The Poetry of Mark Gibbons

Frozen in ice, the leaves

Dance but never leave the ground,

Like brown hair tousled

On the back of a cinnamon bear

Hunched against the wind. Plastic chair

Legs point at the missing board-picket

That begs his curious eyes to peer,

To peek, to see what can be seen

Through that vertical gap, what’s been hidden

In the neighbor’s fenced yard.

Stuck on its arms and knees all winter,

The lawn chair doesn’t consider

The position it’s in, so why does he grin

Like a fool? Why does he linger

In the dark before pulling the curtains,

Search the bedroom window of

The young girl next door—lit

Like a Hitchcock movie? Is his impulse

Purely voyeuristic, or is he

Simply hard-wired to watch, that hunting

Instinct still serving him well?

The pleasure of peeping stirs his throat

And loins when she enters the room,

Stretches, and unbuttons her sweater—

Before she closes the blinds. The reward

Is more than visceral to an aging man

Gray as this February afternoon—

Like the picnic table dissolving

In his back yard, the plight of all

Organic matter. He sees his job

As observation, recounts the scene

In the vain hope that someone might care

To ponder his perspective, his ear,

Or possibly savor his appetites—

And of course there’s always a chance

He could help the blind to see.

Live your life as if you are

Acting in a movie starring you,

A movie about this guy who wants to fly,

Not in airplanes, but fly like a bird,

Like Superman . . . but not super, not

A hero, just a regular guy

Who watches the sky and dreams

Of joining the birds up there,

Learns to control that addictive sensation,

The rush of falling through air.

                                               So you run and jump

And lift and fly for short bursts . . . 

Then tumble along the ground

Like you did as a kid, watch the dizzy clouds

Circle, the horizon wobble, hear the blood 

Throbbing in your ears . . . contrails fade up high,

A vee of geese come honking by, flapping,

Pulling you to your feet to run again and honk 

And try to fly,

                    But this time you are naked 

As Icarus without wings, and you’re free,

Running with the girl of your dreams, nude

And beautiful as the young are in films,

Your long hair flying in the wind . . . shoulders

And arms touching skin. Holding hands

You spring and soar together . . . fly till you fall

Tangled, roll laughing to a rest . . .

                                                    The geese

Flash back, another segment you guess,

Another cinematic vee migrating

Overhead in your head, and you smell

The grass in her hair, pull her close, brush your lips

Across her ear, pass your fingertips over her skin,

Her hips, her back, her thighs, slip your

Elbow between her legs and rise, stand up,

Your hand flat against her back, her groin

Nestled in the crook of your arm, and it’s hard—

But you rock her like a child hugging your neck . . .

Yet this is not the climactic scene.

                                                    You know

Because you’ve been here before. So you keep on

Dancing, dreaming, watching the sky,

Closing your eyes and leaping to soar, to cruise,

To belly-roll through the night . . . to fly

Into the dark at the speed of light. 

 

for my dream girl, Pam

And in the end we find it,

what we’re looking for . . .

if we find what we’re looking for

is what we’ve found . . .

looking for what we wanted to find.

 

The search, the journey,

the process . . . we all know the story,

and we all know it’s true—

what we’re looking for

is the distraction we need

because we know, really,

there’s only one way to know,

only one scenario where we find it

and drink from the grail.

 

Yet we look, we search the leafy shade

dappling the board fence;

the cat’s tail dancing as it sleeps

in the window sill; the child’s

sobby-song burbling out

on a toddle-trot-&-stumble

away from the dog’s tongue,

arms up, tears sprinkling the ground.

 

We know when we go slow, look close,

savor the sweetness and the pain,

we can find it, what’s there—

because every moment is a quest,

every taste is what we get,

and sometimes it’s less than we hoped for—

and sometimes it’s more, way more

than we can swallow. Sometimes

it’s more than we ever dreamed.

A slight breeze

As I rake the leaves

From the yard

Into the street,

Piles to be collected

In the next few weeks

By the sons of the city

Fathers. It must be

The farmer in me

That so enjoys this fall

Task, or the little kid

Curious to see worms,

Molds, beetles & bugs,

Treasures uncovered

On the ground (cigarette

Butts, bottle caps, God-

Knows-what, a Burger

King French fry bag).

