Ran with Scott. Cold, windy but sunny. Lots of wonderful shadows — ours, trees, lamp posts. Running across the lake street bridge at the end, the railing shadows made a cool pattern on the sidewalk. Combined with the breath-taking (at least for Scott) wind, it created a strange, untethered effect. Felt like I was floating or hovering or moving without touching ground. I asked Scott how he experienced it, and he said he was too focused on avoiding all of the groups of people approaching us on the bridge. Also seen on the bridge: a flyer posted on several of the posts that read “Killed by Israel.” I suggested to Scott that it should read, “Killed by the Israeli government.”
Found this poem the other day and it makes me think of how often I mistake one thing for something else as I run around the gorge:
I have to think about the ending some more — what does it mean to me? — but for now, what I like about this poem are the opening lines and the idea that other people also think they’re seeing dead animals when they’re actually seeing something else. I often think I’m seeing dead squirrels, when it’s actually a furry hat or a glove. These mistakes don’t make so sad or produce excess grief, just confusion and uncertainty and a little bit of morbid fascination.
I just realized what it means to me — the you is us, her readers. And she’s right, she is giving it to us, not as a burden to bear, but as an experienced shared. I love that about poetry, how you can write or read a poem and feel less alone, (a little) more understood.
3 miles under ford bridge and back 55 degrees wind: 20mph
Almost too warm and definitely too windy. The wind doesn’t bother me like it used to, but this wind was tough. I ran straight into it heading south. One nice thing: it pushed me along in the second half. I wore shorts and by the end of my run I had taken off my sweatshirt and pushed up my short sleeves. Bare legs and bare arms in the middle of November. Strange and disorienting.
10 Wind Things
leaf shards in my eyes
holding onto my hat so it wouldn’t blow away
being pushed to the edge of the trail
a roar in my ears
swirling leaves above me, below me, to the side of me
squaring my shoulders, leaning in as the wind pushed me back
a sudden gust from the side
knocking my ankles together
shaking, swaying trees
more sizzle than howl
I didn’t hear any geese or notice what the wind was doing to the river. I might have seen my shadow; I almost remember. Encountered some other runners, bikers, and a roller skier.
I listened to the wind until I reached the ford bridge, then I stopped and put in an old playlist: “Landslide,” “Cheap Thrills,” “Sorry,” and “Love is a Battlefield.”
I came across Wendy Xu’s “Absolute Variations” today and I wanted to make note of the first few lines. What a way to start a poem!
The first time I read a line by John Ashbery was in a little café in Massachusetts, from left to right There it was written across my friend’s collarbone It felt right to be there with someone who would show me something like that when we had never met before
I appreciate how she never explicitly names the Ashbery lines. I suppose if you know a lot of Ashbery’s poems, it’s obvious, but I don’t, so it isn’t to me. But that’s okay; it could be fun trying to find them, and it’s not necessary to know them to enjoy the poem. I think her refusal to be explicit here is an example of trusting the reader to figure it out. I like that.
More excellent November weather! A solid, relaxed, non-stop (except for walking up the bridge steps) run. Greeted Dave, the Daily Walker and, later, another friendly runner — Hi! Admired the blue river and the occasional flash of red in the trees. Took deep breaths of fresh, cold air. Listened, without headphones, to the traffic and a chirping bird, rustling leaves and an alarm beeping somewhere.
10 Things
a clear view of the forest floor from above
so many green leaves still on the trees on the east side — light, glowing green
somber (or reverent?) wind chimes
smell 1: stinky, sour sewer gas, faint
smell 2: either skunk or weed, probably weed
smell 3: hot chocolate
bright yellow headlights from cars, cutting through the trees
some part of a machine scraping on a sidewalk somewhere in the distance
a tree that I thought might be a person until I saw it in my periphery: a tree with one branch holding a hat at head-height
a woman walker in bright orange pants
At the end of my run, I took a picture from the top of the hill, above the tunnel of trees, across from the ancient boulder:
a view to the river near the 35th street parking lot / 10 november 2023
I love this poem by Donika Kelly, and I love what magic she can do with words!
