I thought about doing my 10 mile run today but I wondered if it might be too much for my sore hip since I ran 5 miles yesterday. I decided to run a 5k instead, and, to make it more relaxed, to stop at the benches I’m writing about for my poem, “Haunt: the benches.”
It was a beautiful morning. Sun, light wind, good air quality, a few more red trees. Just before I started, I listened to the sharp thud of acorns hitting the asphalt. At the end of the next block, city workers were repairing the sewer: lots of orange vests and loud talking and trucks beeping and banging.
Running south, I stayed above on the paved trail near the road. At the Horace Cleveland Overlook, I turned down and entered the southern entrance of the Winchell Trail. The river was sparkling, the sewer pipes in the ravines were dripping, the cars were steadily heading north. Near 42nd street, I noticed that they had patched all the cracks on the trail that had been marked with orange paint last week — strips that looked like toilet paper criss-crossed the path, covering the patches.
the benches
1 — the bench made out of an ancient boulder
This was not one of the benches I was planning to write about, but as I ran near it, I realized I wanted to. The bench made by time and pressure. How long did it take to make it, I wonder. And, what type of rock is this dark gray/black boulder? Is it taconite (imported from up north) or limestone or what?
boulder as bench / above the oak savanna
2 — the WWDD bench (what would dow do — rachel dow)
The view in front of this bench is blocked by small trees, one of them a memorial tree for Rachel Dow. The bench is made from wooden slats, quite worn, and concrete studded with gravel.
3 — the bench at the edge of the world
In an early draft this morning, I wrote about standing beside this bench to look down at the trail below and out at the river, but that’s not quite true: I’m not standing beside it, I’m standing several feet in front of it. Running under this bench, on the edge of the world, I wondered if I should add an additional verse — I mention fall and winter; I could bring in spring or summer, too.
Yesterday, reading the latest issue of The Paris Review thanks to my local library, I discovered this wonderful poem by one of my favorite poets, Diane Seuss:
She is good at curving/ Diane Seuss
against the constellation of lilies
of the valley, and good at making a nest
where the watercress meets the skirt
of the stream and hems it, and in the green
where the deer dream. They say she’s playing
dead but she’s not playing or
if she’s playing she’s playing living or something in between.
Oh, so good! The line breaks, the quiet rhymes, the idea of someone not playing dead but living.
added a few hours later: I almost forgot about something I wanted the mention — last night, during community band rehearsal, as we did a warm-up exercise with staccatoed quarter notes, the director told us to stop thinking about the notes and just thinking about the space in-between the notes. It reminded me of my poem, “Between Beats” and when I think about the space between foot strikes during my run, when I’m flying.
3.1 miles bottom of lock and dam no. 1 61 degrees / humidity: 65%
Ah, only 65% humidity! My legs and lungs could feel the difference. A beautiful, almost fall morning. Crowded trails — runners doing their final long runs for the marathon? Scott runs his 20 miler tomorrow; I’m a week behind, so I’ll run my next week. My goal is 11:30 – 12:00 minute per mile pace. So I’ll be out on the trails for 4 hours.
10 Things
rowers! a coxswain calmly and clearly explaining to the rowers what they should do
running below on the winchell trail, hearing 2 runners above me — a man and a woman, talking about how they were enjoying the run — good vibes, good conversation
sparkling, burning water in front of me as I turned down to enter the winchell trail at the south end
at the bottom of the lock and dam, stopping to admire the water — scaled, corrugated
encountering a kind man on the hill — good morning! what a beautiful day! congratulations to you for getting out here and getting after it! / thank you!
a voice, above, descending the hill from the ford bridge, talking to someone
that voice, a few minutes later, a solitary runner’s, talking non-stop on a blue-tooth to someone as she ran
a darting squirrel, almost running right in front of me
on the part of the path at the edge of the world, hearing water trickling out of the pipe in the ravine
all green leaves, no yellow or orange or red yet on this stretch
As I ran, I thought about a poem I was working on before my run, Haunt: the Benches. I want to write about 3 of my favorite benches, but which ones? Before the run, I knew 2 of them: the sliding bench and the bench above the edge of the world. As I ran past the Rachel Dow Memorial Bench, I realized I should write about it. Of course! Thinking more about the bench, some words: bench, not as place to sit, but frame — framing of place, of view — the invitation (or suggestion or expectation): look here, at this spot, we (the placers of the bench) have decided this is what is worth noticing — And now, as I write this, I’m thinking about how some of the benches have been maintained, their views kept unobstructed, and some have not.
marathon mantras
Last night, or early this morning, in one of several wake-ups, I thought about how I should have a mantra or mantras or a chanting practice (triple berries?) for the marathon. Something to work on — something I should have worked on earlier, but this marathon build has been strange. Wildfire smoke, allergies, extreme heat, sickness, and shoe and foot problems have caused me to always feel like I’m behind. The other day I said to Scott, I already know I want to run another marathon so I can have a better, more enoyable/consistent, build.
Some lines of poetry that have been helpful in the past: ED’s lines from “‘Tis So Much Joy”:
Life is but Life! And Death, but Death! Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath!
On March 10, 2022, on my run and in the log, I experimented with fitting these lines to my breathing/running:
1
Life is but Life is but Life is but Life is but Death is but Death is but Death is but Death is but Bliss is but Bliss is but Bliss is but Bliss is but Breath is but Breath is but Breath is but Breath is but
2
Life xxx Life xxx Life xxx Life xxx
3
(Or, like “The Safety Dance”)
Life life life life Death death death death Bliss bliss bliss bliss Breath breath breath breath
Reading the entire poem again, I’m thinking I should try memorizing all of it to recite in my head:
Tis so much joy! ‘Tis so much joy!If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw! Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so – This side the Victory!
Life is but Life! And Death, but Death! Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath! And if indeed I fail, At least, to know the worst, is sweet! Defeat means nothing but Defeat, No drearier, can befall!
And if I gain! Oh Gun at Sea! Oh Bells, that in the steeples be! At first, repeat it slow! For Heaven is a different thing, Conjectured, and waked sudden in – And might extinguish me!
9 miles! Still not easy, but I felt strong and relaxed and steady. For most of it, I ran 3 min, then walked 1. For 2 of the miles, I ran 90 sec, walked 30. Those miles were about 40 seconds faster, which might have been too fast; I think they made me more tired and increased my heart rate. When I hit mile 8, I thought, on Sunday, this will only be the halfway point of my run, but before I could dwell on it and wonder how I could run that much more on Sunday, I thought about something else, or I stopped thinking altogether.
When I was in the shade, which was about half the time, I felt cool-ish, but when I was in the sun, I was hot. So much sweat! I hope it cools down in September.
I wasn’t sure which route I would take this morning — to Lake Nokomis and back or the Confluence. I told Scott, I’m going to run south on the river road and let my body decide which one — either I’ll turn at Locks and Dam no. 1, or I’ll keep going past the falls. I’m not sure when I decided but, by the time I got to the locks and dam, there was no doubt I was turning.
11 Things
looking down from the ford bridge, the water was smooth and still — I think I saw some sandbars just beneath the surface
the river water was also low — I could see a long stretch of green (grass, I think) where there has been water in past years
the gate that K and I had to squeeze through because it was locked a few weeks ago was open today
hidden falls was quietly falling
a tall man sitting on a bench, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, talking on the phone — I remember that I hear what he said, but I don’t remember what it was
the click of a bikers shoes clicking into their pedals
uneven brick — not broken but raised by (un) settling ground
stopping at my favorite bench, which was in the shade, reading the plaque beside it as sweat dripped off of my face
a lone skateboarder at the skateboard park — saw them in flash, heard the scuffing of the wheels
more filled benches than empty ones
almost forgot this one: everything was dry — the grass, the dirt that trickled down the bluff almost like water, the leaves, which sounded very loud in the quiet morning
Diana’s kindness warms us, her humor makes us smile, and her zest for life keeps us going.
I’ve decided to leave my shoes in the picture because I like the color of them. I just received an email that my new pair or Saucony Rides are arriving today — they are navy with aquamarine.
Looking up her name online, I found this short video that offers more images of where I was when I took this picture:
Diana Jean Jezewski was 20 when she died of cancer in 1999. So young! She was born 5 years after me. She graduated from Highland Park High School and had been captain of the volleyball team. What type of cancer did she have?
Looking at the poems-of-the-day, I found this fitting one on poets.org:
once again i’ve brought my dead dog to the party. not the box of ashes, but the pen-drawn sketch my friend lenny made six days after she died.
or five. i saw it coming, the way mimsy went. the hard part was saying it, so i wrote it down: something small i love is leaving me.
now it’s late morning in abiquiu & i’m alone in the courtyard, rolling around on the flagstone breathing, a drawing of mimsy in the shade,
a mug cooling at her side. i said i don’t drink coffee or need a week to myself but look at me now, trying not to lie. so i listen: a shrill of pinyon jays
in a juniper trills me from ghost to cobalt sky. all winter i didn’t see them, not a single thrill of murmuration & though it’s a hideous sound—a jay’s call, like a
small computer dying slow—to live, to move like that: seven siblings at my side, six at each of theirs, my god! not thinking where’s the threat but being
more than one, not less than any . . . the nearly-noon shadows recede & soon mimsy’s in full sun, where i leave her, the light
too bright to stay, the shrill too clear. i say yes, i’ve seen a rock wren & no, that is a fishless osprey circling the steppe & tomorrow i might make a cairn of quartz
just to knock it down, slip a stone into my pocket, put nine postcards in the mail, or begin another poem for lenny i’ll try to finish when i’m home—
you had a friend once. now she’s different. we remember what we need.
Much to think about and love in this poem. A question: does a bluejay really sound like a computer dying slowly? I guess I don’t know what a computer dying slowly sounds like. What I know is that a bluejay screech is grating and terrible — I recall thinking it sounded like (or, maybe felt like?) a dull knife hacking the silence until it ripped open.
7.5 miles the bench above the dog park and back 72 degrees
A bike ride! I haven’t been on my bike that much this summer. Too busy swimming and running. Since it was a beautiful morning, I decided to bike to my new favorite bench to sit and write and read for a few minutes. One small motivation: I wanted to find out how far it is to the bench and back because I’d like to make it a regular running route. It’s 7.5 miles, which is a great mid to longish distance for the fall, especially post marathon.
While I’ve run on this trail several times, I rarely ever bike it, so it was more uncertain than my usual bike route to the lake. A few notes:
the entrance to the trail turning on Godfrey up to Wabun park and the Ford Bridge were very difficult to see — I hit the curb twice. I recall that happening before, so there must be something about these curbs that makes it harder — are they narrower?
the new stretch, next to the highland bridge park, is smooth and wide and fast — no obstacles or big cracks or parts where the path cuts in sharply
the trail slopes down to the right, with tons of cracks, between hidden falls and the bench — when I run there, I should try to memorize the trickiest parts
there are bike lanes on both sides of the road — should I try them, or are they really cracked? again, when I’m running, I should check it out
There was no real danger, at least I didn’t feel that there was; just feeling unsettled and uncertain for long stretches of the ride.
When I reached the bench, it was in the sun, and the sun was warm. Not yet hot, but getting there. I sat down anyway. I heard a few barks from the dog park, which was below me and on the other shore. A few ruffs and a constant and loud noise by one dog — was it baying or bellowing or what? Looked it up and found something about beagles and how they bark, bay, and howl:
Beagles’ iconic baying sound is a prolonged howl-bark hybrid historically used to guide hunters through forests and is deeply rooted in their breeding as pack hounds.
Beagle howling and baying are natural breed behaviors driven by scent instincts, pack mentality, and responses to triggers like sirens or loneliness rather than behavioral problems.
Was it a beagle I was hearing? side note: I’m glad Delia is not a beagle. I don’t know if I could handle that noise often, although, I do wish she would make some noise. The only times she barks is at the mailman.
I saw some long birds flying over the gorge. One was flapping its wings so frantically that I could hear the wings — no elegant swish, more like the awkward thwack of those plastic hands that you can clap by shaking them (thanks to the Kalahari waterpark and skeeball tickets, we own a giant pair that have been relegated to the garage). Speaking of birds, as I got my bike out of the garage, I heard a cacophony overhead — honk honk honk — a V of geese high above me, using their honks to stay in formation!
While I sat on the bench, I wrote about echo locations and locating/being located at the gorge. And I read “Paean to Place” by Lorine Niedecker. Such a wonderful poem!
10.1 miles confluence and back 62 degrees AQI: 36!
10 miles. That was not easy. Much cooler today, better air quality, but still warm. I sweat a lot. By mile 5, my pony tail was dripping. I could feel it on my shoulder, hear the wet strands of my hair swishing as I moved. I decided not to bring my handheld water bottle, which was a big mistake. Two thirds of the way through, I ran out of gas.
3 things that worked well:
managed my unfinished business — even before I finished mile 1, I felt like I needed a port-a-potty, but taking walk breaks and not thinking about it, helped the need to poop go away
just kept moving (mostly running, some walking) — I wasn’t sure how much I could run today and when I realized that the route to the confluence and back was almost 2 miles short, I could have stopped sooner, but I decided I need to keep going, so I did
nice route — even though this route was too short, I liked it — the stretch of the east river road between hidden falls and the confluence is beautiful — such amazing views!