And it is a rare moment

Anymore when people

Populate their front yards,

Outside their house

To greet folks on the street

Like this old guy

On his bike loaded down

With everything he owns

In wire panniers each side

Of the rear tire, his front

Basket battened down

With a bungee. Suspenders,

Wool pants, and greasy-frayed

Coat, he stops to watch

Me whisk the leaves

Into the gutter. I nod

And speak, “Howdy.” He grins,

Not a tooth in his head.

“Nice day,” I say.

“You must be an optimist!”

He shoots back. A gust

Of wind kicks up,

And I laugh, “Well, yeah.

I guess I am.” He patters on

About an early snow—

He can feel it in his bones.

I listen. We chat

About the weather,

The futility of man—

As I continue to rake

The leaves. “Yes, sir!

I’d definitely say

You are an optimist!”

He repeats as he pedals away.

I pause to survey the job:

The leaves, the lawn, the street,

And wipe a bead of sweat

Trickling from my brow.

A snowflake appears

On my sleeve. Then another

And others dot the leaves.

Looking up I watch them

Flutter through the trees’

Stark branches—then resume

Raking. It seems important

To finish before dark.

 

Weekends I visit Ed in the rest home,

Some days are better than others

For both of us. I tell him

I slipped on the ice last night

Walking to my car after working

In the snow for nine hours

Picking up and delivering two

Truckloads of furniture. I thought

My ass was kicked until I saw my feet

Going up as I was going down.

It was the punctuation point

I didn’t need. Ed knows all about

Getting and not getting what he needs

And doesn’t need. He says

He can’t think or remember anymore.

I tell him he looks good with his beard

Trimmed and his ears lowered.

He tries to stifle a “don’t patronize me”

Glance by saying, “I look like a groomed

Whale.” It’s true, he’s grown into his

Oversized wheel chair, and has to wait

For the machine, the lift, to get him

Out of bed or onto the toilet.

It’s bitter irony he says to end

The trip as an enormous baby—

Diapered, handled, and fed—to cry

Out in bed like his roommate

Trying to make a die of it, wanting

Help and not having much luck.

Depressing, yet oddly enough

I feel better about being stove up

(And walking away from here to scribble

My little poem down) as I watch

The old miner king of poetry,

Wearing his Irish tam of a crown,

Being hoisted onto his throne once again.

 

 

Only I decide

Who the poets are

For me, the ones

I consider to be

 

Worth reading,

And I try to see

The value, the art

In everything

 

I read but refuse

To torment

The countable hours

I have left trying

 

To appreciate those

So-called lines of

Poetry posing and

Parading nada for me.

 

And there you have it,

I’m not a truly

Democratic connoisseur

Of the arts. My tastes

 

Are as selfish as

A Wall Street Republican’s.

I demand my poetic

Consumption entertains

 

The wounded heart

Or funny bone—

That it be witty,

Wryly confessional,

 

Arrogantly foolish

Or overly dramatic,

Maybe even opportunistic . . .

Really it can be

 

Whatever it wants of me

As long as it admits

It has no answers,

That it doesn’t know shit.

 

I just want to believe

I know my poet,

That he or she

Has been through it

 

With me and wept

Alone in honor

Of my loneliness.

I want a clown-

 

Genius who steals

Pages from my books,

Another joker

Who just wants to stop

 

My world to watch

His betrayals or her pleas

For the whales, the trees,

Funerals or bees.

 

It’s not that I can’t lie

(I’m as good as the next

Guy when I feel the need)

But to fain interest

 

In those verses that

Have set off my alarms,

And sent me groping for

The nearest exit to hurl . . .

 

That falsity is too bitter

A slug of hypocrisy.

I’d rather admit to

Voting for Reagan.

 

So don’t ask. Let me

Tell you who I read.

I’ll only name the names

I wish for me.

This funny smell

I smell (which is funnier still

Since I don’t smell much anymore)

 

Reminds me of lying

In that space above the back seat

Of our ’55 Chevy when I was a kid,

 

My face pressed against the glass,

Stars sparkling, milky-thick

As that beacon of light the airport

 

Beamed into the night sky.

