Sun! Sharp shadows. Blue sky. The river burning white — wow! Rushing falls. A leaf-littered slope down to the river. A clear view across. Crowded trails, mostly walkers. At least one roller skier. People emerging from the oak savanna near the big rock shaped like an armchair. A little kid on a bike in the parking lot. The usual smell of smoke coming from some house on edmund or from the gorge; every fall/winter I can’t quite tell. My ponytail forcefully swinging in the wind. I don’t remember hearing any birds or dodging any squirrels. Where are the geese?
I also don’t remember what I thought about. I wanted to work through a part of my poem about progress and conservation of matter and the entanglement of decay/rusting/softening of the gorge and my shifting eyesight. But, if I did, I can’t remember.
This Kay Ryan poem was the poem of the day on Poetry Foundation:
Surfaces serve their own purposes, strive to remain constant (all lives want that). There is a skin, not just on peaches but on oceans (note the telltale slough of foam on beaches). Sometimes it’s loose, as in the case of cats: you feel how a second life slides under it. Sometimes it fits. Take glass. Sometimes it outlasts its underside. Take reefs.
The private lives of surfaces are innocent, not devious. Take the one-dimensional belief of enamel in itself, the furious autonomy of luster (crush a pearl— it’s powder), the whole curious seamlessness of how we’re each surrounded and what it doesn’t teach.
Moist this morning. Wet sidewalk, wet leaves, wet air. Something was squeaking — my shoes on the leaves or the leaves on my shoes? Only one stone on the boulder, looking lonely and flat. The black stocking cap I mentioned yesterday was still there on the pole. Today I remembered that it was above the old stone steps. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker with a good morning Dave!, greeted Daddy Long Legs with a wave. He was with his walking partner again. Smiled and gave a head nod to another walker who I think I’ve mentioned before. They always wear a long skirt with tights, and most of the year, a blue puffer jacket. They have gray hair in a long braid. I looked it up, and when I wrote about them before (26 jan 2024), I described them as wearing a dress and tentatively named them, All Dressed Up.
Anything else? I’m pretty sure I looked at the river, but I don’t remember what I saw. No fat tires or roller skiers or geese — where are all the geese? — or turkeys. More YELLOW leaves, falling fast. Some sour sewer smells, puddles, empty benches.
I listed to squeaking leaves and thudding feet as I ran north, then my Color playlist returning south: “Not Easy Bein’ Green,” “Roxanne,” “Mellow Yellow,” and “Let’s Go Crazy.” Speakig of color, I discovered this excellent color poem yesterday afternoon:
There’s a rumor of light that any dark starts off as. Plato speaks here and there of colors, but only once, I think, does he break them down into black and white, red, and a fourth color. By then they’d reached for California high country where, knowing none of the names for all the things that grew there, they
began to make names up. But to have trained an animal to come just a bit closer because here, here’s blood, doesn’t mean you’ve tamed it. Trans- lations vary for what Plato calls his fourth color: what comes closest to a combination of (since they aren’t the same) radiant and bright–what shifting water does,
with light? Violence burnishes the body, sometimes, though we call it damage, not burnishing, more its opposite, a kind of darkness, as if to hide the body, so that what’s been
done to it might, too, stay hidden, the way meaning can, for years, until some pattern by which to trace it at last emerges. There’s a rumor of light.
I need to give more time to this poem; there’s so much I don’t quite get. But I love the discussion of Plato and color and what shifting water does to light.
November! A day for singing a song of gray. A pale, sunless sky, some wind, lots of bare branches. The tree outside my window and a few others by the gorge were YELLOW! Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker — hey Dave! Almost tripped on a few rocks on the dirt path next to the trail on the east side. Admired the waves from the bridges: from ford, little scales and from lake, a slight current down the center — from a sandbar? Heard a chickadee — chick a dee dee dee dee — and the constant grumbling of the city beneath everything.
Thought about different time scales and how time works for me while I’m running — encountering memories of past Saras, echoing their movements. Imagining the gorge before Cleveland created the Grand Rounds, before Longfellow was a neighborhood, before the gorge was a gorge. Having no idea how much time had passed — never hearing the bells of St. Thomas or looking at my watch. Having no memory of small stretches of the trail — being lost in a thought or the motion or my effort.
