Another beautiful fall morning. Listened to Bruno Mars and didn’t think about anything, or didn’t hold onto anything that I thought about. Didn’t see any turkeys or greet anyone. No view of the river — well, I think I might have seen it shimmering through the trees at one point, but it was far off, on the other side of the river road, so I can’t be sure. Forgot to notice the color of the trees or look for acorns or walnuts or squirrels.
Found this Niedecker poem on twitter the other day. I love her poetry.
Along the River/ Lorine Niedecker
Along the river wild sunflowers over my head the dead who gave me life give me this our relative the air floods our rich friend silt
Trying to find out more about this poem, I discovered that it was turned to a song (at least I think this is the same poem; it’s difficult to understand the lyrics):
A beautiful morning for a run! Cooler, leaves scattered on the ground, more reds and oranges and yellows. Started slow and intended on staying slow, but looking at my splits after the run, I noticed I negative split each mile. Ran the franklin loop — north on franklin, over the bridge, south on the east river road, past the lake street bridge, up the hill beside my favorite viewing spot, then back down the hill to the bridge. I walked up the steps and on the bridge until I reached the overlook. Stopped to study the river, then put in Renaissance and ran all the way back.
To keep myself distracted, or focused on something other than my effort, I chanted triple berries. Strawberry/raspberry/blueberry/blackberry/gooseberry
Also thought about a poem I’m revising and the idea of learning to hold contradictions together without resolving or reducing them. In the case of this poem, it’s about both having great affection for the other swimmers in the lake with me because we all love the lake and being irritated by how they get in my way or kick me or push me off course. I can’t remember much of what I thought — something about other contradictions, lik how we always hold joy and suffering together too, and about the need to find balance with these contradictions.
10 Things I Noticed
the welcoming oaks are still green and full
a few rips in the veil of green that hides the river below the tunnel of trees
minneapolis parks worker was weedwacking near the lake street bridge. all the goldenrod poking through the rails and leaning over the trail is gone, so are the red leaves
gusts and swells of wind, sounding like water falling from the limestone ledges
evidence: the voice of a kid, then an adult and an empty bike with a kids’ seat in the back parked in the bike rack…assumption: there’s a kid somewhere nearby with his mom exploring the gorge, never verified
passing a man with a “sporty” walker (its wheels looked like they were more rugged and ready to go fast) just before getting to the franklin bridge
greeted Dave, the Daily Walker and Mr. Morning! Also passed a guy that I’m pretty sure used to walk on the track at the YWCA everytime I ran there. I think I’ll call him, Mr. Y
water (not wind, I think?) falling off the ledge near the Meeker Dog Park — is there a way to get to this seep/falls?
a bright red tree just below the railing at my favorite viewing spot above the lake street bridge
the river! blue with slight ripples from the wind that were moving towards the middle of the river, streaks — from the sandbars? — were visible too. At the overlook, a little over halfway across, the river was split in 2. One side was sparkling and shimmering from the sun, the other side was almost flat. Up above, the sky was streaked with shreds of clouds; it looked almost like a mirror of the ripples in the water
Autumn/ Linda Pastan
I want to mention summer ending without meaning the death of somebody loved
or even the death of the trees. Today in the market I heard a mother say
Look at the pumpkins, it’s finally autumn! And the child didn’t think of the death of her mother
which is due before her own but tasted the sound of the words on her clumsy tongue: pumpkin; autumn.
Let the eye enlarge with all it beholds. I want to celebrate color, how one red leaf
flickers like a match held to a dry branch, and the whole world goes up in orange and gold.
Ever since I read Vertical by Linda Pastan, I have loved her poetry. This poem — “Autumn” — adds to that love. Some years, like this one, it’s harder not to think about death in the fall. Maybe I’ll try repeating pumpkin and autumn over and over.
addendum (17 feb 2023): For the month of Feb 2023, I’m spending time with Linda Pastan. While watching one of her readings on YouTube, she mentioned that this poem was for Jane Kenyon and in response to Kenyon’s poem, Let Evening Come:
4.6 miles to longfellow gardes and the falls 60 degrees / humidity: 90%
A nice run. Calm, quiet, not too warm. I was surprised to see that the humidity was 90%; it didn’t feel that humid. Ran south on the river road trail, past the falls, under to mustache bridge, near the old statue of Longfellow (is it Longfellow, or someone else? I can’t remember now) and over to Longfellow Gardens. Beautiful fall flowers. My favorites: purple cylinder-shaped ones and some bright pink ones that almost looked like zinnias but not quite. I stopped to walk through the flowers and noticed about a dozen people with cameras — a class? a photography group?