I’d watch it dissipate, slip away

Like the road behind and those ghostly

 

Shadows forever lost in space.

Hurtling above the hum

Of tires gripping the ground, I’d fall

 

Under the spell of motion and sound,

And that dank, dusty cardboard smell

Of my rear window observation

 

Berth—a cockpit in reverse.

The green-yellow glow from the dashboard

Back lit the rocket-ship I rode

 

Out of this world, into the unknown,

Toward the Outer Limits of the Twilight Zone:

Past the flashing neon of Marvin’s Bar,

 

The pulp mill bright as Cape Canaveral,

Down Frenchtown hill and by The Alcan

Bar then Coy’s Six Mile Tavern. Tunneling

 

Up through the timber on Cayuse Hill,

We’d spill over and out braking down

The steep grade then bank hard the long

 

Curve on theClark Fork oxbow sweeping

In front of The Nine Mile House. We’d shoot

Under the overpass and those electric

 

Joes pulling tons ofMilwaukee rail cars fast,

Race them all the way home to Alberton—

Hot boxes and trolley lines sparking.

 

My dad would stop at the depot to check

The line up and see when he’d be called

Next to ride a train east or west.

 

Across the street men came and went

From Chadwick and Boyd’s Tavern

Carrying work grips, lanterns, and paper bags

 

Of bottles—plodding like the living dead.

Our pilot would drop his crew with the chief

Cook and bottle washer, the one who

 

Was awakened by smells in her dreams.

She knew he craved the buzz

Of the neon planets, maybe a hand

 

Of panguine, or the Old Crow at Chet’s Bar.

He couldn’t tell her why he tried to slow

The dizzy pace he stumbled through

 

To get ahead or behind of what he hated to do.

She knew he’d left before he’d gone to get numb,

One sip beyond “who cares,” take that liquid

 

Escape into the foggy bog of nowhere—

Just disappear, like magic—leave no scent,

No tracks for the hounds to follow.

my grandfather

was Irish

so he drank

a wee bit

sometimes

most of the times

he felt like it

and he felt

like it a lot

a lot of the time

 

my grandfather

Martin

was handy

with his mitts

a shovel

a pick

he was at home

in the dirt

following his nose

his eyes

alert to veins

in the earth

 

my grandfather

was a rock

hound who scanned

the ground

for gold &

silver deposits

of ore in stone

whatever paid

he assayed

by lantern

light in a one-

room shack

the jeweler’s

glass tucked

into his eye

socket

 

my grandfather

visited us

for a week

each year

showed his stash

of shiny rocks

some heavy

some colored

some crystalline

wonders he’d roll

with his fingers

so they’d glitter

in the light

 

my grandfather

doodled

Irish ditties

tapped his feet

nipped at a jug

of whiskey

in his valise

his brogue

a foreign song

to my ears

to some

 

my grandfather

was a joke

a crazy dreamer

& deadbeat mick

a travesty

in the mouths

of those

sanctimonious shit-

heels who spoke

behind his back

about his wife

& kids

scrounging

pennies for

eggs & potatoes

while he was off

striking it rich

but not

it’s true

 

my grandfather

drank a lot

of his paydays

got in more than

a few fights

he couldn’t walk

away from

he hated bullies

injustice

the blind arrogance

of comfort

those silent

generations of English

who took their tea

regularly as Irish

died hungry

 

my grandfather

believed

in this land

of opportunity

the freedom

to roam

to dig

to stake a claim

& break away

from the bonds

he’d known

all his life

the hopeless

promise

of poverty

 

my grandfather

was a blue eyed

dreamer no black-

Irish blues singer

but he knew

the rhythms

of labor

the arc of the pick

his breath danced

with hand tools

to dig ditches

& sewers

graves & cesspools

glory holes

& stope muck

 

my grandfather

lived for

the moments

he could

scratch & sift

fractured rock

through callused

hands palm

nuggets he’d carry

home in a bag

to be graded

& tagged

spread out

across his table

 