Nothing today hasn’t happened before: I woke alone, bundled the old dog into his early winter coat, watered him, fed him, left him to his cage for the day closing just now. My eye drifts to the buff belly of a hawk wheeling, as they do, in a late fall light that melts against the turning oak and smelts its leaves bronze. Before you left, I bent to my task, fixed in my mind the slopes and planes of your face; fitted, in some essential geography, your belly’s stretch and collapse against my own, your scent familiar as a thousand evenings. Another time, I might have dismissed as hunger this cataloguing, this fitting, this fixing, but today I crest the hill, secure in the company of my longing. What binds us, stretches: a tautness I’ve missed as a sapling, supple, misses the wind.
I love all the work the title does to set up the poem, how she describes it as watering the dog (and not giving the dog water), and these verbs: cataloging/fitting/fixing. My favorite sentence, and the reason I wanted to post this poem today, is this:
My eye drifts to the buff belly of a hawk wheeling, as they do, in a late fall light that melts against the turning oak and smelts its leaves bronze.
A late fall light that melts against the tree and smelts it leaves bronze? Wow. I want tp remember that line. I’d also like to find an example of it out by the gorge on my run today (I’m writing this bit before my run), but there’s no autumn sunlight today, just gray gray gray. I wonder, what does gray to those leaves?
during the run: I hoped to think about this question of what gray does to the leaves, but I got distracted, or maybe, it didn’t do much, at least not today. Most of the leaves were gold or orangish-brown, no shimmering or sizzling, just soft and flat.
Instead of thinking about what gray does to the leaves, I was thinking about some lines I’d like to add to my Haunts poem:
A girl runs four blocks to the gorge. She’s all muscle bone and breath, foot strikes and arm swings. The river and ghosts wait.
transcript: During the run I was thinking about ghosts and girls and the gorge. And I was thinking that what I’m really trying to convey is that there’s a heaviness and a solidness and a there-ness that is both good and too heavy. So there’s a desire to lighten up. What I want to do is convey the heaviness, so maybe using the word, “heavy,” heavy foot strikes. Then I was thinking of Lizzy McAlpine and her song, “all my ghosts.” And then I was thinking about how all these ghosts aren’t primarily a bad thing, but there are a few ghosts I struggle with more than others. I think the ghost of cancer is haunting me the most right now.
the chorus from McAlpine’s “all my ghosts”:
And all my ghosts were with me I know you felt them too Watchin’ as I started to get dizzy ‘Cause I hate all of my habits But I happen to love you I hope that’s true
another version of my lines:
A girl runs. She’s all muscle bone and breath, heavy foot falls and swinging arms. At the river her ghosts wait.
Ah, November! Ran through the neighborhood, past the kids playing outside at the church daycare, past the house that has a giant Packer’s flag hanging from their fence, past the window of the business where I watch myself run and wonder if the people inside are watching me watch myself, over the lake street bridge to the east side of the river. On the bridge, I passed a couple holding hands. A mile later, I passed another hand-holding couple. An unusual sighting, and twice. Ran up the long hill to the Monument, then beside the river until I reached the ford bridge. Stopped to take a picture on the bridge, then ran the rest of the way back with Taylor Swift and Olivia Rodrigo.
taken from the ford bridge / 8 november 2023taken, with some trepidation, over the railing of the ford bridge / 8 november 2023
10 Things
kids playing at the church daycare, several of them huddled at the fence, one of them (accidentally?) threw a ball over the side
blue water, some waves, a few streaks or trails from something
running above shadow falls, not sure if I was hearing it dripping or the wind through the trees
running up the summit hill, a stretch of lit street lamps lining the path, the amber lights glowing softly
noticing the gloom and the absence of my shadow as I ran around the ravine
wondering if I would get to hear the St. Thomas bells as I ran close to campus (nope)
chickadee dee dee
turkeys! I’m not quite sure, but I think they were hanging out in the grass, just past the ford bridge, before you head down the hill to the locks and dam
an unnaturally vibrant green on some of the leaves on the east side of the river — is this spring or late fall?
an intense smell of cinnamon shortly before reaching the ford bridge — where was it coming from? someone’s gum? a bush?
before the run
Last night during Scott’s South High Community Jazz Band rehearsal, when I sit and listen and work on poetry, I returned to Susan Tichy’s North | Rock | Edge. Wow! This morning, before my run, I’m thinking about the lines I read and an interview Tichy did for Terrain.