3 things to work on:
don’t forget the water bottle
don’t forget snacks
work on being more consistent with the run/walk method — on the next run, try 90/30 again
As I ran under the road at Hidden Falls, I thought about the small stretch of hidden falls that was daylighted when they redid this area a few years ago. I listened as it rushed to the edge then fell over it and smelled its fishy smell.
10 Things
running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 1: the brownish water was calm, still, flat, not even a ripple
running over the ford bridge, admiring the river, 2: because the surface was still, I could see below it — the faint outline of several sandbars
a short (under 5 ft) older woman i, stretching next to the hidden falls park sign, at the top of the hill, later I encountered her again; she was walking, I was running
a strange pair of sounds on either side of the road, call and response. Bird song I had never heard before, sounding almost like machines or alarms — was it 2 birds, or 2 people with some kind of device making the noise?
what a view! — 1/2 mile from the confluence overlook, the trail and a bench are high above a bend in the river where you can see the mississippi and the minnesota rivers — I would have stopped but someone had brought a chair and was sitting in front of the bench
near the far entrance to hidden falls — a roller skier perched at the top — were they about to bomb down the steep hill?
at the confluence — a lime green bike, wedged in the corner of the overlook — too many leaves below to see anything — a warm water water fountain
a bird crying out, sounding like they were in distress — a woman came to the edge where I was standing and said the sound came from an eagle on the other shore
2 men running on the ford bridge, one of them was turned around and running backwards
2 older men, carrying signs to place along the bike path that said something like, bikers, use caution! alert walkers with an “on your left” or a bell — Yes!
Just before I heard the eagle (mentioned in #8), I took a picture of a view of the river:
east river road, heading to downtown St. Paul
Running near where this picture was taken, I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with FWA at the dog park earlier this year. We were deep in the gorge, looking up at this bluff I was running on this morning. I said, this summer, when I’m training for the marathon, I want to run up there. And I am!
1 Day in August
Bummer! As I write this, I received an email from Open Swim. It’s cancelled tonight because there are blue-green algae blooms at one of the Cedar Lake beaches. Must be serious if they’re cancelling the swim; usually they just post an advisory and caution club memebers to “swim at your own risk.”
Reading the first verse of Mary Oliver’s poem again, my eyes stopped on among the flux of happenings” and I thought about the floating particles I encounter while swimming in Lake Nokomis. Often I call them my sparkle friends. They are the little bits of sediment or muck or aquatic plant that float in the water in front of me. They sparkle because of shafts of light in the water, and they seem to be in a constant motion of floating at me. I imagine some people might think my friends are gross, but I don’t, and I love the strange, trippy effect they create as I swim through them. I wrote one of my inklings about them:
Particles before buoy 1
Lit by thin shafts of light, they put on a show. Their frenzied disco of shimmer sparkle shake stirs us up.
I like MO’s use of among here — among the flux of happenings. The deepening and quieting of my spirit comes among this flux, these little happenings.
I know I’ve written about “among” before; found it! On 16 may 2025, past Sara wrote a lot of things that are very helpful to present Sara as I think about MO’s use of among!
side note: the more I follow my muse here — and, maybe, my muse is a fish or floating milfoil or a sparkle friend? — the more clear it becomes: this year’s Swimming One Day in August is about engaging in a deeper reading of MO’s words — expanding on meanings, connecting them to her other work, reading thembeside my experiences in the lake.
But, back to among. Here’s what I wrote in my 16 may 2025 entry:
among / between
When I read and posted Lorine Niedecker’s poem about standing among the birch last week —
For best work you ought to put forth some effort to stand in north woods among birch.
I was struck by the word among and wondered how it was different from between. I looked it up this afternoon and, after wading through discussions about how between is used with 2 items, among with more than 2, I came across a helpful distinction in Merriam Webster:
We use between when we want to express a relation to things and have them considered as individual and usually equal entities.
Among, on the other hand is the best word to use when referring to things collectively and imprecisely.
5 aug 2026 Sara, interjecting here: using among to refer to things collectively reminds me of a favorite (and very popular line) from MO in “Wild Geese”:
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
among: your place in the family of things — so, the deepening and quieting of the spirit could be finding one’s place in the world? Where you belong? when you’re in your element? Of course this reading is different from the predominant one in which quieting your spirit among the flux of happenings means being present and calm, not worrying about all the noise around you.
I like among in LN’s poem, although I wonder about the effect of using between (or beside or with) instead. to stand/in north woods/between birch. Among indicates a kinship — among all of us trees, but between suggests an actual place — stand between this birch and that birch and an exchange — between us. I like both meanings. I like imaging my best work as trying to become a tree. But I also like the idea of my best work happening when I stand between birch — giving and receiving air.
I was reminded of among and between while reading this passage from Marie Howe:
That was really a big deal. I was given this place to be without any expectations really. And everything changed so that the particulars of life—this white dish, the shadow of the bottle on it—everything mattered so much more to me. And I saw what happened in these spaces. You can never even say what happened, because what happened is rarely said, but it occurs AMONG the glasses with water and lemon in them. And so you can’t say what happened but you can talk about the glasses or the lemon. And that something is in BETWEEN all that.
You can name/describe the collection of things (among), but you can’t find words to describe how their meaning has changed in that moment. Often when I think about the slight shifts in meaning between small words, like among or between, I’m reminded of an essay I read about Mary Oliver and her mousier words. I love mousy words! Meanwhiles and in-betweens and yous and wes and usses (is that the plural of us?).
…it’s tempting to be blinded by the more immediately visible parts of speech: the monolithic nouns, the dynamic verbs, the charismatic adjectives. Mousier ones—pronouns, prepositions, particles—go ignored.
Reading through this past entry, and thinking about MO’s next verse —
Something had pestered me so much I thought my heart would break. I mean, the mechanical part —
I remembered MO’s words in another of her poems:
I Go Down To The Shore/ Mary Oliver
I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shall– what should I do? And the seas says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to do.
Here the sea doesn’t hold her until she grows easy or tell her what she should do, but they (the sea is they, because the sea is not an it) offer a suggestion, find your place in the family of things, do the work you were meant to do.
And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe–that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life.
Upstream/ Mary Oliver
I use this passage in the introduction to my “How to Be” project on my Undisciplined site.
an idea: Perhaps I should revisit Upstream and Long Life. I own both of them. Also, how about another read through of The Leaf and the Cloud?
4.5 miles veterans home 59 degrees poor air quality
The smoke from Canadian wild fires didn’t bother me much, although the inside of my nose was coated with something which made breathing a little more difficult. Other than that, it was a nice morning for a run. More shade than sun, low wind. Another 9/1 success. I’m continuing to build up the mental strength — a belief that I can keep going. Chanting in triple berries helped: strawberry raspberry blueberry.
Yesterday I mentioned possibly focusing on benches as a monthly theme — or a 1 or 2 week theme? As I ran south, I made note of a few of the benches.
9 Benches
near the worn wooden steps leading to the winchell trail — wooden slats — empty
at the top of a mulched trail descending into the oak savanna — a worn boulder that looks and acts as a bench — someone was standing there today, writing something on a piece of paper
above the 38th street steps — wooden slats — empty
beside a boulder in a part of the walking path that splits from the bike path — wooden slats — empty
in a patch of grass above the “edge of the world” — wooden slats — empty
on the edge of the 44th street parking lot — wooden slats — occupied by a bike/biker
near John Stevens house and a cluster of picnic tables — wooden slats — empty
at the bus stop across from the veterans home — green metal back/wooden slat seat — empty
above the locks and dam no. 1 — green metal back/wooden slat seat — empty
Other things noticed: 4 or 5 turkeys in the grassy boulevard, a group of 8-10 roller skiers, the roar of the falls through the trees, a human with 2 dogs trotting to the creek bank, the light rail horn blasting a warning, the sweet/sour smell of earth on the hill descending below the ford bridge, headlights from a bobcat below me in the woods — I think they’re building a new walking path that goes deeper into the gorge!
For the first 3 miles, I listened to voices and wheels and the echo of a dog’s bark. For the last 1.5 miles, my color playlist.
still life
In the middle of the night, during one of several bouts of restlessness, I started reading a book I got from the library: Still Life/ Jay Hopler. Why did I request this book? It must have been because of the title and my interest in the word, still, and still life paintings. Reading more about it, I discovered this:
When Jay Hopler was diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer and told he only had two years left to live, he chose to spend his time writing this book: a rare gift to our world in all its ways. The book seems to be both a representation of all the moving parts of the dying, as well as an antithesis to how we usually converse about death, namely a dying person.
lightnings bang their jaggeds on the cloud-glower the cloud-glower is a broken necklace spilling its wet gems its wet gems w/ facets cut uncountable uncountable the reflections of the world in those gems uncountable the version of the world into its dry self crashing the shards of those worlds like shrapnel blasting skyward slicing skyward or sidewise through the dune grass the dune grass flattened by that splatter even as i write the words
To My Wife on Our Anniversary/ Jay Hopler
In Castiglione del Lago, the pines are iron-spined. When the wind blows, they stand still & the earth sways. If only God had forged me thus! Forced into a stooped form & told to straighten up, that’s as far as His blessings ever extended in my direction. You know what keeps me from falling apart? Luck & duct tape. Even so, those trees have nothing on me. Blessed as they are, all they get to hold today is a sick man’s attention &, maybe, a few birds.
After reading still life w/ wet gems last night, I thought about my “how I see” project and the idea of writing around landscape and still life paintings — maybe portraits, too?
swim: 2 loops lake nokomis open swim 81 degrees water temp: 68 degrees
Open swim! Open swim! Open swim! There aren’t enough exclamation points to convey my joy over another summer of swimming across the lake. I swam 2 loops without stopping at the beach in-between. It felt good and then it didn’t and then it did again. Sore arms, the strange feeling of muscles not worked for a year waking up again. Now, a warm buzz. With no access to a pool, I haven’t swum since last august, so I’m impressed that I did as much as I did. I didn’t worry about not seeing the buoys, even when I couldn’t. Just kept swimming and reached them. Hooray for swimming without seeing (much)! Hooray for Minneapolis Parks for keeping open swim the same! Hooray for my muscles and tendons and lungs enabling me to do this thing I love!
The water was a deep green-blue. I could see the milfoil reaching up from the bottom, looking ghostly. Also saw pale legs kicking in front of me. No fish, no dragonflies, no menacing swans.
4.25 miles river road trail, south/both sides of ford bridge/wabun park/turkey hollow/47th st/edund 51 degrees
Good-bye summer and hot, humid weather! Hello fall and winter and wonderful runs along the river! A good morning for a run, even if the wind was gusting and in my face for much of the second half. Heard geese honking in the sky and my shoes squeaking on the wet leaves. Dodged dropping acorns and swirling leaves. Every so often the sun came out–glorious. I think I remember the river occasionally glowing. Not too many people out on the trail. Running up the hill to the ford bridge, I saw a big turkey hanging out by a bench. I looked a couple of times to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing–was I? Who knows for sure. Ran over the ford bridge for the first time since February. Then ran under it and over it again on the other side, looking out at Locks and Dam #1. Took a walk break through turkey hollow (no turkeys there today). Almost forgot: heard some kids playing on the playing ground at Minnehaha Academy’s lower campus.
Here’s a beautiful opening to a poem by Carl Phillips, Wake Up:
The road down from everything even you had hardly dared to hope for has its lonely stretches, yes, but it’s hard to feel alone entirely: there’s a river that runs beside it the whole way down, and there’s an over-song that keeps the river company: I’m leaves, you’re the wind…
Beautiful morning! Calm, sunny, not too warm or crowded. Was able to run on the path above the river heading south. Encountered a few runners and bikers but was able to keep my distance. The river was glowing white, over half the sky green. Passed the tall old guy with the long legs made longer by old school running shorts and a torso made shorter by a tucked-in tank top–or should I call it a muscle shirt? The alliteration of tucked-in tank top sounds better. Passed the ridge above the oak savanna, the steps at 38th street, the bench near Folwell, the ancient boulder at 42nd. Crossed over by Becketwood to the paved trail on the other side of the road, then ran down the hill on Edmund to turkey hollow. No turkeys today. Ran up 47th, back to the river road, on the narrow grassy stretch between Becketwood and 42nd that Scott and I have named the gauntlet, and then back over to edmund.