my grandfather

wasn’t deterred

by those who looked

down their noses

at his schemes

he became a slag

monk of sorts

after my grandmother

sent him packing

back to Glen

Montana where he

found himself

a mountain

of iron ore

 

my grandfather

drank daily

& wintered well

under the tarp

on his bed

broke ice

on the water

bucket mornings

in his shack

to wash his face

wipe the sleep

from his eyes

then toddle on

down to Grogan’s

Bar for breakfast

 

my grandfather

ordered two

in the water

& a boiled spud

was proud of

John Fitzgerald Kennedy

& wasn’t surprised

when they shot him

dead he ordered

a shot of house

whiskey & butter

for his tea

it was as close

to Ireland

as he could get

at 10 below zero

in Beaverhead County

waiting for

the flow

the luxury & ease

of opportune dreams

to wash over him

& warm the day’s

prospects

Poetry is a voice

speaking the truth

the voice knows

 

and singing within

itself without reservations,

it is the unpredictable,

 

the rattler in the barrow pit,

the oncoming headlights’ blinding

glare, a priest smudging flag-draped

 

coffins, that ferry ride across

the Styx, sticky pitch in the lounge

chair, blind dates, redundant days

 

of clouds and rain, boats

and planes. It exists in all

the animals I’ve loved and killed,

 

tolerated and hated. Poetry is

more rhythm than sense, more jazz

than fear—but let’s be clear: poetry

 

holds death at bay, then slips

it the tongue, refuses to fold its

hands and pray, it goes to its knees

 

for an earful or mouthful

of sacred prophesy, prefers

form over content that dictates

 

the importance of form, permits

one to lick chocolate syrup from

their fingers and lips. Like Lucifer,

 

 

poetry stands its ground, speaks

its mind, is determined to be

what it wants or needs, it does

 

what it says, sometimes, and lies

about the rest if it sounds or feels

like breaking glass or the rules—

 

because it’s always ready to steal

the blues, it’s a selfish stain, graphic noise,

a song that refuses to play along. Poetry

 

doesn’t get the credit it deserves,

it’s been starved, slapped around,

and told how to behave since mouths

 

formed words and symbols were carved,

scribbled down. Its been cornered and

gagged, forced to pose and confess, still

 

it’s managed to survive, expose,

and revolt (I guess). The poem

lives in the gut, the throat, the ink

 

and blood on the page, it cries

out, tries to reach what it cannot

save—that dank pleasure of sexy rage.

Key-master

Wraith escapist

Pandora’s mistake

That shape-shifting fox

Smoke slithering like snakes

On the stairs . . . searches

For the Gatekeeper

Clay model of chuckling sin

This jewel was born golden

Oblivious to iron fences

Rules or locks

Curiosity’s little sister

Knows the lid is always open

On Jewel’s box, broken

Hinges squeak loose

Shriek and cackle, tongues

Waggle, then dive deep

In the cave, roll and rock

Through the belly of the Earth

Dance madly, make volcanic music

Beat-sweeping the caverns of hope

Love erupts sky-blue down

There, everywhere, even the Cheshire

Cat is moved to cuddly-grin

In the lap of Jewel’s smile

While the accidental fears

Huddle and glom, beg every

Frown and pestilent ear

To listen, to return to the dirt

The ground where Jewel picks a daisy

For Pandora’s hair

Lightly kisses both her eyes

The Gods’ gift-curse, our mouths

We wear wild this day

To celebrate our lives, this time

With her . . . we smile

Because she smiles . . . yes

It really is that easy

Even the Key-master

Drunk on ridiculous laughter

Revels in the presence

Of Pandora’s shy giggle

And blushing striptease

Down to her birthday suit

(Who needs cake or ice cream!)

For a skinny-dip plunge

Into the echoing slipstream

Of Jewel’s breast stroke breathing

Drafting joy tickled wet

That kicking wake of horse-laughs

And horseplay, a pool party

Birthday, dripping eyes

Splashing thighs, the jewel box

Emptied, keyless, spent

Completely out of control

And Pandora flips her lid

For the fucking fun of it

Becomes the Fates

Failed undertow