The falls were almost completely dry. Running on the path above then, close to the road, I heard a voice call out, echo! echo! Maybe someone walked on the dry creek to under the bridge?
Running south: no headphones Running after the falls: playlist, Bruno Mars
10 Things I Noticed
no water in the creek, just rocks
clear, cloudless, bright blue sky
the faint outline of the moon
the dribble dribble sound of water trickling down the limestone in the park
the recently re-paved (2 or 3 years ago?) path below the mustache bridge is already puckering in places — what causes that?
a woman speaking to another woman while walking near the falls, It’s beautiful! She’s lucky to live here.
more slashes of red and orange, no slashes of yellow — yellow comes in splotches, not slashes, I think
the smallest sliver of sparkling river through the trees
all the benches were empty
lots of construction sounds on edmund, near Dowling Elementary — jack hammers, rumbling bobcats
Here’s a poem I found on twitter this morning. I’d like to read more of Swenson’s work.
It is a rare night down along the river, a sheet of glass repeating “I am water.” The lights upon it do not dance, but strike and go down forever. This river has forgotten the way to the sea, it will wander the earth like a liquid sleepwalker stopping people on the street and asking, “have I arrived?”
4.6 miles franklin bridge and back 64 degrees / humidity: 87%
note: as I write this entry, at my desk in the front, a fly keeps dive-bombing me. I think it might be the same fly that harassed me early this morning while I was drinking my coffee. Argh!
Dark this morning. Looked like it might rain; it didn’t. This sort of light makes everything look even darker and dreamier to me. Ran north on the river road trail to just under the Franklin Bridge. Stopped to walk back up the half of franklin hill that was left. Put in Renaissance and ran south. The trail was crowded, but not too irritating. Saw evidence of rowers — walking up from the rowing club — but no voices down below or shells in the water. Encountered a few roller skiers. I don’t think I heard their poles clacking at all. Heard some shrieking blue jays. No geese. No big running groups. No Dave, the Daily Walker or Mr. Morning. I did cross paths with Daddy Long Legs,
leaf watch, fall 2022
Some golden trees between franklin and seabury — I think Scott’s favorite tree might have turned yellow. More slashes of red and orange. Things are speeding up now. Full color by the beginning of October?
image of the day
I think I’ve mentioned this image sometime in the past — heading up the second half of the franklin hill, the stretch after the bridge but before the top, the trees on either side frame the sky in such a way that it looks like the shape of the Mississippi River. Very cool to see and to imagine everything upside down, with the sky as river, the ground as sky.
The fly continues to bother me. Bzzzzzz….bzz..bzz..bzzzzzzzzzz
Speaking of a fly, it’s hard to believe that I haven’t posted this ED poem before — update, 9 jan 2023: I did post it already. On march 15, 2021.
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air – Between the Heaves of Storm –
The Eyes around – had wrung them dry – And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset – when the King Be witnessed – in the Room –
I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away What portion of me be Assignable – and then it was There interposed a Fly –
With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz – Between the light – and me – And then the Windows failed – and then I could not see to see –
With a loved one nearing death and the 13th anniversary of my beloved mom’s death at the end of the month and falling leaves and winter coming, I’m thinking about transformation and decay and things passing away. Speaking of decay, I saw a tweet a few days ago about IDK and how it both stands for I Don’t Know and I Decay.
4 miles minnehaha falls and back 66 degrees / drizzle
Checked the weather app on my watch: 0% chance of rain. Ha! A few minutes in, a few drops, then a soft, steady drizzle for the rest of the run. Who cares? I barely felt it, or could barely tell the difference between drops of rain and drops of sweat.
Ran to the falls. No roar or rush, just a trickle. I doubt this short rain will help.
Stopped to look at the falls at my favorite spot, near the former fountain where Longellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha” is etched into the stone wall. The falls were hidden behind green. Instead, I noticed a few dartig birds. I think they were blue — blue is a very difficult color for me to see.