Between 42nd and 36th, many of the houses on Edmund are modern and big–lots of huge windows and intensely colored doors (red, lime green) and inviting decks, funky chandeliers, and futura-fonted house numbers. From ages 5 to 9, I lived in a modern house in Hickory, North Carolina–2 1/2 levels, with open staircases you could hang from by your legs and that had hiding places behind them, several balconies, both inside on the top floor, and outside, above the private front patio, a stone fireplace you could walk behind, cubby holes, a screened-in porch off the kitchen on the second floor overlooking the neighbor’s pool, huge light fixtures that glowed like ghostly heads at night, awesomely 70’s zig zag wallpaper in the kitchen, a family room that could fit a 20 foot christmas tree. I loved that house and all of its quirks. I wonder, what quirks do the houses I ran by (and almost every day for the last 5 months) contain?
sound: buzzing bugs
Every August, there are still birds chirping and cooing and trilling, but they are harder to hear because of the relentless electric buzz of the bugs. Cicadas. There are 2 types of cicadas: those that appear every year (dog day) and those that emerge from underground in large numbers every 13-17 years (periodical). I just learned that in Minnesota we only ever get the dog day kind. And I am glad after reading about how many periodical cicadas can emerge, covering cars, sidewalks, and emitting obnoxious noises! I could hear their power line buzz as I ran. I don’t like the sound as much as the black capped chickadee’s call or the pew pew pew of the cardinal, but it doesn’t bother me. Whenever I think about cicadas, I remember my introduction to them: the 1986 movie, Lucas, which is set during a summer when a brood of periodical cicadas are emerging from the ground….Reading an article from the Smithsonian about how weird they are, I discovered zombie cicadas:
In recent years, researchers have unearthed peculiar and sometimes horrifying relationships between cicadas and fungi. Massospora fungi infect cicadas and hijack their bodies. The fungi can even synchronize to the cicada’s life cycle, staying dormant until the cicada is ready to emerge. Once active, they take over the bottom half of the cicada’s body while somehow keeping the cicada alive. The infected cicada flies away, spreading spores that infect future generations (Source).
Also, while early Americans despised cicadas, confusing them with plagues of locusts, the ancient Greeks loved cicadas, writing odes about them.
3.1 miles 43rd ave, north/32nd st, east/edmund, south/33rd st, east/river road trail, south/42nd st, west/edmund, north 67 degrees humidity: 80%
Non-stop thunder and lightening for most of the night. Wild. Unsettling to the dog, but no damage or power outages. This morning everything was wet and a darker (but not an ominous dark) green.
Ran north on 43rd until 32nd then turned right. I think this is my new usual route. Ran on 32nd to edmund, right before the river, and ran a block until crossing at 33rd to enter the trail. I decided today I would try to run the tunnel of trees and hope there weren’t too many people when I reached the narrowest parts. Success! Didn’t encounter anyone.
Ran past the old stone steps, past the concrete wall/ overlook/ bench that Delia likes to jump on, past the four barriers (2 walls, 2 fences), past the amphitheater of green air (the spot where the trees open up slightly to create wide space surrounded by trees, blocking out the sky but still feeling uncrowded), past the spot on the trail where you can just see the top of the hill. Beautiful! I had forgotten how much I love this stretch of the trail. Above the forest, on the edge of a ridge, looking out at endless layers of green with no floor and no sky. Tucked below the road, hidden behind a wall and a fence. Dark and mysterious. Quiet. Enough time alone to gain some peace, not enough to feel afraid (of critters* or lurking humans).
*Speaking of critters, I have seen, earlier this year in March, a coyote run down into the tunnel of trees. I was not running, but walking and was across the road. And yesterday, a jogger reported seeing a black bear near the Summit Monument overlooking the river on the east side close to the trail that’s part of one of my frequent (in non-COVID times) routes: the Ford loop! One more, less scary one: at least twice, while walking around the neighborhood, Scott and I saw an albino squirrel.
After the tunnel of trees, I ran through the welcoming oaks and above the ravine. I was surprised to not hear any water rushing out of the sewer pipe. Ran past the oak savanna–too many leaves to see anything, past the steps at 38th street, past the bench on the dirt path that links two steep hills each winding back down to the Winchell trail. Encountered some bikers who didn’t even try to move over for me and when I moved off the edge of the path to give them room, they biked even closer. Did this happen, or did it seem like it did because of my bad vision and lack of depth perception? People always seem too close to me with my messed up macular.
As I ran, I tried to recite “Push the button, hear the sound” again. I made it through several lines, but became distracted as I tried to avoid other people. It’s hard to recite poems and get lost in the words when you’re having to look out for other runners. Thinking about the poem and it’s refrain, Listen and can you hear?, I thought about what I’d like others to listen to by the river and what I wonder if they can hear:
Listen to the gravel crunching on the trail. Can you hear the electric buzz of the cicadas, relentless and rumbling under everything? Can you hear the rowers on the river? Listen to the roller skier’s ski poles striking the ground. Can you hear the poles clickity-clack or do they just clack, or only click? Listen to the doppler effect on the bike’s speakers. Can you hear the talk radio host yelling through someone’s phone? Listen to the pileated woodpecker laughing at us. Can you hear that circle of light on the surface of river inviting you in? Can you hear your shadow running beside you? Listen to the oaks exhaling. Can you hear your lost innocence? Can you still hear your mom’s voice? Her laugh? The way she said your name? Can you hear the asphalt buckling? Listen to “Black Wizard Wave” by Nur-d.
Earlier this morning, before heading out for my run, I came across–and not for the first time–Walt Whitman’s wonderful “Song of the Open Road”:
3 You air that serves me with breath to speak! You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape! You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides! I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.
You flagg’d walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships!
You rows of houses! you window-pierc’d façades! you roofs! You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! You doors and ascending steps! you arches! You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me, From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.
5 From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. I inhale great draughts of space, The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.
I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness.
3.1 miles 43rd ave, north/32nd st, east/river road, south/42nd st, west/edmund, north 77 degrees humidity: 80% dew point: 70
Much warmer this morning. Still managed a 5k without stopping. As I ran down 32nd toward the river I thought about how glad I was that they had closed the road for the sewer work at 32nd instead of 33rd–that way I can run on a long block of the river road without worrying about cars. Then, when I reached the river, I saw that they had moved the road closure ahead to 33rd. No more running on the river road. Bummer.
Was able to run on the trail above the river from 36th to 42nd! Heard some rowers, saw some shining water. Glanced at the empty benches. Don’t remember hearing any birds or crunching on any acorns–they’re covering many of the sidewalks in the neighborhood. No roller skiers or music blasting from bike speakers. No big groups of runners or bikers.
Recited “Push the Button” one time and thought about the constant refrain throughout the poem, “Listen to the…” “Can you hear the…?” I’m curious about how Mort decided which things she wanted us to listen to and which things she wondered if we could hear:
Listen to…
the lorikeet’s whistling song
the ground giddy with thirst
the dog shit on the lawns, murderous water boatmen skimming the green pond
the casual racists in the family pub
the house Shiraz I drink as if it’s something’s blood
my fear, blooming in my chest, and how I water it
the noisy penguins on the ice
my late night online purchases
your half-sister hissing to her friends at 2 am
the panic in their emojis
the utter indifference of the stars
“The Trout” by Schubert
the blackbird’s chirpy song
that waltz by Paganini
the stage as we walk clear off the front of it
Can you hear…?
the call of the mynah bird
flamingos in the water
your small heart next to mine and the house breathing as it holds us
the chainsaw start
the roses rioting on the trellis
the sleepless girls in Attercliffe
the aspirin of the sun dissolving
your grandfather’s lost childhood
the suburban library shutting, the door closing, the books still breathing
your father lighting his first cigarette
the foxes mating all the way to oblivion
me holding you, closer than my life
And two variations on “Can you hear…?”:
O, can you hear the budget tightening? Can you hear that, Alfie?
I’ll have to study this list some more, I guess, to find a pattern, if there is one. What’s the difference between the command, “listen” and the question, “can you hear?”
Here’s a quick draft of my homage to Mort’s original poem:
Listen to the black capped chickadee’s 2 note song. Can you hear him posing a question to the gorge? Can you hear the honking geese overhead? Can you hear your lungs grasping for air and the green leaves thickening as they hold us? Can you hear the chainsaw start, the tight weave of the savanna’s oak unraveling? It’s August, thick, crowded. Listen to the path, cluttered with acorns. Listen to the sewer stink near the ravine, the sex-crazed gnats swarming the hill. Can you hear the virus spreading through the neighborhood? Can you make a noise like a panicked rabbit? There are sounds your tweet lacks names for.
3 miles river road, south/north 73 degrees/ light rain humidity: 89%/ dew point: 70
Woke up to darkness. Rain coming and staying all day. Decided to take Delia the dog out for a quick walk before it started. Not soon enough; by 1 block it was drizzling and by 2 blocks raining. We ran back. Delia did a great job–except for the time when she ran right in front of me and almost tripped me. Maybe I should try training her to run?
Running felt good so I decided if there was a break in the rain, I would go out for a run. There was and I did. Hardly anyone out by the gorge. I was able to run on the trail right above the river for most of the time. Hooray! I saw the river, heard some birds, ran by my favorite benches, heard the roar of the water gushing out of the sewer pipes down to the river near both ravines — at 36th and 42nd. And then, at the end, I ran through the Welcoming Oaks and greeted each one, “good morning!” “good morning!” “good morning!” Haven’t been able to do that in a while.
color
There’s something about cloudy, gray light that makes my vision even stranger than usual, especially when it comes to seeing colors. I am amazed that I can still see any color with almost all of my cones damaged. Here are some colors I saw this morning, some stranger than others:
From about 2 blocks away from the river road, I could see an orange sign for a pedestrian detour. So bright and so prominent, a glowing smudge in the midst of fuzzy dark green and gray.
Twice I encountered, from a distance of about 15-20 feet, a woman in blue running tights. As I approached her, seeing her through my central vision, the tights looked dark, almost navy blue. But when I saw her from the side, through my peripheral vision, the rights were a bright, electric blue. Blue is a strange color with my vision. Last winter, I used to walk by a house with lights in the shape of a peace sign. The circle was red, the inner sign blue. Looking at the sign straight on all I could see was a red circle. It wasn’t until I looked at it from the side that I could just barely see the blue lines.
A walker in a pink–or was it coral?–jacket.
The river was a pale blue, almost white in the gray light.
on the dream, forgiveness, and forgetting
Still thinking about Marie Howe and “The Meadow,” especially these lines, “My love, this might be all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget who you are” and “Bedeviled, human, your plight, in waking, is to chose from the words even now asleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled among them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.” In yesterday’s entry in my plague notebook, I wrote: “We forget what we are because what we are are creatures attempting to find the right words to feel better — less alone, less suffering, less closer to death.”
I want to think more about the value of forgetting. Here’s a poem I’d like memorize to get me started:
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten for ever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten Long and long ago, As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall In a long forgotten snow.
Another beautiful morning! Not much wind, not too hot, some shade. Ran past the aspen eyes and towards downtown, up the hill from under the lake street bridge, then turned around. I think I saw the river, or the idea of the river hiding behind the green. Recited “The Meadow” a few times during the first two miles of my run, then stopped to put on some music and sprinted up a hill while blasting Demi Levato’s “Sorry, not Sorry” — a great song to run to. I got it in my head yesterday after I responded to Scott about something jokingly rude I had just said with, “sorry, not sorry.”
At some point, as I was reciting it, I thought about the line, “The horses, sway-backed and self important, cannot design how the small white pony mysteriously escapes the fence everyday.” I wondered, isn’t small, as in “small white pony” redundant? Aren’t ponies always small? Would it flow as well without the extra syllable of small? Now, sitting here at my desk in the front room, listening to a young child right outside vacillate between cute, calling out “I Love You!” to his mom, and annoying, babbling in a high-pitched voice, I am also struck by Howe’s use of white. Nothing else in the poem has a color–no green meadow or dappled gray horses or golden hay or anything. Why is the pony singled out–given a color and a redundant size? With its mysterious escape, is it a ghost? Still thinking about this line: I like how she uses “design” in this sentence. And I love the self important, clueless horses and the next line’s follow-up: “This is a miracle just beyond their heavy-headed grasp.”
I’m trying to make sense of the meaning of this whole poem (admittedly, I feel like I’m often dense when it comes to understanding poetry) and I’m wondering if these three lines are the most important:
As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them…
My love, this might be all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you forget what you are.
Bedeviled, human, your plight, when waking is to chose from the words that even now sleep on your tongue and to know that among them, tangled and terribly new, is the sentence that could change your life.
In our dreams, we can forget what we are (the meadow forgets how to make wildflowers, the horses are weary of hay, the wasps are tiny prop planes, the knock of a woodpecker becomes a phone ringing). But, we always wake up (the meadow thinks suddenly, “water, root, blossom,” the horses lie down in daisies and clover, we/humans suffer–moaning, and know we will die). The task as human is to find the right (?) words to give meaning to/transform what we are? Does that work? And how does this line fit in: “I want to add my cry to those who would speak for the sound alone”?
All the old gray gods have fallen back to their static realms of myth cleared from the benches, thrones, dragged kicking to their strongest tombs, each one grizzled by their swift exile frayed, bedraggled, forced to kneel, give up their guns, armor, swords, hand over their passports, global security identification, and be stripped bare. Justice has relegated them to history, kept nothing but the long rancorous list of crimes (slaughterers all) molded them into dull cement statues not to worship. but as a warning most ominous. Here stood Greed and his brother Pride, note their glazed inhuman eyes, question their puny stature now, how rodent-like, how utterly overthrow-able. Still, remember how long they ruled? Tyrannical and blustering, claiming universal power, until the kinder masses voted the callous thin-lipped lizards out? What a day that was! The end of hatred, xenophobia, patriarchal authority–but yes, we waited too long, first we had to zero out, give up on becoming gods at all.