10 Things
the fast slapping of a runner’s feet passing me from behind
the clear open view from a bluff on the east side of the river, looking over to the west side
3 stacked stones on the boulder
a black stocking cap placed on the top of a pole beside the trail
the frantic bark of a dog, bothered by a nearby leaf blower
the barricades blocking the sidewalk in front of Governor Walz’ house
the ravine near Shadow Falls, mostly yellow from leaves on trees and the ground
voices from below, near Longfellow flats beach
a sour sewer smell near the Monument
a man call out a command — drop it! — to his dog near the south entrance of the winchell trail
While looking for something else, I came across this beautiful poem by Minnesota’s first indigenous poet laureate, Dr. Gwen Westerman:
2 miles edmund south/river road, north 45 degrees / drizzle
Election day. Read an accurate description of how today feels: like we all are waiting for the results from a biopsy. I’m hopeful.
Did a quick 2 miles with Scott before the rain started. Throughout we felt drizzle but it wasn’t until we reached our alley that it began to rain. Everything gray and heavy. Most of the leaves on the trees have fallen — except for the one in front of our house — full and green. We talked about a color video that Scott had just watched. Texture and wine dark seas and having no names for blue but many for green were discussed.
My favorite view: bare trees means more open air and the other side visible! I admired the tree line on the east side of the river. It gave off the feeling of being a straight line stretching across. Of course, nothing is completely straight for me; it’s all approximation.
10 Things
a cluster of headlights — stuck behind a slow-moving street sweeper
a thick trunk pushing through the bottom of the fence above the ravine
running past Dowling, hearing faint laughter from kids somewhere
the water was a blueish-gray, the sky almost all white with gray smudges
stopping at the overlook, noticing how uneven and slanted the paving blocks have become
a house on the corner, all black or dark green or dark something, no contrasting trim, difficult for me to see anything but a hulking shape or a dark void, absent of color
running past a water fountain and wondering if it was still turned on
the welcoming oaks have lost all of their leaves
passing above the savanna, seeing something white below — was it a hiker in a white shirt or the information sign?
something remembered from yesterday: the sound of chainsaws in the savanna
Working on a section of my haunts poem tentatively titled, And. It’s inspired by a line from the first section: a gap grew/between girl and world. I realized that the and here is the gorge, and it’s more than a gap; it’s the place that be/holds girl ghost here there now then water stone. It’s also the absence around which I orbit. It’s not empty but filled with open air and possibility. Anyway, I was reminded of a Community clip from Troy and Abed:
Here I’m reading Troy’s and as making more space for the story Abed is telling. I love how Donald Glover delivers the ands.
I’m also thinking about this bit from a wonderful Maggie Smith poem:
If I list everything I love
about the world, and if the list is long and heavy enough,
I can lift it over and over— repetitions, they’re called, reps—
to keep my heart on, to keep the dirt off. Let’s begin
with bees, and the hum, and the honey singing
on my tongue, and the child sleeping at last, and, and, and—
I overdressed this morning in a long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, tights and gloves. The sun was warmer than I thought. Most of the leaves are off the trees and on the ground. The ravine near Shadow Falls was a beautiful rusty red. The thin creek running through it shimmered in spots.
It helped to get outside and be beside the gorge. It’s an exhausting time. Both of my kids are supposed to be in college this semester, neither of them are. They are each working on their mental health. It’s hard to see them suffer. On top of that, the impending election is terrifying. While I ran, I forgot about all of this.
10 Things
the bells of St. Thomas tolling twelve times as I crested the Summit hill
2 small bowls on a neighbor’s front steps, filled with full-sized reese’s peanut butter cups
a man walking a dog listening to talk radio without headphones — I couldn’t tell if it was about politics or sports
water falling softly from shadow falls
the river from lake street bridge: gray, rippled, a shimmering line of light near the east shore
a graffitied port-a-potty with the jar very slightly ajar — was it open, or was the door unable to fully close?
the trees on the west side of the river near locks and dam no. 1 were bare and a fuzzy brown
the sudden start of sirens close by — a fire truck coming up the hill from the locks
the stinky mulch that had been piled on the edge of the path was gone
an opening on the bluff — what a view of the river and the other side!
A quick run after getting my flu and COVID shot and before taking FWA to an eye exam. Another beautiful, warm morning. Everything yellow and crunchy. The Winchell trail was crowded with hikers admiring the leaves and the view. Heard kids on the playground. Smelled the sour sewer. Felt the soft sand. The theme of the morning: leaves. Brittle leaves covering the trail, making it harder to see roots or rocks. Fluttering leaves falling from the trees. Absent leaves giving me a better view of the other side. And that sound! Before starting my run, yellow locust leaves near the curb sizzled after a car drove by. A few blocks later, a cluster of leaves — or was it a plastic bag? — crackled and crunched in the slight wind.