There’s also a sensory excitement in a sea-rock-light-wind-bird-flower-seal-seep-peat-rain-salt—oh look, there’s a whale!—environment that subsumes attention to any one thing into the press of the whole.
I love how she describes the environment and her idea of attention to the whole, not just to any one thing.
Rock blurs the categories of time and space by making time visible and place temporal. A poem uses both rest and motion to create a form, which can be seen and must be heard—as the Susan Howe epigraph says, fleeting and fixed. These poems, like many in Avalanche Path, have a surface texture of fragmentation, abrupt change, and brokenness metamorphized into a new whole, voiced in present time, human time. Nothing is still; nothing is uniform.
And here’s a wonderful bit from the first part of Tichy’s poem, 60 North|Arriving, Stand Still:
& here wind
elevates to a theory
of time : to not miss a single
wave’s decay, a verse
of coast becoming dearth
of certainty, to undefine
the edge as noun, dissolving
in the not unyielding mouth
of cliff : verse/reverse
from the root of turn :
wind-wave & swell
compounded to a single
force, broken
by the thing it breaks—
In the next section she offers this line, what place is not. The gorge as what place is not, or where place one was?
during the run
I think Tichy’s poem influenced my thoughts indirectly as I ran. I was thinking about a part of my Haunts poem I’m working on, particularly about how I am sometimes a girl, sometimes a ghost, and sometimes a gorge. Am I the gorge, I wondered as I started running. And as I ran over the lake street bridge I came up with an answer: yes. Later, when I reached to ford bridge, I stopped running to record some thoughts:
I am the gorge because the gorge is the remains, what is left behind, what continues to exist even as ground erodes, self erodes, vision erodes. The gorge, constantly shifting, but always there. The gorge is the eroded. Is the ghost the verb, the eroding? … I am also the gorge because I’m constantly leaving part of myself here and becoming this place and not just moving through the place, becoming the place.
3.5 miles river road, south/hill to Wabun/river road, north 41 degrees
Gray with a cold wind. I ran south, hoping to see the turkeys that Scott and I had encountered driving on the river road an hour before. No turkeys. Do I remember hearing or seeing any birds? I don’t think so. I do remember having to stutter step to avoid a squirrel darting out in front of me.
I ran past the double bridge to Locks and Dam no. 1, then up the hill to Wabun. What a view! It was steep, but it didn’t bother me. Ran past 2 people playing disc golf in the park.
Heard something or somebody rustling in the dry leaves below the double bridge — is that a white shirt I’m seeing? Possibly. Saw the flashing lights of the street sweepers, sweeping up leaves on the edge of the road. Also heard a teacher’s sharp whistle over at the school playground.
Today’s color palette: green, red, gold, blue, brown, and gray
overheard from one biker to another: So I just started rewatching Ted Lasso.
A nice run. Nothing felt sore or stiff — well, I guess there was one spot below my right shoulder blade that was a little sore, maybe from yesterday’s yoga? I could breathe and wasn’t anxious. Near the end I began chanting triple berries. I don’t remember having any deep thoughts or strange thoughts or curious thoughts — any thoughts? Thanked a pedestrian for moving over to the side of the trail. Tried to keep my cadence high, my footfalls quiet. Had to wipe my nose a few times on the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
I love these November runs — the colder temps with a dry path, a clear view to the other side, soft colors, less people on the trails.
At noon in the middle of a snowy field, the dry seedhead of a plant bends down and describes a perfect arc in the snow. It traces twin channels where two points of contact brush ice crystals back and forth in a wavering breeze. In that moment, it’s easy to see where the first geometers found their tools, how Newton articulated his first law of motion, and even how different human minds throughout history contributed to the development of the metronome (one of these belonging to an Arab poet-scholar from the ninth century whose name was given to a crater on the dark side of the moon). It’s a lot to take in on a quick walk with my husband and the dog before lunch, and there is simply no adequate way to mark its significance. A photo or even a quick video feel utterly lacking in the reverence that such a moment deserves. Instead we walk on and try to memorize nature’s urgent tattoo: look here, look at what I have to show you.