Sunny but windy this morning. So green! Was able to run right above the river for a few minutes. Hardly any view, mostly variations of green. At one spot, near the bench next to the boulder, I caught a glimpse of the river. So bright, it was almost white. Heard some birds but cannot remember what kinds or what their songs sounded like. Encountered some bikers, walkers, runners, all from more than 6 feet of distance. Forgot to look for the turkeys down by the tree graveyard/turkey hollow (I think I might have named it turkey meadow last week, but I like turkey hollow better). Avoided the big muddy puddles in the grass on the dirt trail near Becketwood by running in the road. Don’t remember much else because I spent most of my time reciting the first half of my next green poem: What Would Root.
Reciting While Running: What Would Root/Katie Farris
Started memorizing this poem about an hour before my run. I decided because it was longer, I’d divide it up and only memorize the first half now, then the rest later. Love this poem! It helps so much to memorize it. It forces me to pay close attention to all the words and to do more than just try to get to the end–which is something that can happen when I’m reading.
When I was finished running, I recorded myself reciting it into my phone. I got most of it right–except for the title and a word here and there. I think I screwed it up partly because I was self-conscious, walking near (but not too near, always 10 feet away) to others. One day, I will not be self-conscious at all. I am already better than I used to be.
what would root, may 18
I like the line, “scolded by squirrels/in their priestly black, their white collars/wagging with the force of their scolding,” although I can’t picture these squirrels. None of the ones around me are priestly black with white collars–about once or twice a year I might see a black squirrel, but the ones in my yard and by the gorge are brown. My favorite lines today: “and stopped to lean against a rock/to scrub it (I thought) away. It was May/it was May, it was May” I love the assonance with stopped, rock, and thought and the rhyme with away and May. And I love the break and refrain of “it was May, it was May, it was May” I also like the line, “it was all green, really;/even the red was anti-green”
a word I didn’t know or know how to pronounce
penstemon: pen stee muhn [from Merriam Webster] “any of a genus (Penstemon) of perennial, chiefly North American herbs or low shrubs of the snapdragon family typically with spikes of showy, two-lipped, tubular flowers with two lobes on the upper lip and three lobes on the lower lip”
Also called beardtongue because the flower often looks like an open mouth with a fuzzy tongue protruding.
Have I seen any of these? Probably, although it’s hard for me to tell from the images I found.
Beautiful sunny breezy morning. A little more crowded than usual, but still got over 6 feet of distance from everyone. Heard a black capped chickadee calling out and waiting for an answer 3 times as I started my run:
Hello? Hello? Hello? Listen.
Did I notice the river? I don’t remember.
The run was peaceful and relaxing but at moments, difficult and labored. I recited my poem–Ode to My Right Knee–a few times. Noticed how the alliteration for n was only 2 words: No noise. In some lines I found yesterday in my notes, I had 2 ns too: noisy nothingness
Anything else? Runners, bikers, and several pairs of walkers taking over the road. No turkeys. No way of seeing the river from high up on Edmund–too much green. Glanced at a few benches.
Thinking about green, here are a few lines about green in the spring, inspired by Rita Dove’s alliteration:
Ode to Green
Greedy green gluts gobbling gorges, grifting vistas. Vast views vanished or overrun. Orchestrated take-overs: trees trimmed, tressed, twined, voluminously vined. Air altered. Advancing leaves lining limbs their thick thatches blue-blocking blinding breathtaking. Oh overcrowding obstruction! Oh consuming, constricting color!
That’s all I have right now. I’ll keep working on it. I love the color green and seeing it in the spring, yet I dislike how excessive it is, how it overruns everything.
Started reading Marie Howe’s Magdalene last night. Wow! Love this poem:
“Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven devils had been cast out”
Luke 8:2.
The first was that I was very busy.
The second—I was different from you: whatever happened to you could not happen to me, not like that.
The third—I worried.
The fourth—envy, disguised as compassion.
The fifth was that I refused to consider the quality of life of the aphid, The aphid disgusted me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The mosquito too—its face. And the ant—its bifurcated body.
Ok the first was that I was so busy.
The second that I might make the wrong choice, because I had decided to take that plane that day, that flight, before noon, so as to arrive early and, I shouldn’t have wanted that. The third was that if I walked past the certain place on the street the house would blow up.
The fourth was that I was made of guts and blood with a thin layer of skin lightly thrown over the whole thing.
The fifth was that the dead seemed more alive to me than the living
The sixth—if I touched my right arm I had to touch my left arm, and if I touched the left arm a little harder than I’d first touched the right then I had to retouch the left and then touch the right again so it would be even.
The seventh—I knew I was breathing the expelled breath of everything that was alive, and I couldn’t stand it. I wanted a sieve, a mask, a, I hate this word—cheesecloth— to breath through that would trap it—whatever was inside everyone else that entered me when I breathed in.
No. That was the first one.
The second was that I was so busy. I had no time. How had this happened? How had our lives gotten like this?
The third was that I couldn’t eat food if I really saw it—distinct, separate from me in a bowl or on a plate.
Ok. The first was that. I could never get to the end of the list. The second was that the laundry was never finally done.
The third was that no one knew me, although they thought they did. And that if people thought of me as little as I thought of them then what was love?
The fourth was I didn’t belong to anyone. I wouldn’t allow myself to belong to anyone.
The fifth was that I knew none of us could ever know what we didn’t know.
The sixth was that I projected onto others what I myself was feeling.
The seventh was the way my mother looked when she was dying, the sound she made—her mouth wrenched to the right and cupped open so as to take in as much air… the gurgling sound, so loud we had to speak louder to hear each other over it.
And that I couldn’t stop hearing it—years later—grocery shopping, crossing the street—
No, not the sound—it was her body’s hunger finally evident—what our mother had hidden all her life.
For months I dreamt of knucklebones and roots, the slabs of sidewalk pushed up like crooked teeth by what grew underneath.
The underneath. That was the first devil. It was always with me And that I didn’t think you—if I told you—would understand any of this—
4.4 miles 47th ave loop 37 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 111 (MN)/ 33,325 (US)
What a beautiful morning! Hardly any wind, lots of sun, uncrowded paths! Ran south right above the river. Pale blue. At one point, heard a woodpecker and thought about stopping to record it but didn’t. Looked longingly at the lone bench near Folwell with the clear, unobstructed view to the other side. Recited my poem of the week, LOVESONG OF THE SQUARE ROOT OF NEGATIVE ONE. I am the wind and the wind is invisible! Thought about the rhythm in the later lines:
As the hammer / 1 2 / ♫♫ is a hammer / 1 2 / ♫♫ when it hits the nail / 1 2 3 4 / ♫♩♩♩
and the nail / 1 2 / ♫ ♩ is a nail / 1 2 / ♫ ♩ when it meets the wood / ♫ ♩♩♩
Running on the road, after turning off of Edmund, I saw my shadow ahead of me. Hi friend! She led me until I turned again. Listened to my feet shuffle on the grit and my ponytail brush against the collar of my vest. Don’t remember hearing any crows or squirrels or geese–did I? Ran too early to see Dave, the Daily Walker. Didn’t see any roller skiers, but did see 1 or 2 bikers. 2 runners, one with a bright red shirt on.
Thought about the poem I’m working on and that I posted yesterday about sinking. I’m thinking of changing goo to jelly. Also, I’m not sure I like starting with think–I did it partly as a rhyme with sink but I’m not sure now. Here’s different version, in a different form. Instead of cinquains, I’m using couplets:
How to Sink/ Sara Lynne Puotinen (draft 2)
with Paul Tran
Try to recall when your son was young and so upset all he could do was turn to jelly and ooze
down the couch in surrender — not giving in but giving up control, a puddle of body parts
pooled at your feet. Learn to retreat like this. Go to the gorge. Let your bones dissolve,
your legs liquefy. Submit to gravity. Slide down. Reach the ground first, then seep deeper
through layers of loam, sandstone, shale. Drop lower and lower, burrow through cracks and fissures, carve
out a way in and follow it farther. Go so far inside that outside is another idea.
I think I like this version better, especially how some lines can stand alone and make interesting poems by themselves. Like, “out a way in and follow it farther” or “but giving up control, a puddle of body parts.”
It’s warmer today. Maybe spring is finally, actually coming?! Soon there will be flowers and green grass and bees. In honor of the bees, here are 2 wonderful poems by Emily Dickinson (found on this twitter thread about bee poems):
4.35 miles 47th st loop 34 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 57 (MN)/ 17,836 (US)
Sunny. Not too windy. Not too warm or too cold. Not too many people on the path or the road. Not too much pandemic panic. A great morning for a run! Noticed that the river had a few extra sparkly spots–one was over on the other side, right next to shore. A beautiful circle of white gold. Looked longingly at another solitary bench. Is this the one I’ve looked at before? I can’t remember. This bench had a clear view of the river and the other side. And it was not alone. Beside it was a big boulder.
Recited the poem I memorized yesterday, And Swept All Visible Signs Away. I stumbled a few times, but I enjoyed hearing the words in my head as I moved. The toughest part: “except to those who want for shade,/ and find it there. Who keep finding they hardly/ care anymore–almost, some days, as if they’d never cared–” It was the hardly and anymore and almost that I kept having to remember to add in. Did reciting change my perspective on the poem, add any new insight? I’m not sure. The lines that were most fun to say: “I am stirred. I’m stir-able. I am a wind-stirred thing.” and “Green as water, the willow’s motion. Green as oblivion/ the willow’s indifference.” It is very rewarding to memorize a poem, to repeat the lines until they are etched inside of you. It helps me to understand the flow of words and their meaning better. I’d like to build up a bigger basket of them (I initially put arsenal, but I’m not interested in war imagery) and try to remember them for longer.
After reciting this poem over and over again, I also recited Dickinson’s “Tell All the Truth but Tell it Slant,” “Auto-lullaby,” and my version of it, “Pandemic Lullaby”. I have decided to change back the line with the stump to tree stump–running and reciting, I determined it needs that extra syllable. Also, still trying to figure out Cyclops Baby or big cyclops–what about one-eyed tot?
Found this poem the other day about pandemics from the March 2013 issue of Poetry Magazine:
There are fewer introductions In plague years, Hands held back, jocularity No longer bellicose, Even among men. Breathing’s generally wary, Labored, as they say, when The end is at hand. But this is the everyday intake Of the imperceptible life force, Willed now, slow — Well, just cautious In inhabited air. As for ongoing dialogue, No longer an exuberant plosive To make a point, But a new squirreling of air space, A new sense of boundary. Genghis Khan said the hand Is the first thing one man gives To another. Not in this war. A gesture of limited distance Now suffices, a nod, A minor smile or a hand Slightly raised, Not in search of its counterpart, Just a warning within The acknowledgment to stand back. Each beautiful stranger a barbarian Breathing on the other side of the gate.
“Each beautiful stranger a barbarian/ Breathing on the other side of the gate.” Wow. Love this line. This take on social distancing is very masculine, which is fine, but I’d also like to read a poem with a non-war, non-masculine perspective on dialogue and interaction–one that doesn’t see conversation as debate and greeting as aggressive assertions. Should I try writing one? Sounds hard, but I might try. I’ll add it to my unabridged list of exercises.
4.3 miles 47th street loop 53 degrees/93% humidity<br>Deaths from COVID-19: 34 (MN)/ 11,018 (US)
Another good run. Started on the river road trail and was able to stay on it until I crossed at Becketwood. Very humid and foggy. Saw the Oak Savanna and the river and the Winchell Trail. Encountered only a few runners–6+ feet away. Noticed the solitary bench again. One day, when this is all over, I’ll stop and sit at that bench. Heard some woodpeckers and cardinals and some other bird that almost sounded like it was cackling</span>–what was it? No roller skiers. No geese. Running south on Edmund, almost to 47th, I saw an animal over in the “tree graveyard”–the flood-prone stretch of grass between the river road and Edmund that once housed the <a href=”https://vimeo.com/showcase/4545236/video/75586084″>tree with teeth</a>. Fairly certain it was a dog but I’m not sure–I hardly ever am with my vision. Don’t think it was a coyote. Running back, north on Edmund, I saw Dave, the Daily Walker from a distance! I almost called out, “Hey Dave!” but decided against it. He was too far away. I’m glad to see that he’s doing okay and still out by the gorge. Did some more triple berry chants. Listened to the grit scratching under my shoes. Anything else? Very happy to be outside and feeling okay and not freaking out because there were too many people on the trail.
Everything this morning was wet–the air, the road, the grass, the trees. A thunderstorm earlier. The thunder was so loud and rolled for a long time. After one roll, I felt the floor shake. Wow! Our power went out for a few seconds. I don’t remember ever hearing thunder roll like that. I’ve heard an occasional boom or crack but not a rolling rumble. Scott said that they used to have about 10 of these big thunderstorms every summer in Austin, MN. Usually when we get bad storms, tree limbs litter the path. I don’t remember seeing any this morning.
I love the form of this poem and the various ways you can play with the lines. In his description, Herrera writes: “The solar circle poem can be read in any direction, or simultaneously with various voices at a ‘distance,’ or it can be cut out and spun like a wheel. You choose where to begin and end.”
