Author: Korin Thomas

Fire and Water

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La Wis Wis Camp - Rain

My evening fire burns
slowly in a drizzling calm
waiting for a breath –

A silent forest
green breeze; bending river rush
glacial fed chill wind.

Behind, ceaseless sound
river coursing down and down
flowing, no effort

Pouring over rock
carrying away mountain
no need for my hand.

Quickens now my fire
a warm blaze rising at last
crackling in twilight

Keep I it a while
for the night is passing fast
soon will embers be

A little longer
how much longer I don’t know
the rain quickening.

Late June, 2016 – La Wis Wis campground, south of Tahoma National Park.

Photo is my own, taken from La Wis Wis campground.  The river is the Ohanapecosh flowing from the glaciers of Tahoma.)

Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies

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Outside my window grows the summer
sweet garden – resplendent, redolent, still
in the morning dew damp chill.
She does not know about the hours, how
a clock tick captures in mechanical tock.

She knows the sun’s arc, pouring
rain, warm sweet laying ground
under silver white moon urge
tide surge and nights sweeping
over flowers unfolding in rose, lavender,
sweet pea, all the tall grasses –
unfettered by segmented time
broken moments of loss or dread.

I?  I know about time, succumb
as if it were my only
spun and twirling destiny.
What few seasons come and go
that we bloom –
flowers of creation’s fertile desires –
Unfolding under the moon
of the red blooming lilies
without time but this.

Portland, Oregon – July 9, 2016

My title, “Moon of the Red Blooming Lilies” comes from my recent reading of Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, a classic telling of the tragic story of the destruction of the native peoples of this land, from the side of those who were destroyed.  The author, Dee Brown, does a masterful job of telling the story.  He often added the names of seasons as the native peoples called them.  In this case, the “moon of the red-blooming lilies” corresponds roughly to July.  It is a book I should have read long ago and recommend highly.

 

“Images Like Picasso”

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Darrell's Painting Edited

What face do I see when
this painting I look on
hesitantly, bewildered –
an animal wild or
an artist cast out?

Darrell draws on the streets
scraps and leavings.
Thus, his mournful face hangs
reproachful, purchased a pittance
cash and a little talk
on an early morning Seattle street corner.

In parlays with darkness
he loses again and again
his daily life’s work –
faces in wide-eyed astonishment –
given cheap to survive.
They mean what I cannot know or say.

What, in this horned face blood shot
scapegoat, cast out, cries “Hey?”
In forlorn darkness, destined
for ignominious attempts
at survival in hostile places –
urban street corner
six-o’clock in the morning
I, in a rush, he
cries out, “Hey, hey!”

Thus came to me on a morning
a scapegoat in ceramic and oil
Darrell or an image his?
Since, my inquisitor hangs
silent, strange and afraid,
his gaze fierce, wild
encountered on the corner
crying out, seeing me
knowing my face.

“Hey, I think you’ll like this…”
as if I could understand
wild unremitting abandonment,
the work of his hands
what he faces daily,
his own life cast out
offered in a frenzy of loss,
anger and haunting delusions;
mad tales of aliens
specters of sinister doings.
I only have tame considered words;
spared I the wild visions,
the lonely street corners.

Portland, Oregon – June 15, 2016

“Images Like Picasso” was Darrell’s name for this painting. I received it from him on May 1, 2008. He did not tell me his interpretation of this work. The poem is my own interpretation.

I have not seen Darrell for several years now. The last time he was selling his works outside of the Seattle Public Market. He recognized me even through the crowd and gave me his, “Hey, Hey!” He asked if I would buy him lunch and I did. It was the least I could do and certainly not as much as I might have done.

Most of Darrell’s works were done on scraps of wood or chips of concrete he found. He also used broken ceramic cups and, in the case of “Images Like Picasso,” he used an abandoned piece of ceramic tile.

Good Land

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Living on borrowed land
tilting in decline plane
to Columbia river current
strong, pushing to the sea,
meeting in turbulent confluence
moon tides, surf, susurrus,
setting sun of America
dying light of a dream.