Started running again while listening to Renaissance.
quick life update for future Sara to remember: with very little warning, trying to figure out nursing homes and finances for elderly parents. A kid who is struggling with anxiety and depression and high school (which are connected but not necessarily in a causal way) — not wanting to go to school, but also not wanting to miss out.
5.6 miles the flats and back 62 degrees / humidity: 80%
Fall running. Still wearing my summer attire — shorts and a tank top — but it felt cooler, easier. I ran 3 miles, all the way down the franklin hill and into the flats, then turned around at the steps. Ran below, right by the river, on the uneven path until I reached 3.3 miles. Walked up about half of the hill. Put in Beyoncé’s Renaissance and ran most of the way back.
Fairly early into the run, I realized that my eyes were drawn to things in the bottom of my periphery. All things on the ground: changing leaves, bright blue tarps, wildflowers.
10 Things I Noticed
a green glow
slashes of red near my feet
the strong smell of urine at a spot somewhere between the franklin and lake st bridges
a big white tarp next the trash can near the WPA sign and the lake street bridge
more goldenrod
a lone goose up in the sky, honking
an old car, puttering behind me, sounding like a rickity bike. I thought it was a bike, until it passed me
Mr. Unicycle! As I neared the franklin hill, I saw him powering up the hill on his one-wheeled bike
a runner ahead of me, running on the white line that divides the bike and walking paths. 2 fast bikers, speeding down the hill, swerving wide to avoid him
4 or 5 stones stacked on the ancient boulder. The top one bigger than the rest — nice balance!
5, or is just 4?, stones stacked on the ancient boulder.
It’s not that much cooler than some summer days. And, I’m wearing my summer running stuff. Yet, you can tell fall is almost here (or is already here?). How? What makes the difference? I love this poem by W.S. Merwin that I first posted a few years ago for giving some answers:
When you are already here you appear to be only a name that tells of you whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though you are still summer still the high familiar endless summer yet with a glint of bronze in the chill mornings and the late yellow petals of the mullein fluttering on the stalks that lean over their broken shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know that you have come the seed heads of the sage the whispering birds with nowhere to hide you to keep you for later
you who fly with them
you who are neither before nor after you who arrive with blue plums that have fallen through the night
perfect in the dew
Looked up mullein. It grows in Minnesota. Have I seen it? Possibly, I can’t quite tell.
a possible exercise: Go out for a run in early fall, when it still seems like summer. How do you know fall is coming/here?
quality of the light, a softer glow
slashes of red
kids biking to school
goldenrod
busy squirrels
geese
I feel a little stuck on the poem about my love of choppy water and the fun of punching the waves that I’ve been working on, without much progress, for the last week. Why do I like doing this? It’s not out of agression or frustration or grief. I’m not trying to hurt myself or break something. It’s about using/working my body, testing my strength, spending some energy. During the run, I had a thought: it’s not an expression of power, but of belief — belief in strong shoulders and my ability to hit a wall and not fall. Later, after I turned on the music, the song “Energy,” came on. Listening to the lyrics, I thought about how energy fits in with punching waves. I decided that when I got back from my run, I’d look up the lyrics and think about them some more. Beyoncé’s energy is a bit different than mine, but it is helping me to think more broadly about what the term could mean.
Energy/ Beyoncé
On stage rockin’, I’m stir crazy Coco flow like 1980s Come, let’s tell a drop lazy None of that maybe energy (nah) Energy Energy Just vibe Votin’ out forty-five Don’t get outta line (yeah) Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh Pick a side Only double lines we cross is dollar signs (yeah) Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh (hold up) Wait, I hear you just got paid Make it rain energy She more Cancun, he more St. Tropez Big wave in the room, the crowd gon’ move Look around everybody on mute Look around it’s me and my crew Big energy He was on stop mode, got froze Froze front page Vogue, no pose Chat too much, full clip unload That’s that Kodak energy Energy Energy Energy Yeah, yeah Gold links, raw denim You know that we do it grande You know that I’m gon’ be extra When that camera go pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop Keep ’em waitin’ like dot-dot-dot-dot-dot-dot Ooh, la, la, la That’s the way them boys sound when I walk through the block-block-block Then I Uzi that doozy, shot-shot-shot We was chillin’, mindin’ our business Poppin’ our pain and champagne through the ceiling Sippin’ it up, flickin’ it up All this good energy got you all in your feelings, feelings I’m crazy, I’m swearin’ I’m darin’, your man starin’ I just entered the country with Derringers ‘Cause them Karens just turned into terrorists You was on stop mode, got froze Froze front page Vogue, no pose Chat too much, full clip unload That’s that Kodak energy (go, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go) Energy Energy (go, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go) Energy Yeah, yeah
no maybe energy, vital, alive, extra, not frozen or stopped, less talk more action
A fine fall morning. For most of the run, I didn’t listen to anything — not sure I remember any sounds from the gorge. For the last mile, I put in headphones and listened to Taylor Swift’s 1989. My knees ache a little, not like they’re injured, just sore from use. Could it partly be because of slightly cooler weather?