4.35 miles 47th ave loop* 46 degrees Deaths from COVID-19: 30 (MN)/ 10,524 (US)
*a new loop for this year: Edmund Bvld, south (or, if really early and uncrowded on river road trail)/grass just after 42nd to Becketwood to short stretch of paved trail/cross 44the Edmund/Right on 47th/right on 44th/right on short paved trail to Becketwood to grass/Edmund Bvld, north/left on 32nd/left on 43rd
Started at 8:30 this morning and there was hardly anyone out near the gorge! Decided to risk it and run south on the river road trail. I encountered two other people–both walkers, both respectful of the need for distance. It makes such a difference to be out there alone! It was overcast. The river was not shimmering or sparkling. I couldn’t tell if it had ice on it or foam or what. Ran past a solitary bench overlooking the gorge and thought how nice it would be to sit there and watch the river. Heard a woodpecker. Some workers laying fiber internet lines. 2 bikers on the road. Some cars–after I passed it, one car started honking. Not sure why. Was someone biking on the wrong side? Were they saying hello? I always have trouble understanding honks. Did some triple berry chants for a while. Also, recited “Auto-lullaby” and my variation, “Pandemic Lullaby.” Decided that my line: “think of a tree stump/housing a gnome” would fit better as “think of a tree stump/that houses a gnome.” Now that I’m saying it again, I think it should actually be: “think of a stump/housing a gnome”
surfaces
The new route I’ve been trying during this social-distance era has many different surfaces: street, sidewalk, dirt path, grass, shoulder, curb, asphalt trail. Smooth, rough, wet, slanted, uneven, muddy, gritty, high, low, full of divots, leaf-covered, cracked, pot-holed, narrow, wide. Straight, curved, up, down, partially blocked.
from “The Victorious Ones”/ Chris Nealon
Then came fire
It wasn’t yet a new world, or the end of the old one
But water, money, feeling overspilled their banks
There was finally something real to be afraid of
There was finally no reason to fear
Even animals approached us as they hadn’t in ten thousand years
Buildings were either shelter or they weren’t
Music got quiet
And poetry—
Poetry began to ask the question it had hidden in the forest
Poetry returned to lists, enumeration, inventory
It chose sides
This was not the same as prophecy
Look around you now and ask yourself
Which of these—
The innovators, profit-makers, the ones behind high walls,
The ones who are planning for the great catastrophes—
Or the ones with no ability to plan,
Who live from hour to hour, year to year,
In whom terror waits to be uncurdled,
Who live in the great wide world—
Which of these will be the victorious ones?
Nobody knows.
Love this line: “Poetry began to ask the question it had hidden in the forest.”
4.2 miles river road, north/river road, south/32nd to Edmund Bvld 43 degrees 398 confirmed cases of COVID-19
Another beautiful day by the gorge! As the days get scarier, my hour outside in the morning (running, then walking Delia the dog) becomes more necessary and appreciated. Fresh air, warm sun, noisy birds! Early on in my run a group of walkers thanked me for moving over and giving them space. A simple gesture that enabled me to be open and generous to others I encountered. Not too crowded. Was able to greet Dave, the Daily Walker. Heard some geese, woodpeckers, a few dogs barking down below. Also heard the beeping alarm of an approaching train (I think?) as I ran under the trestle. Didn’t stop to see if a train would come. Ran by a lonely bench with a beautiful view of the other side. Didn’t stop to sit and take in the brown slopes and the blue river. Will I ever stop? Maybe someday. Running above the rowing club, admiring the bare tree trunks, I thought about what color brown they were. Maybe milk chocolate? I love the soothing colors of light blue and brown.
The first time I read this poem, I didn’t like it. But after listening to the poet speak it (which you can on poets.org) and reading his blurb, it started to grow on me. I like the use of orange/cheese/cheese puff and what it references without directly saying. And I like his ideas about the form: “having the lines feel like eating cheese puffs—addictive, airy, crunchy, gone.”
3.4 miles ford bridge and back 25 degrees 138 confirmed cases of COVID-19
Cold, sunny. Woke up feeling anxious again. Running and being outside always helps. Not too crowded on the trail. Still spent a lot of time focused on whether or not other people were near and how to be distanced from them. Even so, till managed to notice the noisy birds. Pretty sure I heard a woodpecker. Noticed the river too, glowing again. This time, it created a wide white path stretching from shore to shore. As I ran south, the white path moved with me. Almost stopped at a few of the benches overlooking the river but I never like to stop. When it gets a bit warmer, I should walk to one of them and sit and stare and breathe.
Immediately after finishing my run, I came home, got Delia the dog and took her for a walk. I could hear lots of birds, but it seemed quiet and calm. Hardly anyone out–many more people by the gorge than in the neighborhood. Walked by the kids’ old elementary school and felt nostalgic, a brief rush of sadness that they were almost grown up even as I’m glad that they’re older. Passed at least 2 houses with their delightfully tacky winter/christmas decorations still out. At one house, a grand old tree stump served as a table for several (4 or 5) plastic snowmen. In past summer’s this same stump has housed gnomes and trolls. At another house, lights, a make-shift archway, 2 fake christmas trees, and some garlands slumped sadly in the brown grass. Do they still turn on the crazy lights at night? Will I ever check? Not sure.
Such a strange, unreal time right now.
Yesterday, I finished a draft of my double abecedarian. The entire poem was crafted around using x-box for the Xs. Not sure if it is finished yet, but it was fun. I always love doing abecedarians, especially double ones. Every time I never believe I can come up with words that end in J or Q but I do.
Any Game Starting with Z/ Sara Lynne Puotinen
A blank drab claustrophobic day. The kid emits moans grunts an occasional whine flails on the bed then falls off grounded feeling holed up with- in this ennui jailed in striped PJs knee deep stuck longing lacking all meaning sucked from the room nothing-to-do-ness raining down like a monsoon. Oh cruel world too pointless to want for more seconds pile up quietly in a q restlessness grows by the hour spreads settles travels right up the walls like kudzu vining hovers above like geese in a V waiting wanting to break out. Meanwhile in the corner the not so new x-box yawns sputters chokes on its own dust imploring the kid to play something anything play Zombie Apocalypse or Zombie Pinball or Zombie Death Drive. A plea: any game starting with Z.
Speaking of double abecedarians that begin and end with the same letter, here’s a list of words that begin and end with the same letter:
aqua
bib
caustic
dead
eye
fief or fluff
gig
hush
intermezzi (plural of intermezzo: brief piece of music between acts)
JJ (a name, or an abbreviation of judges or justices)
kink
lull (or lol)
Mom
northern
onto
plump
QQ (an instant messaging service in China)
rear
sass
tyrant
ubuntu (operating system for PCs)
verv (does this work?)
wow
xerox
yellowy (didn’t think this was a word, but it is!)
zzzzzzzz (when sleeping)
I only had to look a few of these up. Fascinating to learn new words, abbreviations, like JJ for judges.
(Not sure about my dictation project. I don’t like doing the dictation inside and I’m already home. Maybe I should try it when it’s warmer outside?)
Another cycle of melting in the afternoon, re-freezing at night, frozen in the morning, melting in the afternoon. This sort of ice, just barely frozen, is the slickest and most dangerous. So I waited to run until after noon, when it had melted–12:13, to be exact (according to my apple watch). Had the wind at my back heading south, giving me a nice push. Kept thinking about how the wind would be in my face when I turned around. And it was, which made it harder. Noticed several new dips and cracks and holes in the path near 38th street. All the freezing and melting and re-freezing is hard on the asphalt. There was a deep puddle on the double-bridge, right where it bottoms out. Luckily I could climb on some snow to avoid it. Encountered a few walkers on the path. Saw an adult and a kid sitting on a bench, surrounded by snow. Heard, and briefly saw (I think) a runner below me on the Winchell trail. Noticed the river, open and flowing. The path right by the Ford bridge was terrible, almost completely covered in a thin, slick sheet of ice. When I turned around, I put in some headphones and listened to a new playlist. Heard, “Eye of the Tiger,” “Bad Guy,” “Juice,” “Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution,” and “Let’s Go Crazy.”
Anything else I remember? I don’t remember hearing water gushing out of the sewer or kids at the school playground or music coming from a car or people talking loudly or geese honking or dogs barking. And I don’t remember having any deep thoughts or revelations. Did I?
Oh my god, this poem!
I want to read this book, and had requested it from the library, but I was unable to pick it up in time. I should request it again. I’m very glad that Our Poetica did a video of the text revealing itself as Diana Khoi Nguyen read it. So powerful!
Here’s another poem I found and copied into my green notebook on May 1st, 2019:
A Skull/ Dana Levin
is like a house with a brain inside. Another place where eating and thinking tango and spar—
At night you lean out, releasing thought balloons. On the roof someone stands ready
with a pin—
I’d like to put this poem and the idea of the skull as a house beside the two other poems with houses that I posted on feb 22.
4.3 miles minnehaha falls and back 10 degrees 100% snow-covered
What a wonderful day for a run! Hardly any wind. The feels like temperature is the same as the actual temperature. The path isn’t too slippery or sloppy or soft. The sun is shining, the sky is bright blue, the path isn’t crowded.
Reached the river and turned right today. Briefly glanced at the oak savanna. Looked at the open water on the river. Noticed a big hulking mound of snow near a bench. A mutated snowman? Not sure. Listened to my feet crunching on the path, scratching more than usual because of my yaktrax.
The falls are mostly frozen with only a small stream of water still falling. A handful of people came to look, most up above by me, some down below, exploring the ice columns in the off-limits area. Heard the creek still moving–not quite rushing–towards the edge.
Heading back, I put in my headphones and listened to a playlist. Admired my shadow as she led me home. Looked up and saw a big bird or a plane–can’t remember which now–in the sky. Heard some geese.
Anything else? This run made me happy. I smiled a lot at the passing cars and the snow-covered trees. Also, I stopped at the double bridge and walked in the deeper snow of the walking path. Looked down at the ravine, then at the snow on the path which was so bright and white that it seemed blue.
Smells and Poetry, a few recent and one not so recent encounters
1. Pungency
Of course, I don’t want my children to have exactly the same childhood as I did: that would almost be a definition of conservatism. But I would like them to be assaulted by the pungency, by the vivid strength and strangeness of detail, as I was as a child; and I want them to notice and remember. (I’m also aware that worrying about lack of pungency is a peculiarly middle-class, Western affliction; much of the world is full of people suffering from a surfeit of bloody pungency.) from The Nearest Thing to Life/ James Wood
2. The Smell of a Thought
one thing i love about poetry is how thinking and feeling don’t need to be distinguished. a thought that is a strange passion, yes. a feeling that is a philosophical argument, yes. and both physical, sensory too. the taste of a feeling. the smell of a thought. a tweet from @chenchenwrites
3. Smells and Memory, an Exercise
Jot down some smells that are appealing to you. For each one, describe the memory or experience associated with that smell, making sure you bring in the other sense in your description. Write a poem for each smell. Do the same with smells you don’t like. from The Poetry Companion/ Kim Addonizio
4. Smelling the Entrails of a Failed Soul
What Nietzsche writes about bad air in On the Genealogy of Morals: “What is it exactly that I find so totally unbearable? Something which I cannot deal with on my own, which makes me choke and feel faint? Bad air! Bad air! It’s when something which has failed comes close to me, when I have to smell the entrails of a failed soul!”
4.2 miles to the falls and back 17 degrees/ feels like 5 25% ice and snow covered
Reached the river and turned right instead of left and headed to the falls. Today the river was blue. Grayish blue. Steel blue. Maybe Copenhagen blue? I can’t trust my color sense these days. Sometimes bright pink looks yellow or green looks gold. Regardless of what color you would call it, I’ll stick with steel blue. Beautiful. A few less ice floes down here, south of the lake street bridge. The path was stained a chalky white, the hard frozen snow brown. Sometimes it was difficult to see what was clear and what was not.
The falls were wonderful. Reaching the far end of the park, by the benches and fountain with Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha” etched on them, I heard the dim roar of the falls still flowing. Rounding the corner, the roar suddenly became louder. I stopped at the stone edge for a minute and marveled at the frozen columns of ice and the water falling beside them. Put it my headphones, turned around, and ran home. Felt strong and happy to be outside on a clear path.
Did tear along. Did carry the sour heave of memory. Did fold my body upon the pillow’s curve, did teach myself to pray. Did pray. Did sleep. Did choir an echo to swell through time. Did pocket watch, did compass. Did whisper a girl from the silence of ghost. Did travel on the folded map to the roaring inside. Did see myself smaller, at least, stranger, where the hinge of losing had not yet become loss. Did vein, did hollow in light, did hold my own chapped hand. Did hair, did makeup, did press the pigment on my broken lip. Did stutter. Did slur. Did shush my open mouth, the empty glove. Did grace, did dare, did learn the way forgiveness is the heaviest thing to bare. Did grieve. Did grief. Did check the weather, choose the sweater, did patch the jeans worn out along the seam. Did purchase, did pressure, did put the safety on the scissors. Did shuttle myself away, did haunt, did swallow a tongue of sweat formed on the belly of a day-old glass. Did ice, did block, did measure the doing. Did carry. Did return. Did slumber, did speak. Did wash blood from the bitten nail, the thumb that bruised. Did wash the dirt-stained face, the dirt-stained sheets. Did take the pills. Did not take the pills. Cut the knots from my own matted hair.