What shall I tell them
who come upon this land
of what I did or said
when the land washed away
to the river and the sea
when the sun sets on them?

I will tell them
of my garden and my plans
that also washed away
down the northwest slope
into Columbia’s roll
splashing frolic into the great ocean.

May 2016

Inspired by Wendell Berry – The Gift of Good Land

“To live, we must daily break the body and shed the blood of creation.  When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently, it is a sacrament.  When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily, destructively, it is a desecration. In such desecration we condemn ourselves to spiritual and moral loneliness, and others to want.” (p. 181, North Point Press edition)

Talking to Others

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Each day I live alive
in space with other life
limited in time – moon cycles,
measured in waves, curves,
parabolas near and flying away.
Plants magnificent squirrels
scurrying insects-a-motion in air
everywhere on the ground
without sound, now this unique
very ordinary fly
landing fur-legged on my hand
as if I were only some other
thing, poking me proboscis-wise
searching, searching, wanting
I, the object of its desire.

A hard and hot sun’s shine
reflects off brittle green
pulsing, metallic sheen body
probing my own, dimpling
indiscernibly, finger’s skin.

I know this being.
What difference I wonder
between me and this particular fly?
We live, in this space.
He probes residual oils on my hands
a baby’s hands once;
lands on a rock at my feet
put there by me.
We know, we do, that we
together, here we feel
the same sun’s heat
take our nourishment
in our ways, my coffee
he, landing on its cup rim.
Why not speak to the fly?

I converse with squirrels
though they seem not to understand
or trust me; carry on conversations
do I, with birds
landing on the fountain
I filled earlier with water
bathing as I chat with them.
Perhaps, in their own voices,
they thanked me but I,
I do not understand them,
chirping in foreign tongues
sounding warbled, wistful like song.

Worms, dark hidden, I’ve exposed,
hear me explain,
listen as I tell them why
I am pulling them from dark places,
moving them to other dark places.
For their trauma, their fear
and my own, my own part
it is the least I can do.

Ants do not listen to me
telling them not to come
into the kitchen, but they know me
in their racing to find cover.
They are wary and stubborn
rightfully so, unwilling
to listen to me telling them
to go elsewhere.

The painful unknowing of creatures
great and small, my own unknowing
it is a sense I cannot absolve
myself of, nor any other.

Portland, Oregon – June 2, 2016

I’ve been thinking about and giving some practice to writing poetry with more structure or with formally recognized patterns.  I don’t believe I’ve been successful and I feel terribly constrained; immaturity most likely, impatience probably.  So, this one isn’t the least bit formal or structured.  I wrote it quickly, sitting out in the backyard.  I’m trying, above all, to write just knowing it is what I need to do.  Specifically, for this piece, I am writing about the absolute miracle of life at any moment, especially as I share it with other than human life, such as the very minute little something or other exploring my radio right now.

Night

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The day stands unashamed
naked in bright daylight
exposed before a glance
in color desiring
to be enjoyed, ravished
by a mad lovers gaze
her ecstatic flora.

In the night she is gone
hidden by azure black
window opening on
perpetual being.
For all her loveliness
day makes fun of my need
so flailing arms at me
whispering like the wind
in the tall grass bending
flowing river of lights
all romance and excess.

So obvious, giving all unaware
without sweet enticement
or secret desire held by another.

The night entices by a glance;
cool, posing dark questions:
Who are you darling dear,
Where are you going love?

Such is night’s sinuous hand
on my shoulder sudden
unbidden from behind
when I am all alone
after the day is done,
whispering in my ear.

Began in Menlo Park, California, April 2, 1984. I reworked this significantly, but the gist remains after more than 30 years.

The Clouds of Summer

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Ballglove 3

As a boy I dreamed,
without understanding or experience,
riddled with self-doubt and anger,
of what I might become.

I laid on the summer green grass
watching the clear blue sky
darken, becoming first a distant rumble
it seemed, then lightning flashes and hard rain.

Years passed. Some dreams I lost
others, unformed, called me
into difficult and strange worlds,
I did not pursue, disappointed when I did.