I often think about how limited language is in trying to capture what I observe/experience in a single moment while running by the gorge. I like how Forrest attempts to describe her quick walk before lunch with her husband and her dog, how she connects it with so much of the world beyond that moment and the place.
A little warmer today. Another beautiful run. What a view! Clear and through the trees to the river and the other side. I love November and its blues, grays, browns, and golds from a few trees still holding onto their leaves. I felt relaxed and strong — lungs and legs.
Listened to rustling leaves, striking feet, dripping ravines for the first 2 miles of the run. Put in Taylor Swift’s new version of 1989 for the last mile.
10 Things
a single leaf floating through the air, then down to the ground — was it brown or gold or green?
the steady dripping of water out of the sewer pipe
the smell of something burnt — toast? coffee? — but from a house or the gorge and not longfellow grill
a runner in a bright yellow shirt, running across the road, then through the grass below edmund, then onto the dirt trail in front of me
the steps down to the winchell trail are closed, with a chain across the railings, but I went around on the dirt path
the winchell trails was covered in yellow leaves
the roar of a chainsaw from across the gorge
kids’ voices from the playground at Minnehaha Academy
a biker on the walking trail where it dips below the road and hangs above the floodplain forest
a bright headlight from a bike, glowing in the grayish gloom
Through my little window, I see one day the entire bird, the next just a leeward wing, the next only a painful call, which, without the body, makes beautiful attachments by even attaching at all.
This poem reminds me of my own experiments in trying to determine how little information (especially visual data) I need in order to recognize or identify or be aware of the presence of some thing.
Poetry is not a Project
Two days ago, at the end of my entry, I posted about a pamphlet I was reading, Poetry is not a Project. I offered some notes from the first section, Habitus, and promised to do the rest in later entries. Here’s the rest. Instead of a lot of notes, I decided to condense it into a key passage from each section.
Poetry is Not a Project / Dorothy Lasky
Habitus
Poems are living things that grow from the earth into the brain, rather than things that are planted within the earth by the brain.
The road through a poem is a series of lines, like a constellation, all interconnected. Poems take place in the realm of chance, where the self and the universal combine, where life exists.
On the same site, Ugly Duckling Press, where I found Lasky’s pamphlet, I also found this chapbook, Almost Perfect Forms, in which the author creates the constellations out of ands and ors found in Dreams and Stones by Magdalena Tulli.
How We Write and What We Write For
Because poets make language and make language beautiful. Because beautiful language makes a new and beautiful world. Because poets live and make a new world, which beautiful language itself creates.
3 miles treadmill, basement 35 degrees / feels like 28 windy / earlier, snow
It snowed last night. Maybe 2 inches. I decided to run in the basement instead of going outside in the cold and the wind. While I ran I listened to a You Are Good episode about the horror movie, The Changeling. I’m not familiar with the movie but it’s on the horror movie puzzle we’re working on right now, so I was curious. Now I think I want to see it.
Not much to remember about my run. Can I think of 10 things?
Almost 10 Things
I forgot my headband and even though my hair was pulled back in a ponytail, stray hairs kept flying out and into my face. I think running on the treadmill must cause static
the hairs feel like little spider webs and are annoying
I thought sweat would help tame these hairs, but it didn’t. They kept harassing all through the run
I briefly stepped off the treadmill mid-run to set up the podcast. The belt made a loud whirr that sounded like it might fly off at any minute
sometimes, but not all the time, I forgot my feet were touching the ground and I felt like I was floating
on the podcast they talked about how the main character, George C. Scott, was an old dad — he was in his 50s, but was an old 50s — Sarah Marshall called it a 70s 50s. She also compared him to her dad and said that they were both born smoking cigarettes, which aged them more rapidly
why is that what I remember?
my left hip was a little stiff
treadmills are boring and I kept looking at my watch, hoping the time was going faster
I don’t like running on treadmills that often. We just rejoined the Y for the winter so maybe I won’t have to? If I do, I’d like to do some interesting experiments. Maybe more reciting poetry or listening to more podcasts or audio books?
