Photo by Randy Graham

I broke away from work to attend the dedication ceremony for my neighbor Mark Benkert’s new memorial sculpture to the Aliso Street Bear (a.k.a “Elliot”). In introducing me to read the poem I wrote dedicated to the bear, Mark also mentioned something remarkable about the process of sculpting the memorial.

For both Mark and I, the loss of the bear resonated deeply with the loss of our sons. As Mark was inscribing the letters “J” and “B”, the initials of his son, Jonah Benkert, the “B” also read much like a “P”–and he mentioned that “J.P.” reminded him of our own son, James Peake. Needless to say that by the time I took the microphone, I was nearly unable to speak.

Yet I managed to read my poem, honoring the bear, our sons, our community. The rest of the dedication meant a lot to me–from written poems and prose pieces, to impromptu verbal tributes, a song, and drumming. It was also a moment of catharsis for our community, coming together once more to honor all that the bear brought to us.

I find the time to write poetry by getting up before dawn. I began writing poems with “matins” (morning prayer) in the title after reading Lousie Glück’s The Wild Iris. At first, these were quiet, grief-stricken prayers. Yet, over time, I have opened up to increasing experimentation, playing with forms more wildly, allowing myself to venture into political and ideological irreverence in search of greater truths.

This poem represents one such adventure. The final imagery comes from a brief vacation in Burgundy with Val. The car rental place upgraded us, at no extra cost, from a sensible Fiat to a nippy Alfa Romeo, and we found ourselves whizzing through the Yonne, stuffing pieces of fresh almond croissant into each other’s mouths. When we came upon the church at Saint-Père-Sous-Vèzelay, we were greeted by decapitated statuary. The implied violence struck me. Sometime later, the icons returned to me in this poem.

See also: “Three Poems in Sugar Mule Online“

To the Bear in a Neighbor’s Tree

How quickly we become accustomed to the light,
blinking through discomfort, standing upright,
when our claws break, we fashion tools, use
them, and then just as easily put them down.

We discover clumps of hair on the ground,
and see our lack of fur as a great improvement,
stamping and shivering, we like a cold wind!
When our night vision fades, we stumble a dance.

Now, we have lost you too, primeval cousin,
lost the instinct that might have guided us
in shooing you back where you came from.
We can no longer smell what is on the wind.

You sat all day in a tree, learning our gestures.
You waved at the crowds and considered making a speech.
When you became too much like us, we brought you down,
and hauled your massive blackness into the night.

The truth is that we lost you long ago, long before
our friends loaded up their guns. Look how far
we have come! Our fingers fit the triggers.
And still we remember not to look in an animal’s eyes.

I looked, and became frozen on my couch.
I blinked into the sunlight, and you were gone.
The black spot in the tree is no longer you.
It is the place that you have burned into my mind.

It is also an incredibly timely, and circuitous, reminder (from The Muse, to me, to Kit, back to me today) of the importance of relating to nature on its own terms. In light of the recent wildlife tragedy in my own front yard, I find an odd comfort in rereading this piece that came through me, one day, quietly, into this strange world of ours.

Thanks, Kit, for giving quarter to this poem.

I also happen to have recently made an audio recording for KPCC of one of my poems in this issue, entitled “Yellow.” That audio excerpt is available for listening on the Cyberfrequencies website. Another poem in this issue is dedicated to our son. It’s called “To Friends Not Knowing What to Say,” and explores how language fails us in times of loss.

I look forward to reading through this issue with interest. Copies can be purchased from the Iota website. They are also still accepting entries for their 2009 International Poetry Competition.

Sadly, something must have gone awry with my email submission, as not all of the line breaks came out quite right. I didn’t think to ask for a galley. And so, for those of you who might wonder, I include the correctly-formatted text of the poem, below. Despite this minor nuisance (a peril of the electronic age), the issue came out terrific overall. You can pick up all forty six pages of delicious new poems from Antigone Books or Mostly Books in Tucson, Arizona or from Bart’s Books in Ojai, California–or order your copy by mail using the address on their website. It will no doubt turn out to be the best six bucks you’ve spent in awhile.

And now, the poem:

Mr. Ergosum Speaks
(after Zbigniew Herbert)

None of it matters. Let me say
that again: once, it mattered, and now,
when I snap my fingers, only dust.

That absurd cake! Justice. How it tilts
in layers on its pedestal, while party-goers
observe, “how remarkably straight.”

My hat is a chimney, chugging with promise.
What I think becomes soft smoke in the dampened air.
My coattails wave a continual flurry of goodbyes.

The nineteenth century was my favorite. Yes,
I have seen them all, through my monocle–
the one present I kept from the deposed Czar.

All of it matters, of course, actually, to the ants
on the sidewalk, hustling their minuscule lives.
Who can tell if they are small or just far away?

I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye.
The air, full of soot, encourages such weeping.
I wear a monogrammed kerchief in place of a heart.

And for those of you who can’t make it, for whatever reason–enjoy the poems!

The simplified tale of this poem’s creation is that I wrote it almost entirely in one sitting. But the more complete story is that it actually represents a kind of revision of several previous, less successful attempts at writing about my experience growing up on the U.S.-Mexico border.

I had seen the immigrant crossing sign numerous times during trips through San Diego. But it was not until I began to explain the significance of the sign to my wife, an Englishwoman, that I realized its symbolic power. My explanation of the human circumstances behind the sign and its necessity left her in tears. Sometime later, this poem came into focus on the page. Enjoy.

The poem will be available in the March/April issue of North American Review.