10 Things I Noticed
2 bikers on the road near the start of my run — 1 adult, 1 kid. My guess: a kid biking to Dowling Elementary School with his dad
running above the oak savanna, a green glow as the sun streamed through the leaves of the trees lining the trail
the ravine near the double bridge looked extra leafy and green
the river, viewed from the ford bridge on the downtown side, was a beautiful blue and empty
the sidewalk at the end of the bridge was under construction. Right now, it’s all dirt
a few kids skating at the new skate park on the land that was the site of the ford plant
the river, viewed from the ford bridge on the locks and dam no. 1 side, was still and high? — I couldn’t quite tell, but it looked like it had partly flooded the small island in the middle
the locks and dam no. 1 is closed — carp invasion, I think. I didn’t see/hear the gushing water down the conrete apron
no turkeys in turkey hollow
no roller skiers or loud birds or darting squirrels or rowers or fat tires
a new regular
For a few months, I’ve noticed an older white man with white hair and a white beard (at least, I think he has a beard), using a walker when I run south on the river road. Sometimes he’s using the walker to help him walk pretty swiftly along the trail, and sometimes he’s using it as a chair. Today, we was sitting. We greeted each other as I ran by. He’s a friendly guy. It makes me happy to see him out there, continuing to walk with a walker, enjoying the beautiful trail. I think I’ll call him Mr. Walker.
I tried to think about my latest poem, but I got too distracted, I guess. No new words or ideas.
Here’s another poem from Tanis Rideout’s Arguments with the Lake. O, her last verse!
excerpt from Shirley As Drowned Ophelia/ Tanis Rideout
Though in the Lake are visions — submerged forests of blossoming myriophyllum. I was cuaght half-remembered in early morning darkness and a web of pondweed that withered all when fathers died.
O, the Lake. The only thing that kept me afloat was what I thought was on the other side.
5.25 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 64 degrees / drizzle
Rain today. On and off. When I started, it wasn’t raining, but in the middle of my run, drizzle. It was hard to tell because I was sweating and wearing a baseball cap. A good run. I was overdressed, with my pink jacket on. When I got to the bottom of the Franklin hill, I took it off and wrapped it around my waist.
Running down the hill I chanted,
Here I go down the hill Here I go down the hill Here I go down the hill Watch me fly!
Listened to all the sounds in the gorge running north, a Bruno Mars Apple Essential playlist on the return trip south.
10 Things I Noticed
a stinky sewer smell — not near the ravine, but down in the tunnel of trees
a tower of stacked stones on the ancient boulder
the coxswain instructing the rowers
a rushing sound — either the wind through the leaves or water sprinkling out of the seeps and springs and sewer pipes
so much goldenrod this year! golden yellow flowers everywhere. I wonder if that’s what’s causing Delia the dog’s itchiness?
the leaves are starting to turn, mostly yellow, a few streaks of red
park workers in their orange vests, their truck parked on the path — trimming trees?
such an intense smell of pot as I ran by the lake street bridge porta potty
the smell of cigarette smoke below the franklin st bridge
I think the river was more brown than blue and it was gently moving
In the fall of 2018 (thanks past Sara for writing the date in the front of the book!), I bought Tanis Rideout’s book of poems, Arguments with the Lake. Working on my latest poem, about fighting with the lake, I decided to revisit it. Here’s one of the poems:
Shirley, Midlake/ Tanis Rideout
Hearts are bred to beat one billion times in an elephant or in a mouse — mathematically simple difference of beats per minute. Unlucky us with two billion more, slowed by the hibernetic slumber of escape or blessedly sped by panic, pain, a six a.m. jog around the block turning, always turning, clockwise. By love, by sex. By want. So simple to be a fish.
