

Clean-up: Have a 
drink of water. Splash some 
on your face. Breathe in. Out. 
Rub the brow. Flex the fist. 
Stretch. Straighten. 
Keep typing.

(No other contact sports, 
especially watery ones.)

written August-September 2015 by C.L. Tangenberg
on living with rheumatoid arthritis

Famous Poets’ Nature Poetry, 2: Elizabeth Bishop

American poet Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) is one of my favorites of all time, and “The Fish” is one of my favorite poems of hers (not solely for its topic, mind you).

For my 100th post on this blog, samples of lines from “The Fish” and from her longer poem “The Moose” follow. Other great Bishop poems include, among others, “One Art” and “Filling Station.” I mentioned the latter here on Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day, 2014.

Excerpts from “The Fish” by Elizabeth Bishop, published in 1946:

He didn't fight. 
He hadn't fought at all. 
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. (lines 5-9)

I thought of the course white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony. (lines 27-33)

I looked into his eyes 
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed, 
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light. (lines 34-44)

the turning point:

. . . from his lower lip 
--if you could call it a lip--
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line, . . . . 
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw. . . . (lines 48-51, 61-64)

To take in more great descriptive details and find out what happens with the fish, see the whole poem.

Set in New Brunswick, Canada, here is an excerpt (lines 1-26) from “The Moose” by Elizabeth Bishop, published in 1976, thirty years after “The Fish” and three years before her passing:

From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides, 

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats' 
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets; 

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west, . . . .

When my college poetry professor first introduced us to Elizabeth Bishop, she said “The Moose” was widely agreed upon as the definitive example of her poetry. Obviously, I like it very much, too. Now that I’ve gotten you started, you have less of an excuse not to read the rest of this beautiful poem. And, yes, the travellers do encounter a moose.

A comprehensive collection of Bishop’s complete poems is available on Amazon.com.

Check out the next featured poem and poet in the series, the daffodils of Wordsworth.

And ICYMI: The start of this nature verse series consists of two posts exploring the theme of sunshine: Famous Poets’ Nature Poems, 1: Sun Spots, featuring four different poets’ work, and Famous Poets’ Nature Poems, 1a: “The Sunlight on the Garden,” with part of a poem by Louis MacNeice.

Wild Verses 5 of 10 / Writing 201: Poetry, Day 1 (haiku, water, simile)

As part of my Wild Verses poetry excerpts series, and in the spirit of Discovery Channel’s Shark Week and NatGeoWild’s SharkFest, both starting July 5th, I’m re-posting my bull shark haiku. Enjoy!


Writing 201: Poetry, Assignment 1: an original haiku related to water using simile (I opted for other devices)

Brackish river mouths
gape wide, yawning bull sharks in
to hunt the unschooled.

copyright 2015, C. L. Tangenberg

originally written in February for the poetry writing course hosted by The Daily Post