Love the repetition of this poem and the relentless “did” only stopped on the second to last line. Love the telling of a story and the expressing of feelings through the mundane listing of what she did.
4.2 miles to the falls and back 33! degrees 25% snow-covered
Ran south again this morning. Beautiful! Above freezing! Only wore one shirt and a vest today. Trying out a new thing where I post 5 observations (see/hear/feel/smell).
At least 6 Observations on My Run
(Heard) Kids having fun, yelling near the savanna.
(Saw) Runner running below on the Winchell Trail near 42nd. Shuffling along, steadily climbing up the snowy path.
(Heard) Booming roar of the rushing water at the falls, Low rumbling roar of a plane overhead, High-pitched, frantic roar of a car engine, speeding on the parkway.
(Saw) The ancient boulder by the bench (mentioned yesterday) partly buried in snow.
(Saw) A snowy view of the other side of the gorge through the bare trees.
(Heard) A biker on the road spitting.
(Saw) A small gray car almost running the stop sign at Godfrey and 46th.
(Saw) A runner’s red quilted vest–not bright red.
(Saw) The curve of the wrought iron fence below the path, bending around the ravine near 42nd.
(Saw) Snow trapped in a small pothole on the path that’s been getting bigger ever year.
(Heard) The slushy crunch of my feet striking the snow on the path.
(Saw) A dropped glove–black, thick–on the edge of the sidewalk.
Felt good again today. Enjoyed running south to the falls and stopping to admire them for a few seconds. Almost forgot–encountered a runner I’ve been seeing a lot on the weekends. Usually I see him running much farther north. Does he usually run this far or has he changed his route too because of the snow? Thought briefly about asking him how far he usually runs but didn’t. Will I see him again next weekend, shuffling along in his black sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt?
I don’t think I have posted this poem before although I know I have admired it.
I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, and clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don’t cut that one. I don’t cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.
4.2 miles to the falls and back 25 degrees 50% snow-covered
Ran south instead of north this morning. Much better conditions on the trail. I ran on bare pavement for much of it. Hooray! The sun was shining and the wind wasn’t too bad. A wonderful morning for a run. If it had been just a little clearer on the paths, I might have called today (near?) perfect conditions. Much easier to notice the river running this way. It’s because there’s not much other than steep slopes between the bluff and the river in this stretch. Nearing Locks and Dam #1, I could see shimmering river near the Ford Bridge. Open water! Beautiful. Ran through Minnehaha Regional Park and stopped for a few seconds to admire the rushing falls. Not frozen over yet.
Encountered lots of runners and walkers. 2 fat tires. I passed one runner on the way up to the double bridge. I could hear them behind me. At first growing more distant, then closer. They were speeding up. For a few minutes, I tried to speed up too but just past 38th street I gave up. I slowed down so they could pass and so I could stop hearing the crunching of their feet stalking me. Maybe someday I won’t be bothered by people following me but today was not that day.
This morning I read a great essay, The Art of Finding by Linda Gregg. She writes:
I am astonished in my teaching to find how many poets are nearly blind to the physical world. They have ideas, memories, and feelings, but when they write their poems they often see them as similes. To break this habit, I have my students keep a journal in which they must write, very briefly, six things they have seen each day—not beautiful or remarkable things, just things. This seemingly simple task usually is hard for them. At the beginning, they typically “see” things in one of three ways: artistically, deliberately, or not at all. Those who see artistically instantly decorate their descriptions, turning them into something poetic: the winter trees immediately become “old men with snow on their shoulders,” or the lake looks like a “giant eye.” The ones who see deliberately go on and on describing a brass lamp by the bed with painful exactness. And the ones who see only what is forced on their attention: the grandmother in a bikini riding on a skateboard, or a bloody car wreck. But with practice, they begin to see carelessly and learn a kind of active passivity until after a month nearly all of them have learned to be available to seeing—and the physical world pours in. Their journals fill up with lovely things like, “the mirror with nothing reflected in it.” This way of seeing is important, even vital to the poet, since it is crucial that a poet see when she or he is not looking—just as she must write when she is not writing. To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing. The art of finding in poetry is the art of marrying the sacred to the world, the invisible to the human.
To see carelessly and to learn an active passivity. I remember writing/thinking about active/passive seeing a few years ago on this running log. I’ll have to find where. I think running lets you do this because you can’t actively think/theorize about the landscape as you’re running. You’re too busy running. The details get absorbed passively while you’re doing something else.
I like her idea of writing down 6 things you notice each day. I might try that on my run for a month. I already do this on the log but more informally.
6 Things I Observed On My Run Today
Saw shining, open river water through the trees
Heard then saw a Minneapolis Parks plow approaching me on the path, then veering off onto the road
Heard but didn’t see some kids yelling at the park, about to sled down a steep hill
Saw a person walking through the snow on a part of the Winchell Trail that climbs up closer to the road then back down again
Heard then saw 2 people with a dog below me on the Winchell Trail. Almost sounded like they were skiing as they shuffled along but how could that be?
Noticed how one of the ancient boulders on the path–the one near a bench–had a mound of snow on top of it
This was difficult. Maybe because I’d already written a bunch of observations earlier in this log? I think I’ll trying doing this through January.
What a wonderful run on an overcast day! The sky seems so full, the air so thick. Rain and maybe snow moving in. As I ran through the tunnel of trees and looked down at the forest, I noticed (not for the first time) the black sewer pipe with the white plastic cap sticking out of the slope. A few minutes later I looked up and saw a squirrel’s nest, normally hidden from view by a thick veil of green leaves. And I thought about how many mysteries are solved in November: How does the water from the neighborhood make its way to the river? Sewer pipes in the slope. How high up are we and where is the bottom? There’s the forest floor, not too far down. Where does the trail that winds through the trees begin, end? At a bench near the franklin bridge. Where do the squirrels go when they’re not annoying me? A big nest up at the top of that one tree. Where does the water weep and seep through the limestone cliff? The seeping water freezes in the cold, creating white patches easy to spot. One mystery not yet solved: Down on the sand flats, just before the beach ends and the trail travels back into the forest, is that two people fishing or two trees standing? Running high on the gorge, I’ve stared intently at the mystery forms twice as I ran by and I still can’t decide.
Stopped to stare at the thing on top of the tall boulder: a mitten with fur lining. Realized it was placed on top of the stack stones to keep them from falling off. Can’t decide if I appreciate this or not.
[Lately when sorrows come] Susan Laughter (law – ter) Meyers
Lately when sorrows come—fast, without warning— whipping their wings down the sky, I know to let them. Not inviting them, but allowing each with a deep breath as if inhaling a wish I can’t undo.
Some days the sky is so full of sorrows they could be mistaken for shadows of unnamed gods flapping the air with their loose black sleeves: the god of head-on collisions, the god of amputated limbs, the god of I’ll-dress-you-in-mourning.
Is the buzz in the August trees, that pulsing husk of repetition, an omen? I hear it build to a final shaking. I hear it build louder and louder, then nothing. Like a long, picaresque novel that’s suddenly over. Like the last inning of kickball until the rain.
What falls from the sky is not always rain or any kind of weather. Call it precipitous. I’m fooling myself, of course. Wearing sorrow is nothing like skin shedding water. It’s more like the weight of a cloak of crows.
And yet the sun still shines on the honey locust arching its fringe over grass. Lit, too, the pasture and its barbwire strung from post to leaning post. See how the stump by the road is rotting and how the small yellow leaves, twirling, catch light on their way to the ground.
The more times I read this poem, the more I love it. A cloak of crows! Call it precipitous! That pulsing husk of repetition! Whipping their wings! So many great lines.
Let it Be, revisited
Before heading out for my run, I started playing around with a poem experiment I started in 2018, based on the phrase (which is on my coffee mug)–Let it be. Here’s a few I came up with:
Let ink trails be a way in
to a world of intelligent trees
who incubate theories
in their subterranean information thoroughfare.
Let indifferent trapezoids be a model for how to live– never interested in even, parallel lines never caring to reach infinitely towards the sky?
Let indian takeout be what saves us from eating icky tacos again.
Let incanting toads be what finally
sings us to sleep
so we can dream better dreams
imagining terrains that believe in us.
Let invisible threads be revealed
so we may see how we belong
connected, tethered to each other–
vulnerable to violence yet
also to the inviting touch of another.
Let indefatigable toddlers be
given inside time to quell their irritating tantrums.
Let indigo tunics be required attire
for ill-tempered teetotalers
Let insufferable Todd be
forced to drink iced tea
while we imbibe tequila
*west river road, north/lake st bridge/east river road, west/ cretin, north/marshall hill, east/marshall bridge/west river road, south
Windy, sunny, leafy, hilly. Checked out Shadow Falls Park as I ran above it on the east river road. With the leaves gone, I could see all the way down to the trickling creek. Noticed several inviting benches, perched on the edge of the bluff, but didn’t stop to sit or look out at the river. Felt a little stiff and sore in my legs. Passed the Daily Walker at the beginning of my run. Saw some dogs but no roller skiers or fat tires or geese. Did I see any squirrels?
Mindful/mary oliver
Every day I see or hear something that more or less
kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle
in the haystack of light. It is what I was born for– to look, to listen,
to lose myself inside this soft world– to instruct myself over and over
in joy, and acclamation. Nor am I talking about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful, the very extravagant– but of the ordinary, the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations. Oh, good scholar, I say to myself, how can you help
but grow wise with such teachings as these– the untrimmable light,
of the world, the ocean’s shine, the prayers that are made out of grass?
Brand new too white running shoes this morning. My favorites: Saucony Grid Cohesions. Started on version 4 (I think), am now on 11. Cheap and dependable. Thought about upgrading but I’m too frugal. Also, when I buy expensive shoes, I feel pressure for them to be perfect–they better be, if I spend $120 on them, I think. Usually this ends with me wearing shoes that don’t quite work for too long because I spent so much money on them. So inexpensive grid cohesions it is. They worked well today.
Started with an audio book but decided to turn it off and listen to my feet striking the ground–was I plodding too much? Also got to hear the intense, quiet rush of traffic as people hurrying off to work. Chanted some three syllable words, mostly strawberry and raspberry. Didn’t look at the river even once. Barely noticed the lake street bridge or the overlook above the rowing club or the railroad trestle. I guess I was thinking too much about the run and how my legs were sore. I do remember looking to see if anyone was sleeping behind the bench, near the bridge. Sometimes people do in the summer. One time I saw someone sleeping on the hard, uneven paving stones under the bridge. Ouch. Encountered some walkers, no regulars. No Daily Walker. No roller skiers or rollerbladers. Any other runners? At least one, running much faster than me.
I like the form of this poem and how each stanza ends with an introduction to the next stanza. I want to experiment with it.
Seek/ Sophia Holtz
the moon is a cataract that can’t see rats
chewing bone-filled trash, the satellites
passing above us making maps
of everything we touch. a machine
recognizes a human face, I forget
everyone’s names, & somewhere
a man is making a list of threats
he’s calling law. sometimes while I walk
I look for places where I could hide
because once or twice in my life
a man has tried to follow me home.
certain games are practical,
the way animals gnaw on what’s inedible
so they’ll become better knives.
at work, the children are playing
in an open space, all of them hiding
behind a trashcan, the game more ritual
than search, but it also reminds me
of towns likely burned to the ground
before they were emptied, or at the very least
erased from the map. if you’re small your best trick is to become invisible. even insects know this: how many generations for a moth to resemble lichen.
swim: 1.7 miles cedar lake
The final open swim of the season. As always, it’s difficult to believe that another year is done. A beautiful evening, a beautiful lake. So pleased that I was able to swim five days in a row. Breathed every five and five/six/five. Heard some planes, felt lots of scratchy, sharp water weeds. Checked out the opposite shore–I think it’s hidden beach. Really nice.
A nice and easy run. Cooler. Not too much sun. Not that crowded. Didn’t see the little old lady shuffling by that I’ve been writing about but I did encounter a woman I’ve seen at least 2 or 3 times before who walks the opposite way I run. While I start by running south on the upper trail, north on the lower trail, she starts north on the upper trail and south on the lower. I get to greet her twice. Don’t remember much about the upper path run, but I remember noticing how bright and glowing the river was below me on the lower trail. Heard some roller ski poles clicking-clacking. A car horn aggressively honking–at least 5 or 6 times. Some bikers talking. The leaning tree trunk is still leaning near the 38th street steps. After taking them up and running north, I noticed 3 rocks stacked on the ancient boulder near the tunnel of trees.
On the Dirt Path Near Folwell Avenue Haibun Sara Puotinen
Even if you try to time it just right when you climb the steep, short hill up to the dirt packed path, you cannot avoid the swarming swath of sex-crazed gnats or the little old lady slowly shuffling by, swinging her hiking poles, a voice TED-talking out of her phone’s speaker reminding you that this is why we are all here. Do not bother the bench resting on the rim of the gorge to ask what this is. If looking through the thickly thatched oak leaves to gather glimpses of the silvery river sparkling in the morning sun doesn’t already answer everything, the bench certainly won’t be able to help.