Near Folwell, after climbing the short, steep hill, I stopped to record a few lines for the next section of my poem. The section is called Nobody and it’s about bells and mom-ghosts and dead cone cells.
In the gray morning the few cone cells that remain are starved for light, everything lacks form — no edges, no bodies, just blurs
Here’s a beautiful poem I encountered this morning. I’m adding it to my collection of dirt/dust poems.
We mourn the broken things, chair legs wrenched from their seats, chipped plates, the threadbare clothes. We work the magic of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes. We save what we can, melt small pieces of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones for soup. Beating rugs against the house, we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie. I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog, listen for passing cars. All day we watch for the mail, some news from a distant place.
It’s 14 lines. Is it a sonnet? Is there a volta? Is it the dust, lit like stars?
Peak fall this morning. Orange! Yellow! Red! Made even more vibrant by the gray sky. Wow! I felt strong and relaxed and dreamy. No sharp lines, everything soft and fuzzy and dissolving into the gray. It was dark enough for street lamps and headlights. Heard the rowers and the clicking and clacking of a roller skier in a bright yellow shirt, a squirrel cracking a nut. Smelled the sewer. Felt a few raindrops at the very end. Crossing the ford bridge, the tree line was oranges, yellows, reds on the st. paul side, but still a lot of green on the minneapolis side.
These days I move from room to room looking for a thing to haunt. The filaments inside my teeth glow in the dark, thirty-two beacons no one will see, except the mirror I return to again and again, hoping for it to swallow me, to find anything there but my face. Mirror is another word for hunger. Hunger is another word for dead. Anyone would be tired of hearing from me, the kind of woman — this repulsive word — who’ll never have a garden or greenhouse, only a fridge crisper full of broccoli and kale and lettuce, all rotting to sludge, bananas on the counter blackening like frostbitten skin. I used to quarter an apple with such perfection I could have been autopsying my own heart. The thing is there’s no way out of this house. Memory circles like flies. Even the dead need to eat. Even the dead dream. I left a note in the memory: You deserve so much more than desire.
5 miles bottom franklin hill and back 50 degrees / humidity: 75%
In 4 days, I’ll be running the marathon! Today’s run was mostly fine; my left hip was a little tight, but I think it will be okay. Otherwise I was relaxed. It was cool, but humid, so I sweat a lot. For several of the miles I chanted in triple berries: strawberry / blueberry / raspberry. For the last mile, I put on my metronome, set to 175, and synched up my feet. So cool! When I lock in with the center of the beat, I know it. I become the beat, or my feet become the sound of the beat. I feel a soft buzz throughout my legs that spreads to the back of my head. I am running without effort — not floating, but bouncing off the ground. I wasn’t locked in the whole time. Sometimes I was ahead of it or behind because I got distracted by another runner, but when I locked in again, bzzzzzzz. I might try putting on the metronome during a later mile of the marathon, if I need some focusing and motivation to keep going.
10 Things
rowers! running north, the coxswain’s voice seemed to be following me
music coming from a bike — I think it was a song by Regina Spektor, but I’m not sure — I almost called out, hey! are you listening to Regina Spektor? I love Regina Spektor
greeted Mr. Holiday — good morning!
more red leaves, some yellow
someone in running shorts standing beside the porta potty. Were they waiting — to use it, for a friend?
a line-up cars — maybe 10 — behind a car turning left onto 32nd
a biker zooming by — fast! — with a kid in a trailer
under the franklin bridge, looking up at an opening above — not for the first time, I thought someone might be staying up there, but I can’t see well, so I could be wrong, and could anyone climb up to it — it’s 15-20 feet up?
running through the dark tunnel of trees, looking ahead and seeing an opening: bright, white, glowing
The moon will shine for God knows how long. As if it still matters. As if someone is trying to recall a dream. Believe the brain is a cage of light & rage. When it shuts off, something else switches on. There’s no better reason than now to lock the doors, the windows. Turn off the sprinklers & porch light. Save the books for fire. In darkness, we learn to read what moves along the horizon, across the periphery of a gun scope— the flicker of shadows, the rustling of trash in the body of cities long emptied. Not a soul lives in this house & this house & this house. Go on, stiffen the heart, quicken the blood. To live in a world of flesh & teeth, you must learn to kill what you love, & love what can die.
I want to think more about how darkness and light work in this poem, and the last line about killing what you love and loving what can die.