I’m always giving it away. With each stroke, flutter, catch, kick and the surging need to inhale, inhale, inhale, like I’ve never taken a breath before.
The lake tries to soothe and slow, creeps cold into core, slips into the sheltered bays of lungs, the hidden rivers around the heart. It’s a fair exchange — beats per pleasure. For pain. Each of us is allotted the strikes of the heart. I’m using mine, arguing with the Lake.
5.9 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 70 degrees / humidity: 95% 8:45 am
Back to warmer, more humid, mornings. Did my new regular routine with this route: run just beyond the bottom of the franklin hill, turn around, walk up the hill, put on a playlist, begin running again, much faster, at the top.
I don’t remember what I thought about as I ran. I started noticing my breathing pattern: 1 2 3 4 breathe. Then near the top of Franklin, I started chanting, 54321/54321/54321/123. And then, I changed the rhythm slightly and came up with words:
Here I go down the hill Here I go down the hill Here I go down the hill Watch me fly.
To remember it, I decided to pull out my phone and recite it mid-flight down the hill:
chant, 7 sept
10 Things I Remember From My Run
Reaching the bottom of the hill, the water was flat and still. No rowers or waves.
I startled a squirrel as I ran by their hiding place in the brush.
A group of women — I didn’t see them, only heard their voices — climbing the stone steps by the trestle.
A unicycle biking up the steep Franklin hill! I noticed them after the turn-off to go above, so they might have only started there, but I like to imagined this biker biked all the way from the bottom on a unicycle. What a feat!
That same unicycle encountering a skateboarder heading down the hill.
A sewer smell, coming up from the ravine.
Sweat dripping off of my face in big drops.
The buzz of cicadas, the hum of the traffic on the I-94 bridge and the river road
Saying Good morning! in my head to the Welcoming Oaks and out loud to an older jogger.
Noticing the goldenrod lining the path as I walked up the hill.
Speaking of goldenrod, as I noticed the golden flowers on the edge of the trail and wondered if they were goldenrod or something else, I remembered Maggie Smith’s poem “Goldenrod” and decided I should memorize it. I also thought about Robin Wall Kimmerer and her chapter on Asters and Goldenrod.
4.4 miles bottom of franklin hill and back 60 degrees 9:00 am
Fall is coming. The air, a little cooler. The trees, a little more yellow. I’m still sad about swimming ending, but I’m happy to have more time to run. Ran north on the river road trail all the way to the bottom of the franklin hill and then turned around. Ran up it all the way to the top, then stopped for a few minutes to walk and put it in my headphones (listened to Beyoncé’s Renaissance).
Heading north, I heard the rowers and the mid-range voice of a coxswain — not a low voice, and not a high one either. Not sure if I’ve heard this coxswain before. Also heard the clicking of a roller skier’s poles and the awkward shifting of a bike’s gears.
Passed a runner in black with a white sweatshirt tied around their waist. Something about the sweatshirt transfixed me. It seemed to take forever to pass them as I stared blankly at the white of their sweatshirt.
The river down in the flats was moving in the breeze. The sun was frequently behind the clouds.
Encountered a few lunging dogs, a darting squirrel.
Overheard 2 bikers talking. Tried to listen, but all I could make out was, that must have been 300 minutes! Huh?
Here’s the latest version of my poem about the light and the waves in the lake. I’m happy with it, but as I listened to a recording of myself reciting it I thought, so many of my poems are serious and somber! It made me think that I should try writing about this experience from a more playful perspective. Can I, or am I too serious of a person? Here’s the draft:
Love (tentative title)/ Sara Puotinen
Hands slice through water ripples catch light sun surface swimmers converge into chorus. Listen, their notes of shimmer & shine sing to you. Each point of contact between lake and finger and light an over here, this way, you’re not alone. As your body breaks surface stroke after stroke, it sings along.
Walking back, after the run, I started thinking about the little girl, with the same name (and spirit) as my daughter, that I encountered at the end of an open swim one day. The image that lingers: her mischevious look after calling out a made-up Help! I’d like to write about her and a few of the other women I encountered in the water this summer. I wish I could remember more of these women. Maybe I’ll try?