Bugs and old ladies
wake up early in June but
so does the river.
A great ride early in the morning before it was too crowded. Thing I remember most: not once but twice some dumb squirrel darted out right in front of my bike, forcing me to use my brakes. I hate squirrels.
run: 2.7 miles two trails
Such a beautiful morning! Not too hot or windy or humid. Decided to do a quick run even though I’d already biked to the lake and walked around it. Up above, encountered at least one roller skier, some bikers, a dog and their human, a few other runners. Down below, an unleashed dog running ahead of its owners, a few solitary walkers. Watched the river out of the corner of my eye. Avoided muddy, mucky leaves. Ran cautiously under the leaning, yarn-bombed tree trunk.
swim: 1 mile cedar lake
Finally decided to try out open swim at Cedar Lake. I’ve never been because it’s a lot farther from my house. Really wonderful. Not too many people there, which was great. Smaller loops–not sure, but I think a loop was 400-500 yards? (instead of 1200 at Lake Nokomis). I liked mixing it up with smaller loops. Easier to not get off track even when you couldn’t see, which I couldn’t on the way back because of the sun. Why are so many of the beaches east/west, with one way always being in the sun? No big, crazy beach filled with too many people. Found out after I finished swimming that the rest of lake nokomis open swims will be at cedar. It’s very sad to be done for the season at nokomis without being able to say goodbye to the lake but I’m glad I can still swim–if I can make it over to Cedar. It’s about a 16-18 mile bike ride round trip. Breathed every five strokes. Felt strong and fast and free.
It is a summer afternoon in October. I am sitting on a wooden bench, looking out At the lake through a tall screen of evergreens, Or rather, looking out across the plane of the lake, Seeing the light shaking upon the water As if it were a shimmering of heat. Yesterday, when I sat here, it was the same, The same displaced out-of-season effect. Seen twice it seemed a truth was being told. Some of the trees I can see across the lake Have begun to change, but it is as if the air Had entirely given itself over to summer, With the intention of denying its own proper nature. There is a breeze perfectly steady and persistent Blowing in toward shore from the other side Or from the world beyond the other side. The mild sound of the little tapping waves The breeze has caused—there’s something infantile About it, a baby at the breast. The light Is moving and not moving upon the water. The breeze picks up slightly but still steadily, The increase in the breeze becomes the mild Dominant event, compelling with sweet oblivious Authority alterations in light and shadow, Alterations in the light of the sun on the water, Which becomes at once denser and more quietly Excited, like a concentration of emotions That had been dispersed and scattered and now were not. Then there’s the mitigation of the shadow of a cloud, Phrases and even sentences are written, But because of the breeze, and the turning of the year, And the sense that this lake water, as it is being Experienced on a particular day, comes from Some source somewhere, beneath, within, itself, Or from somewhere else, nearby, a spring, a brook, Its pure origination somewhere else, It is like an idea for a poem not yet written And maybe never to be completed, because The surface of the page is like lake water, That takes back what is written on its surface, And all my language about the lake and its Emotions or its sweet obliviousness, Or even its being like an origination, Is all erased with the changing of the breeze Or because of the heedless passing of a cloud. When, moments after she died, I looked into Her face, it was as untelling as something natural, A lake, say, the surface of it unreadable, Its sources of meaning unrndable anymore. Her mouth was open as if she had something to say; But maybe my saying so is a figure of speech.
I’d like to read this poem several more times. Wow, that ending!
Slightly cooler this morning. Noticed the river sparkling in the sun. Saw the old woman in the straw hat sitting on the bench that I’m writing about in my most recent haibun as I ran south, but by the time I turned around and reached the bench again she was gone. No rowers. No roller skiers. Not many bikes or runners. A few walkers. Only the leaning, yarn-bombed trunk is here.
note: No open swim tonight due to bad water quality. No!!! Hopefully the lake won’t be closed for the rest of the season. What a bummer.
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
It was soon after my mother died,
a brilliant June day,
everything blooming.
I sat on a gray stone bench
in a lovingly planted garden,
but the day lilies were as deaf
as the ears of drunken sleepers
and the roses curved inward.
Nothing was black or broken
and not a leaf fell
and the sun blared endless commercials
for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench
ringed with the ingenue faces
of pink and white impatiens
and placed my grief
in the mouth of language,
the only thing that would grieve with me.
For the first time, Scott and I biked over to the race instead of driving. 5 miles on the river road. It would have been less but one road was closed and we had to backtrack. Not too bad. Much less stressful than driving. The race was hot and humid. I wimped out and walked a few times but finished strong, so that was okay. Gradually, I’m working to stop caring about time and not feeling bad about how much slower I am these days. Don’t remember much about the race. Started at the back so I did a lot of passing people. Weaving through the crowd doesn’t bother me most of the time. It’s a good distraction. Anything else I remember? No interesting conversations even though I wasn’t listening to headphones. Had a popsicle and a beer after the race and then slowly walked back to my bike. I’d like to try biking to a race again. Oh–saw some rowers down in the flats–that was cool. And, biked up several hills without ever changing my gear. Marveled at the beauty of the city on the 3rd Ave/Central Ave Bridge as I walked across with Scott after the race.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BzfxPiLHwSJ
Here’s a poem I’ve tried to write about (so far, not quite successfully) for a couple of years now. So much I love about it. Today, I noticed the line, “…Raise your/heads, pals, look high,/you may see more than/you ever thought possible,” I love her use of pals here. I read it as an almost exasperated, “look pal” which I appreciate. Much better than friend.
Not that anyone would
notice it at first.
I have taken to marveling
at the trees in our park.
One thing I can tell you:
they are beautiful
and they know it.
They are also tired,
hundreds of years
stuck in one spot—
beautiful paralytics.
When I am under them,
they feel my gaze,
watch me wave my foolish
hand, and envy the joy
of being a moving target.
Loungers on the benches
begin to notice.
One to another,
“Well, you see all kinds…”
Most of them sit looking
down at nothing as if there
was truly nothing else to
look at until there is
that woman waving up
to the branching boughs
of these old trees. Raise your
heads, pals, look high,
you may see more than
you ever thought possible,
up where something might
be waving back, to tell her
she has seen the marvelous.
3.25 miles mississippi river road path, north/south 72 degrees
Another warm morning when it was difficult to breathe. Stopped to walk for 1 or 2 minutes at 2.5 miles, then finished strong. This summer I don’t care if I have to walk. More opportunity to check out the gorge. Listened to my audio book because I’m enjoying it (and trying to finish it). Encountered a lot of runners on the path. Saw the Daily Walker but wasn’t able to greet him. No Man in Black. I think I heard the rowers but I’m not sure because I was listening to my book. Noticed my shadow a few times. Saw 2! groups of rollerbladers, a group of 5 and a group of 7 or 8, zooming down the path gracefully. Love watching them fly by with their rhythmic arms.
Haze. Three student violists boarding a bus. A clatter of jackhammers. Granular light. A film of sweat for primer and the heat for a coat of paint. A man and a woman on a bench: she tells him he must be psychic, for how else could he sense, even before she knew, that she’d need to call it off? A bicyclist fumes by with a coach’s whistle clamped hard between his teeth, shrilling like a teakettle on the boil. I never meant, she says. But I thought, he replies. Two cabs almost collide; someone yells fuck in Farsi. I’m sorry, she says. The comforts of loneliness fall in like a bad platoon. The sky blurs—there’s a storm coming up or down. A lank cat slinks liquidly around a corner. How familiar it feels to feel strange, hollower than a bassoon. A rill of chill air in the leaves. A car alarm. Hail.
I know I’ve read this poem before but I don’t think I’ve posted it. I love how it seems like simple reporting of the mundane but offers much more. Some great lines–sweat as primer, heat as the coat of paint. The rill of chill, the lank cat slinking, the couple on the bench interrupting the scene repeatedly, the coming storm–literally and metaphorically, the hollow bassoon. So good! I want to try to write a poem like this about my neighborhood.
So hot and hard to breathe! Not sure if it’s all the cottonwood flying but I had a lot of trouble breathing. Time to start running earlier–good thing school ends for the kids tomorrow. Listened to my audio book as I ran, so I don’t remember much–except it was hot, I was sweating a lot and my throat needed to be cleared all the time. Came close to tripping over a dog.
Stopped running at the spot I’m trying to write a haibun about. 4 fences–wrought-iron, stone retaining wall, wood retaining wall, split rail. These fences stand at the start of the ascent into the tunnel of trees. Noticed some small maples (I think) on the edge of the path. Not sure what the other trees are. I did see some broad leaves with jagged edges. What are those? At the beginning, the slope isn’t too steep or high but it gets steeper and higher and darker and narrower as you climb. Wondered why this not so steep spot was the place where a wrought iron fence was placed when there are much steeper spots farther up and decided it was for the cars coming around a curve up above. Not sure if that’s correct. Did a car crash through the split rail here too as some point? In the winter, when this lower path is not cleared and I have to run above on the biking path, I sometimes worry that a car might slip on ice, slide up on the path and hit me. At the end of the tunnel of trees and almost the top of the hill are too boulders (I need to go back and study them some more) and a welcoming oak tree. On top of the taller rock is a cairn of 3 or 4 rocks stacked on top of each other. Who put them there? I think I first noticed them last year. At the top of the hill, is a porta potty, a parking lot, an overlook, some benches, more boulders and the welcoming oaks.
Breathe . As in what if the shadow is gold en? Breathe. As in hale assuming exhale. Imagine that. As in first person singular. Homonym :eye. As in subject. As in centeroftheworld as in mundane. The opposite of spectacle spectacular. This is just us breathing. Imagine normalized respite gold in shadows . You have the right to breathe and remain . Imagine that .
swim: 1000 yards lake nokomis
More shafts of light. Such a cool effect. Tons of cottonwood on the water surface (and in my suit after I got out of the lake and took a shower). A few strange floating objects–wood or something else? The sun was creating this weird red tint effect on everything. I think I saw a few fish swimming below me and another swimmer next to me. Lots of boats encroaching on the designated swimming area. Nearing the shore, swimming inside the wading area, the water was clearer and I could see the bottom. Really cool. I didn’t see all the things on the bottom, like hairbands, but just where the bottom began.
Nice to see the sun after the gloom on Saturday and the rain on Sunday. It got down to 36 degrees yesterday. Boo. That lake water is going to be cold in a few weeks when open water swimming starts. Today it felt like early spring. Mid April not late May. A gentle breeze. Lots of green. So many green layers by my favorite part of the path. Running through it is disorienting. Can’t tell where the ground is or the river, sometimes even the sky. Just floating in green and brown air. Greeted the Daily Walker. Noticed a plaque on the big boulder by the bench almost under the lake street bridge–asked Scott about it, it says “1938, WPA.” Did my Grandpa work on this project? I know he worked for the WPA, but I’m not sure where or when.
The run was a little difficult with my lingering cold and the crap trapped in my chest. Crossing the Franklin bridge I stared at the sparkling water and the shadows near the railroad bridge. Later, running on the rim of the east side, heard water gushing down the rocks. Crossing back over to the west side, had to run on the other side of the bridge because the side I usually run on was closed. A little longer but a different view: downtown instead of the Ford Bridge.
Spring running! Overcast, so no hot sun. Hardly any wind. Low humidity. Decided to run the Ford loop for the first time in months. Reached the river, turned right instead of left, climbed up the hill just past Locks and Dam #1, ran over the Ford bridge, up the east side of the river road, up the hill just past Summit, down the other side, over the Lake Street bridge, then south on the west river road. Stopped at the Lake Street bridge and noticed the water again. A dark olive green this time instead of brown. Still cloudy–looks like the river has cataracts?–moving very slowly. I watched a big log drift down towards the falls. No birds or boats or other debris on the river. A nice, steady run. Managed to hold onto a few thoughts about the poem I’m working on but only for a minute. Lost again. Noticed my shadow. Heard some birds. Avoided a lot of cracks on the St. Paul side. Greeted at least one runner with a “good morning,” others with a smile. Became annoyed by the buzz of a leaf blower. No bugs flew into my eyes. Saw some hikers below me. Wondered about a lone bike propped up against a bench. Counted 2 runners with bright yellow, glowing shirts.
I have decided I am tired of writing “birds chirp” or trill or sing. I want to know more about bird calls, have more specific words for describing their various songs and calls. So I looked it up and found a great series on the Audubon Society’s site. Will this interest in bird calls last past this post? Not sure, but I would like to try to listen more carefully to them. Here’s a passage that was particularly enticing in part one of the series:
Are there American Robins in your yard or local park? In addition to their rich, caroling song, robins have a surprising number of different calls. Spend some time with them and study their repertoire; the knowledge will be useful practically anywhere you go in North America. Plus, it’s a method you can repeat with other familiar species.