Finally, fall weather! Wore my bright orange sweatshirt today, which was too warm during the last mile. Ran above on the paved trail heading south, below on the Winchell trail heading north. Sunny, breezy, cool, dreamy. Tree shadows. My left hip was a little sore, but otherwise I felt strong and relaxed. I chanted Emily Dickinson for part of the run: life is but life/ and death but death/ bliss is but bliss/ and breath but breath then life is life/death is death/bliss is bliss/breath is breath then life life life life/death death death death/bliss bliss bliss bliss/breath breath breath breath.
Thought about the marathon and how long it’s been since I ran on the winchell trail and FWA and My Neighbor Totoro, which Scott and I watched last night. Also thought about zombies, which is my theme for October. Mostly I thought about bodies without minds and feeling like you’re trapped in a body and soul-less, indifferent, relentless bodies.
10 Things
heading down to the Horace Cleveland Overlook, I was blinded by a circle of light on the river — so bright! impossible to see anything else
the sharp crack of a squirrel opening an acorn
kids on the playground — laughing, yelling
water trickling out of the sewer pipe at 44th
a few more slashes of red, a golden feeling*
the surface of the winchell trail is in terrible condition — cracked, slanted, cratered
bikers on a bench, taking a snack break
a woman on the narrow winchell trail with a dog, off to the side and facing me, talking on a phone I couldn’t see, saying something about walking after 60
someone sitting on the bench in a blue shirt near the overlook
big trees on the ground, cut into sections and stacked beside the trail
*For the past few weeks, I’ve been seeing trees turning yellow everywhere, but when I mention it to Scott he says that they look perfectly green to him, not yellow at all. Since my color vision is questionable, I’ll take his word for it. I’ve decided to believe that I’m seeing the yellow that is coming, or the slightest idea — the inkling — of yellow that has arrived but only as a feeling or the whisper, yellow. This morning, as I stood at the kitchen counter, about to make my coffee, I noticed the reflection of my neighbor’s tree on the granite countertop. Yellow! Wow, I said to myself out loud, has that tree turned when I wasn’t looking? I looked out the window and checked the real tree: a golden feeling, but nothing more.
Another gold/en thing: Admiring the sun spilling through the treetops, feeling the crisper air, W.S. Merwin’s line from “To the Light of August” popped into my head: Still the high, familiar, endless summer, yet with a glint of bronze in chill mornings. I thought, not bronze, but gold.
some marathon experiments
During and after my run, I had 2 ideas for things to try while running 26.2 miles. First: pick 26 poems I’ve memorized to recite in my head as I run. One for each mile. The problem with this idea is not memorizing all the poems. I’ve already done that. The problem is remembering which poems I picked and for which mile! I imagined attempting to write a list on my arm, which seemed ridiculous and too unruly.
Second: for each mile, notice things that begin with one particular letter. Do this in alphabetical order. So, mile 1 = a, mile 2 = b, etc. I could also make a list of as many words that start with that letter as possible. This experiment might be fun, but it could also get tedious.
In addition to these experiments, I’ve been thinking that I need a mantra and/or a few lines from favorite poems to chant in difficult moments or when I want to be distracted. Yes! I’ll have to make a list today. Of course, ED’s life/death/bliss/breath is on this list!
zombies!
Today is the first day of Zombie month! I’m excited to explore this topic, which I don’t know that much about. Since the marathon is this Sunday and I’m also thinking a lot about that, I’ll ease into zombies this week.
When I think of zombies, I think: relentless, indifferent, hungry, mindless, brainless bodies. And this makes me think of Jaws as a relentless killing machine. Here’s a great poem I found on poetryfoundation:
I don’t realize I’m starved for the color until the blood
washes up on the beach. I’m craving red but still
haven’t seen the creature, just the quick whip and slither
of its tail in the wake —and then there I am,
facing the skin side of the animatronic shark.
The slick apertures of its eyes. The mythic teeth.
The anvil nose beating the deck, cracking windows.
The shark, like the moon, is pockmarked, unstoppable,
never showing its hidden side. Surely space is just another underwater,
the messages we send from satellites a bleeding haze of infrared:
This is my blood type, this is where I keep my body at night,
and I tell no one about the times my body, taking over,
stands waist-deep in the surf, some wild need inside me
ticking into place.
The slick apertures of its eyes. Yes — Jaws’ eyes are the worst: huge, empty, black. Is much made of zombies’ eyes? Anything distinctive, or do they just look dead and empty?