I am what I never dreamed
a man living in the clear light of day,
like a boy with flesh alive, senses awakened
infused with clear and distinct memories
from one who has never stopped
wondering who he would become.

I remember bright clouds of summer
billowing across the open sky
above the green grass and blue lake.
I would become, I thought,
another me, find a passageway
to some other person who knew about love
found a way through the deep forest
entered the sacred healing grove.

I laid on summer green grass
baseball and glove by my side
watching deepening cloud forms
pass in endless succession –
spiraling vapors, drifting masses
of white, gray, or dense dark
out of which I thought
I might discern my life’s way.
I saw only the widening open sky
an impenetrable portending veil
through which the future
could not penetrate, could not
reach back through to me
tell me what I wished to know
as I laid there, just a boy.

I had not breathed enough or failed enough;
laughed or died enough.
I look back now through cloud layers
shredded by the passing years.
I can see him still lying on the summer grass
ball and glove by his side.
He is ever watching the summer drifting clouds
squinting, wishing to see who he will become,
trying to find – me.

Seattle, Washington – April 2013

Photo is my own. I found the glove in an antique store several years ago. It is very similar to one I would have worn when I was a boy, playing in the 9-year-old league back in the small Michigan town where I grew up.

Tahoma – White River Morning

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DSCN0018

Morning fire at White River camp.

Tahoma’s face in glacial ice
blooms over the still camping ground –
a volcanic flower rising
above the valley, in cedar
blanketed, in fir, spruce, hemlock;
it opens in ridged fields of ice,
as petals in colors of snow
unfolding on drowsing campers
who wake in frigid morning slate,
yawning beneath the evergreens
as first light through the dawn filters.

Awake, awake! Time waits for you.
Blow your mortal breath on these sticks
until hesitant flames quicken
into the life and warmth you seek.

White River’s silted grit and seethe
hidden in shadows of cold dawn
rushes in crumbling rock and scrub.
In her rumbling and scurried flow
she waits for none who stir their fires;
spreads herself over valley floor
gathering gravel, stones, boulders
into thunking cacophony
telling of time and its passing
to the Salish sea and beyond.

Awake, awake! Time will not wait
for you to blow on your morning fire.
A path leads across the river
to the high country camping ground.

Portland, Oregon – April 28, 2016

“Tahoma” is one of the native tribal names for what is commonly called Mt. Rainier (Washington state -USA). “Ti’Swaq” is the name chosen by the Alliance to Restore Native Names. It means “the sky wiper” because it touches the sky.

The photo of Tahoma and the White River valley is my own, taken from White River campground on a late summer day.

What Waits?

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What is it waits for me to do
when all I cannot do?

Before me lie gardens of green and time
fertile, spring sweetened in the evening
when my life, blown as wild grasses,
bends westerly towards the sea.
Even the moon, three-quarters in the night sky,
sends me a line on a cascading arc
to pull me along where I must go.

What waits for me to do but my own self?
Not the garden or the wheel of time –
It is I, this moment, who must do
and wonder whether there will be another.

Portland, Oregon – May 18, 2016

The Universe

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The universe wanders in dark fields
spreading flaming stars
as poppies strewn broadcast
flung on the breadth of emptiness
breathing being into the still alone
crystalline expanse, the emptiness
and the all.

Mornings waken in twirling reels
reflecting light from spinning worlds
twilight seas of streaming currents
thrill the shimmering cold and dark
in sensuous flow, rhythmic
without impedance friction
barrier resistance,

except –  a memory,

a chaotic dream before awakening, urgent,
of birth without will
or desire to be;
desiring the silence, still,
without time, space, or need.

But came the spark from nowhere
uncalled for unsheathed flame
without mercy touching
the silver ball
blasting it to bits,
flinging it far
casting it out
never to return.

If I look into the night sky
or through the fragrant flowers of spring
I sense a being not unlike myself
wandering in unknown fields
spellbound in majesty
riding currents of soft air
into a dark, open, limitless space.

Portland, Oregon – May 10, 2016