To speed up the learning process, don’t just listen passively: Focus and analyze what you’re hearing. Describe the sound to yourself, draw a diagram, or write it down. If it’s a complicated song, figure out how many notes it has. Do all the notes have the same tone and vibe? Does the tune rise or fall? Can you adapt the “syllables” into words and make a mnemonic? The Barred Owl, for instance, hoots Who cooks for you, and the Common Yellowthroat sings Wichity-wichity-wichity. But you don’t have to just settle for published mnemonics; listen carefully and then invent your own. Little memory hooks like these will make birding easier the next time around. And as always, repetition helps.
2 mile run/.5 mile hike mississippi river gorge above and below, north/south 72 degrees
Ran a mile with Scott to the Lake Street bridge then hiked below to the river for 1/2 mile, climbed up some stone steps by the greenway, then ran 1 mile back. Beautiful. Everything was brown–almost looked like fall but felt like summer. I’d like to do more run/hikes like this. This side of the gorge is similar to the east side, except the east side has paved paths, an abandoned parking lot and benches/picnic tables. Scott and I encountered some dirt mounds, halfway up the gorge, and wondered if they were burial mounds.
Spent some time looking through the archives of Boaat and found this cool poem: DRIFTING/aya satoh
3.1 miles mississippi river road path, north/south 15 degrees 100% snow-covered
feels like: a path for snowshoes not running shoes, it’s much warmer than it is, spring is in the next room
Decided to wear my yaktrax because the path is still covered with snow and ice and I thought they might help. They did but my feet aren’t used to wearing them so I think I got some blisters. Blinding sun. Bright blue sky. Hard, crusty path. Saw my shadow running ahead of me for a while. Felt strong and sore and ready for the path to be clear again.
layers: green shirt, orange shirt, gray jacket, 2 pairs of running tights, 1 pair of socks, 1 pair of gloves, a buff and my mom’s teal hat with the hassles–the one she wore when she skied. After turning around and heading south, the gloves came off. So did the buff and the sunglasses, which had fogged up. How do people run with sunglasses on without having their sunglasses fog up?
My interest in inside and outside has me thinking about locating myself–what does it mean to be inside? outside? Inside of what? Outside of what? What does it mean when I’m running above the gorge? What does it mean when I can’t see the faces of the people I’m trying to talk with? Can “I” be outside, while I’m inside? So many ways to approach these fundamental questions–I’ve been posing and exploring them for 25 years, first as a student, then a teacher, now a writer/poet.
A certain doubleness, by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. — Henry David Thoreau
i
I didn’t choose the word —
it came pouring out of my throat
like the water inside a drowned man.
I didn’t even push on my stomach.
I just lay there, dead (like he told me)
& “I” came out.
(I’m sorry, Father.
“I” wasn’t my fault.)
ii
(How did “I” feel?)
Felt almost alive
when I’d get in, like the Trojan horse.
I’d sit on the bench
(I didn’t look out of the eyeholes
so I wouldn’t see the carnage).
iii
(Is “I” speaking another language?)
I said, “I” is dangerous.
But at the time I couldn’t tell
which one of us was speaking.
iv
(Why “I”?)
“I” was the closest I could get to the
one I loved (who I believe was
smothered in her playpen).
Perhaps she gave birth
to “I” before she died.
v
I deny “I,”
& the closer
I get, the more
“I” keeps receding.
vi
I found “I”
in the bulrushes
raised by a dirtiness
beyond imagination.
I loved “I” like a stinky bed.
While I hid in a sentence
with a bunch of other words.
vii
(What is “I”?)
A transmission through space?
A dismemberment of the spirit?
More like opening the chest &
throwing the heart out with the gizzards.
viii
(Translation)
Years later “I” came back
wanting to be known.
Like the unspeakable
name of God, I tried
my 2 letters, leaving
the “O” for breath,
like in the Bible,
missing.
ix
I am not the “I”
in my poems. “I”
is the net I try to pull me in with.
x
I try to talk
with “I,” but “I” doesn’t trust
me. “I” says I am
slippery by nature.
xi
I made “I” do
what I wasn’t supposed to do,
what I didn’t want to do —
defend me,
stand as an example,
stand in for what I was hiding.
I treated “I” as if
“I” wasn’t human.
xii
They say that what I write
belongs to me, that it is my true
experience. They think it validates
my endurance.
But why pretend?
“I” is a kind of terminal survival.
xiii
I didn’t promise
“I” anything & in that way
“I” is the one I was most
true to.
10 miles
72 degrees/84% humidity
lake nokomis loop, long
Tried running 9 minutes then walking 1. It worked until mile 6 when I got tired and my foot started to hurt. Running isn’t as easy this year. Still not fully recovered from my knee injury. What do I remember from my run? So many cars, streaming by on the river road, heading to work or vacation or somewhere fast. Saw some other runners, bikers, a few roller skiers on the creek path. Ran beside 4 bodies of water: the mississippi river, minnehaha creek lake hiawatha and lake nokomis. Halfway around lake nokomis, the path rises up a small hill and offers a beautiful view of the water. There’s a bench there and I always contemplate stopping and sitting and watching the waves. I haven’t yet. Today, as I ran by it, I noticed how splendidly the blue of the sky, the blue of the water and the green of the trees complemented each other. Was it because of the light–was it bright? I can’t remember. After making it to the big beach, I decided to listen to music. It helped motivate me to keep running. Ran down the hill between Lake Nokomis and Lake Hiawatha and the hill after 28th avenue. Did I pay attention to the creek at all? Was it rushing? Were there any big turtles in it, like the one Rosie and I saw a few summers ago? I don’t know. So much of this run was a blur.
2 miles, some running but more walking
training with daughter
mississippi river road path south, north
Did second training run with daughter. Slowly, she’s getting better. Small, subtle positive changes. Running when she’s supposed to run. Not stopping. Not freaking out and refusing. Still complaining but with less anger. Today, she sang as she ran about the bing bong (or sometimes the ding dong) that the running app makes as it alerts you to start running again. Oh, the menacing “bing bong”! Why must it bing and bong at all and once it has, when it will it do it again so we can stop? The voice that tells us to “run!” or “walk” is named Allison. According to my daughter, we don’t like her. In fact, we hate her. She is the cause of our pain and suffering as we struggle to run in the heat. (I wonder, in a few weeks, will Allison become our bff? i doubt it, but maybe we won’t blame her quite so much?) Soon, the bing bong is no longer the sound that the app makes, it is the pain that Ro feels in her chest or her foot. “oh, I have a bing bong in my chest!” By the end of the run, Ro has figured out what these “bing bongs” look like: bullet bills from the video game, mario kart. I love her imagination.
bike to lake nokomis and back: 8.5 miles
run around lake nokomis: 2.5 miles
73 degrees
First bike of the season! Sunny. Not much wind. A great day for a ride even with my bad vision. Biking to the lake is fun but mentally exhausting as I struggle to stay on the path. My depth perception is bad and I have trouble distinguishing between the grayish road, the grayish curb and the grayish path. Occasionally, a strip of bright green grass sandwiched between the path and the road helped me to see–another reason to love green–the edge of the path. It was much easier seeing in the bright sunlight. In the shade the light filtered through the trees and created a dappled effect. I used to like this dappling, but now it makes it so much harder to see. Everything swims around even more than usual, especially when the leaves are swaying in the breeze. Most of my thinking was focused on not running into another biker, runner, walker, or car and trying to stay on the path, but I did have a few thoughts: 1. I want to write something–a poem, a line for a poem–about the green strip of grass that helps me to distinguish between the path and road. It will be part of my larger interest in green. Maybe it will turn into a chapbook? 2. I want to document the difficulties of exercising with Best’s disease, especially biking.
Once I arrived at the lake, I ran around it. A loop = 2.5 miles. It was hot and sunny with hardly any shade. I felt a breeze a few times, but mostly hot sun and sweat and a very flushed face. I used to run around lake nokomis all the time. Now that I live 4 miles away, I only do it on long runs or if I bike there, like today. Saw lots of walkers. A few runners. Strollers, Dogs. Ducks. A hissing goose. My shadow, first to the side, then in front leading me over the bridge. Saw the shimmering water and a man precariously perched on a wall on the edge of the lake, fishing. Noticed lots of people sitting on benches, enjoying the day and one woman peering into the marshy, wetlands on the edge of the path, near the bridge. Passed a runner who was running with her phone but no headphones listening to a podcast or the news or a running app? When I started my feet felt heavy and awkward. I wondered if I would be able to run the whole loop without feeling miserable. Soon, I felt better and even though it was hot, I mostly enjoyed it. Ended the run by wading in the water, which up until 2 weeks ago was still covered in ice. Instant ice bath for my knee! No profound thoughts. No runner’s high. No super fast splits. Just a few things remembered and some interesting moments to record. And a sense of joy that summer is coming and I get to spend it at this lake, swimming and biking and running and writing.
Technically this run happened yesterday but since it’s a run for this week, I’m adding it here. Ran with Scott in the afternoon on the Franklin loop with a twist. The twist? Briefly stopping our run to explore the lower path on the east side of the river that I had unexpectedly glimpsed a week ago and was hoping to check out before it closed for the winter. So cool! I had no idea that there was so much land and a paved path and even benches and picnic tables in the gorge on the St. Paul side of the Mississippi. We walked some of it and ran some more of it and then hiked under the Franklin bridge. Such a high bridge. On the west side, you cross under the Franklin bridge less than halfway down the hill but on the east side, you’re at the bottom of it. The path travels under the bridge and keeps going all the way to the U and East River Flats Park–which we didn’t have time to check out. A goal for spring? or next week if it still doesn’t snow.
After walking/running around for a while, we climbed A LOT of steps and ran the 2+ miles home. I really enjoyed combining hiking, walking and running. A nice way to mix up a run to make it more interesting. I enjoyed it so much that I had a flash of inspiration–how cool would it be to try and run more of the trails by the mississippi in minnesota? are any of them as amazing as this stretch of the mississippi between downtown minneapolis and minnehaha falls?
This morning—the day after running, I decided to write a quick poem about the moment of discovering the trail. Because it often helps me find words, I used the abecedarian form:
Lower East River Parkway Trail
After seeing the paved path
Beckoning me from below, how
Could I resist? How could I not
Descend into the
East River
Flats on the St Paul side of the
Gorge? I
Had seen the steps near the Franklin bridge before but
Ignored them
Just running by, never needing to
Know where they went. Never
Looking down to the river but only across to
Minneapolis.
Never stopping—if
Only for a moment—to
Pose the
Question, what is beneath me on this side of the
River?
Surely something more than
Trees and
Under that, sand and dirt and dead leaves, dwells below my
View across? I had never asked but on Monday, I looked down at the
Water of the Mississippi and saw a flash of something
uneXpected—a paved path
Yearning to be traveled,
Zigzagging through the floodplain—and suddenly I wanted to know everything.
I can’t wait until I can run again–next week, I think. Until then I’m walking a lot more and biking occasionally. Today, I did both. Biked 4.75 miles to Minnehaha Falls and then hiked to the river. What a beautiful fall day. Walking on the dirt trail, through a grove of trees just starting to turn yellow, I briefly wondered if I should take a picture. But I didn’t. I’d like to spend some time, sitting on a bench, and find words to describe it. But what words? I need better ones, better than “beautiful.”
Here’s a poem I discovered the other day.
O Autumn! Autumn!/Effie Lee Newsome
O Autumn! Autumn! O pensive light
and beautiful sound!
Gold-haunted sky, green-haunted ground!
When, wan, the dead leaves flutter by
deserted realms of butterfly!
When robins band themselves together
To seek the sound of sun-soaked weather!
And all of summer’s largesse goes
For lands of olive and the rose!
I like Newsome’s trick twisting flutter by into butterfly. And the phrase “to seek the sound.” And I like her enthusiasm. I’m usually too restrained, so I appreciate someone willing to gush and overuse exclamation points.
Overcast. Calmer waters. Probably the last swim in the lake until next June. When I was done, I stood in the water, absorbing the view. First, staring at my open swim path across the blue-gray water to the little beach. And then, the tops of the trees, lining the shore all the way around. Some of the trees have already started to change color.
The only other people in the water when I was swimming were a couple of children, their caregiver and two guys in waders with metal detectors. It’s cool to hear the sound of the metal detector clicking (or would I call it scratching?) on the bottom of the lake as I swim by. I’m not sure that I would ever want to use a metal detector, but I can see the appeal. What an intimate knowledge of the lake floor they must have, it’s terrain—the dips and divots, the drop-offs—and the treasures it contains—coins, goggles, bobby pins and the two nose plugs that I lost this summer.
After swimming, I met up with Scott and we sat on the bench for a few minutes, barely talking, mostly looking out at the lake. We left when we smelled cigarette smoke. Later in the parking lot, Scott mentioned that the smoke came from the cigarette of an old guy in a wheelchair being pushed around by a nurse, probably a hospice nurse.
Overheard on the beach, just after exiting the water: “and that’s one thing you never do wen you go to an all-girls college!” What was the beginning of the story? What is the one thing?
Also overheard, from the metal detectors dudes, just before entering the water: “wow! that’s a big one! maybe one and half feet tall!” At first, I thought they were talking about a fish, which made me nervous about swimming, but later I decided it was something else. But what?