It’s Halloween, and here’s a wonderful poem in celebration of it:
The Crayola crayon box on skinny legs squeezes close to the patch-eyed pirate on my doorstep, goodie bags outstretched
like ours were long ago—We knew we were the lucky ones, living in the apartments, where we scored more
M&Ms and Snickers bars in twenty minutes than the kids in fancy houses did in an hour. But it wasn’t the candy that enticed us,
most of mine forgotten on the kitchen shelf for months after the initial gorging. It was the whole town complicit
with superheroes and monsters, my sister morphed into a frog in Mom’s t-shirt and green socks, Mr. Carson dressed in fluorescent
skeleton bones we dashed past to reach the fairy godmother at the front door, our faces upturned and open—
We forgot if we were a kid who couldn’t spell, a boy sprouting acne at nine. We just fastened a lion’s fuzzy face over our own and roared.
Speaking of Halloween, we have had the same decorations for 6 or 7 years. Cheap Target skeleton lights, a styrofoam tombstone, and hands and a skull that light up and look they’re coming out of the earth. It’s not amazing, but I like decorating a little and it looks cool from down the street. For the past week, the lights haven’t been working and I couldn’t figure out why. Scott finally checked: someone cut the cord. Why? Such a bummer.
5.4 miles franklin loop 25 degrees / feels like 20
Yes! A great temperature for running. I love the cold air and not getting overheated. Wore black running tights, black running shorts, my 10 year-old base layer green shirt, an orange sweatshirt, black gloves, a hat and a buff. Such a great run. I feel satisfied and happy and energized. A great start to the winter running season!
the Welcoming Oaks are almost bare. Where was I when the leaves fell? hello friends!
a bright white circle of sunlit river burning through the growing gap between the trees
everywhere more of a view to the other side
empty blueish gray water — so calm and pleasing to my eyes
passed Daddy Long Legs, dressed in black. His hi was so quiet it didn’t register until it was too late to call back a greeting
Hi Dave! — greeting Dave, the Daily Walker in the final mile
crossing the bridge, approaching 2 talkative runners from behind: excuse me. / Oh! [a runner jumps to the side looking freaked out] / Sorry I scared you!
the smell of smoke down below on the east side of the river
a roller skier! I couldn’t hear the clicking and clacking of his ski poles until I was right next to me
bats, bells, noisy road work, and late fall leaves
Found this poem from DH Lawrence the other day while looking for poems about bats. Wow, he didn’t like bats!
At evening, sitting on this terrace, When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara Departs, and the world is taken by surprise …
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing Brown hills surrounding …
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, Against the current of obscure Arno …
Look up, and you see things flying Between the day and the night; Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through; A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water.
And you think: “The swallows are flying so late!”
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping Yet missing the pure loop … A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight And serrated wings against the sky, Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light, And falling back.
Never swallows! Bats! The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio … Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalp As the bats swoop overhead! Flying madly.
Pipistrello! Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep; And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags And grinning in their sleep. Bats!
In China the bat is symbol for happiness.
Not for me!
Today, writing this bit before my run, I’m thinking about bats and echos and echolocation. Vibrations, reverberations, sounds that haunt by continuing to ring out. Bells. But, back to the echoes. In addition to bats, I’m thinking about a stanza from a favorite Halloween poem that I posted on this day in 2020:
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear: from Black Cat/ Rainer Maria Rilke
Speaking of haunting, relentless sounds: I am sitting at my desk in the front room and city workers are paving the hole they made in the street in July or August. So loud! Beep beep beep. Rrrruuummmbbbllleee. Scrape scrape, tamp tamp. Even the visual noise echoes — a flash flash flash of the lights on the truck as it dumps the gravel or tar or whatever they’re putting in the hole. Everything is vibrating — the street, my jaw, my chair, the windows. Difficult to think or to write while this is happening!
At the end of my run, having crossed the river road to walk in the grassy, leaf covered boulevard, I was distracted by the delightful noise of fallen leaves. Then I noticed a bare tree, its still green leaves scattered around it.
