Ann Arbor Review


Duane Locke
Elisavietta Ritchie
Sam Cornish
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Joseph McNair
Geoffrey Philip
Lazlo Slomovits
Gerald Clark
Chris Lord
Coleman Barks
Marisella Veiga
Joanie Freeman
Dave Etter
Steve Barfield
Michael D. Long
Karyn M. Wolven
Running Cub

Silvia Scheibli

Fred Wolven


Our continuing research into what mind is, soul, love
        and deep being, spirit, memory,
                and the inner sun that make everything radiant,

has brought this: the other night before sleeping I saw
        behind my closed eyes--what
                retina records those images--a huge, hillside

cat stretched across, or sliding over, the curves of a
        river, another and another,
                the same cat with different riverscapes.  Now reading

Raymond Carver's collected poems, All of Us, p. 31, "As my
body flies over water, as my soul,
                poised like a cat, hovers--then leaps into sleep."

Not a precise connection, but close enough to let me feel
        the brush of what gives art and
                dream, not to mention moments.  Sleep and curl

inside a compassionate, image-generating, interpenetrative,
        electro-magnetic field of green
                riverwater catfur and rounded mountains.  We are

talking this phenomenon in a line of connected porches
        curving along a gentle slant.
                 Students are seated waiting for a teacher to start

the lecture.  He's paging through his book.  As I walk
        through, he nods to me, then begins.


With the light in the tree above Jittery Joe's, I am
        wondering about energy
                 exchange: the sun gives itself wholly to the

tree and us all, but the leaves on this side get additional
        nighttime attention
                 from artificial light, whose power derives from

water falling sixty feet off a dam to turn a turbine.
        I don't know how any of this
                 works, least of all chlorophyll, what out of

sunlight and earthen minerals and magical moisture makes
        oak leaves by the bushel basket.
                 Some exchange not unlike this must go on between

people: the enlightened ones and the near-to and the goofy
        joyful ones and those that dance
                 their ignorance with those that laugh melodious

and other who play like roots in the dirt.  The various
        flavors of lightedness take human
                 form and compose their waking motions to enjoy the

music of conversation.  This is a pecan, its double trunk
        growing through a seam in the
                 cement.  And, of course, it's like us in the nearly

constant noise of fivepointed traffic, how we live so fierce
        and shamed and free, too busy,
                 and lovingly bent over with our nut-bearing gift. 

Coleman Barks, Athens, Georgia

Ann Arbor Review  |   Home    |   next  |  previous Back to Top