We did it! Scott and I ran together in our first race in 4 years. Much slower than I’ve ever run a 10k, but it doesn’t matter because we did it without stopping, especially on the final hill. And I felt good at the end and even smiled. Hooray! The only part I didn’t like was before the race. It was freezing. I was dressed in my usual winter attire — tights, a green shirt, orange sweatshirt, black vest, gloves, and a buff — but it wasn’t enough. I was so cold that I felt like I might throw up. I’m fine running outside when it’s very cold, but I have to be moving, which we weren’t for almost an hour.
10 Things
the cobblestones at the beginning were a challenge — so uneven and broken
David S. Pumpkins and his 2 ghosts were running the race
also a guy portaging a canoe — an actual canoe! I wonder if he was running the 10k or the marathon
other costumes: 2 m-n-ms — red, 2 oompa loompas, curious george and the man with the yellow hat
a guy dressed up like the granny from Little Red Riding Hood
running down a hill, I passed one of the leaders of the race running back up it. I thought I heard hime call out, only 5?! as he passed the 5 mile marker
one runner approaching another one and calling out, I love your earrings! They make your outfit look extra special
a guy in a banana costume struggling up the first hill, wheezing loudly and breathing heavily
bump/bump bump bump/ bump bump buuuuummp (overheard: the opening to “eye of the tiger” at the top of the hill)
speeding up on the stone arch bridge and (almost) sprinting across the line with Scott with a huge smile on my face — a great race!
adding this several hours later: I found this poem on HAD (havehashad.com) and I didn’t want to wait until the next time I run to post it, so here it is:
The fact they call Casper friendly Means he probably isn’t Probably a real piece of shit The type of ghost Who keeps business unfinished Just to stick around Longer than anyone wants One time grandpa fell on a knife And grandma said a ghost did it And I bet it was fucking Casper I don’t trust him for one fuck And don’t care if he hears it, either Haunt me, baby HAUNT ME!!! One day I’ll be a ghost, too And then we’ll see who’s friendly We’ll beef until the sun explodes Eats the earth and everything else And that will be the end of all business Unfinished or not
Yesterday it rained all day. Today it was wet and gray and leaf-littered. For the first mile, I heard a squeak squeak each time I stepped on the wet leaves. Saw and good morninged a regular: Mr. Walker Sitter. Heard kids yelling at the school playground. Smelled the sewer gas. Avoided city workers and roofers and bikers almost over the white line. Admired the “edge of the world,” now open and looking even more edge-y. Worried about slipping on the wet leaves and falling down the steep slope. Dripped sweat in the humid air. Counted drops falling from the sewer pipe in the ravine. Wondered if the distance/pace was not working properly on my watch. Forgot about everything else.
The color of the day is YELLOW.
tunnels of yellow leaves above me
piles of yellowed leaves under me
yellow cross walk signs glowing in the gloom
a runner’s bright yellow running shirt
(writing this entry): a neighbor’s yellow tree outside my window,
yellow leaves on the hydrangea bush
a stretch of yellow trees, just past their peak, beside me near Folwell
a yellow entrance to the Winchell Trail
The yellow I see is mostly bright. Not gold, but with hints of orange and green.
Before I ran I memorized A Rhyme for Halloween. Then I recited lines from it as I moved. Never all at once, but every so often.
As I was searching for another poem to post I thought about how many poems I’ve already posted and why I keep posting more when I hardly have time to read the ones I’ve already posted. So today, I decided to revisit a poem that I posted on October 25th, 2020: Beginning/ JAMES WRIGHT. Beautiful. Reading it right now, I love the opening:
The moon drops one or two feathers into the field. The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now.
I love the idea of the moon dropping feathers and the dark wheat listening. And now, as I read the third line, Be still. I’m thinking of it less as a command to not move (to be still), and more as an invitation or a plea to continue to exist (be, still). And then I’m connecting that idea to the last 2 lines of the poem:
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, And I lean toward mine.
Perhaps my darkness involves an impossible wish, that my mom and Scott’s parents were still alive.
