What wonderful fall weather! Cooler, partly cloudy. I ran north on the river road trail and didn’t encounter too many people. Heard the rowers on the river, with the coxswain calling out instructions through their bullhorn. Saw the river, I think. Did I? I don’t remember noticing many brightly colored leaves.
Things I Remember
one roller skier skiing on the bike path, their poles clickity-clacking
a sudden shower of acorns–a whoosh then thump thump thump
a stroller right off the edge of the path, an adult and young kid under the lake street bridge, looking down at the river right by the edge of a chain link fence
running through the tunnel of trees, barely looking down, but noticing a few yellow trees
A good run, an opportunity to get lost and lose track of time.
And here’s the wonderful opening from Yi Lei’s Nature Aria. Very fitting for this windy, autumn day, when leaves are swirling and scattering:
Autumn wind chases in From all directions And a thousand chaste leaves Give way.
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…
3 miles the loop that kept getting larger* 63 degrees
*36th st to north on edmund small loop: 33rd st, east/river road, north/32nd st, west/48th ave, south/33rd st, west medium: river road, north/32nd st, west/47th ave, south/33rd st, west large: river road, north/32nd st, west/46th ave, south/33rd st, west edmund, south/36th st, west
Running Route, 16 Sept
Love the image this running route makes. Would it be fun to try running routes that make pictures or spell words?
A nice run this morning. It was fun to try a different route by making the loop bigger each time. Didn’t have any problems running too close to others. It was sunny and cool–I almost forgot about the wind. It felt like I was running into it for much of the time. I remember hearing a few birds but I don’t think I recognized their call. I heard the buzz of at least one big lawnmower. No geese. No turkey sightings. Running on the river road, I was able to glance down at the river. In-between thick green, slashes of pale blue. Anything else? Surfaces I ran over: gritty street, cracked sidewalk, rutted dirt trail, soft green grass.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be wanted the way the Labrador near me wants the stick
his owner throws for him, his body crashing into the water before pausing, mouth clapped tightly
around the wet bark, to stand turned awestruck toward the setting sun. On the shore, a father
holds his daughter and twirls a piece of long grass between his fingers as they watch the hills turn glassy
and bright. I sit beneath a tree and watch them all— dog and owner, man and daughter—and I feel
far away. And it’s here that I often see a fisherman anchored to one particular spot, ice chest and gear
beside him, his blue windbreaker puffed from air coming off the water as he eats spoonfuls
of beans from a can, pulls hard on a cigarette, and adjusts his lines. On those days, I wonder
if he wonders what I’m writing the way I wonder what he does with the fish he catches—who
he shares them with, if anyone, and whether it’s him who picks the bones clean from the flesh, him
who warms the skillet and lays the fish gently in the crackling oil. Today, though, the girl’s mother
stands in the fisherman’s usual spot, her phone poised, snapping a photo every time the light shifts
a little more to darken the clouds gathering like flies along the fur of the horizon.
I’m reminded of the horse I used to care for and how, a month before he died, I found him
standing in the round pen behind the barn with his head raised, eyes turned toward the sun rising
across the valley while the starlings in the hedgerow gathered in sound before bursting from the trees
all at once, the air suddenly swarming, the horse tilting his head to watch their departure much like
the Labrador now watches the sun across the lake. And I knew a dairy farmer once who, when a cow
was to be put down, would turn her out into the pasture one last time to watch the sun set. I wonder
if all these animals look at the sky and see something that I never will. I think I could spend
my whole life trying to find it.
What an amazing first sentence! I think I’d like to memorize this poem so I can spend some more time with it. I really appreciate her description of the scene, providing so many details and managing to do more than merely report what she saw.
The idea of reporting, reminds me of the On Being episode with Mary Oliver:
Tippett: I’d like to talk about attention, which is another real theme that runs through your work, both the word and the practice. I know people associate you with that word. But I was interested to read that you began to learn that attention without feeling is only a report. That there is more to attention than for it to matter in the way you want it to matter. Say something about that learning.
Oliver: You need empathy with it rather than just reporting. Reporting is for field guides. And they’re great. They’re helpful. But that’s what they are. They’re not thought provokers. They don’t go anywhere. And I say somewhere that attention is the beginning of devotion, which I do believe. But that’s it. A lot of these things are said but can’t be explained.
*edmund, north, river road trail, north/lake street bridge, north and south/47th ave, south/32nd st, east/river road, south/edmund, south
Ran on the lake street bridge today so I was able to see the river! Beautiful. Was briefly on the other side, the east side in St. Paul, when I took the steps down to the river. Some day soon, I’ll do the Franklin loop–maybe the end of this week? I think I saw the man in black–not in black today–crossing the river road near the lake street bridge. I’m not sure it was him–I identify him by his height, especially his legs–so long! so tall! Heard some roller skiers. Saw a group of about 10 bikers biking on the trail. Ran through the Minnehaha Academy parking lot. Packed with cars.
When I got home, Scott asked if it was hard to breathe when I was running. (It wasn’t.) He said he could tell that we had some of the smoke from the wildfires in the west up in the atmosphere. Wow. I can’t imagine how terrible and scary it is out on the west coast. It’s so strange and disturbing, yet not surprising, how disconnected you can feel from the suffering of others when that suffering is at an easily ignored or abstracted distance.
Encountered a passage from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ diary on twitter today. Hopkins’ “Spring and Fall” is the first poem I remember wanting to memorize and inhabit. Oh, the beauty of Margaret are you grieving/over goldengrove unleaving! I love his wordplay in this entry:
2.25 miles edmund, north/32nd st, west/47th ave, south/edmund, south/37th st, west/around Howe School/44th ave, north 59 degrees humidity: 93%
Running Route, 12 Sept
I love the picture this route makes.
A slighter shorter run this morning with headphones on. Didn’t think about much, just enjoyed listening to music and getting lost in the sounds and motion. So humid it felt like it was still drizzling. Was it? Not sure. Didn’t encounter that many people. Hardly any bikers or runners. No roller skiers. As I listened to Lizzo, I decided that I should make a playlist for my hill sprint workout. A fun, fast song for each sprint.
Such great weather! Was able to wear shorts and a sweatshirt. Felt a little warm by the end, but mostly fine. Ran through the neighborhood, on lake street, by Minnehaha Academy and the aspen eyes, through the tunnel of trees, past the welcoming oaks. Smelled the stink above the ravine, glanced at the inviting, mysterious trail winding through the small wood near the oak savanna, admired the river, turned down near Folwell and ran back on the Winchell Trail. Encountered 3 runners and got closer than 6ft, but only for a second or two. Tried to start the run by thinking about my writing project, but quickly got distracted or lost in other thoughts or no thoughts. Noticed a few more trees starting to change color.
I am currently deep into my project about going blind, blind spots, mood rings. Thinking about faces and feeling isolated/disconnected today. I’m thinking I’d like to put two visual poems/diagrams about faces. One, a face blurred out. The other, a state fair mannequin with pupils as soulless black balls. I need to think about it some more. It’s hard to do any other poetry/writing when I am thinking so much about this project.
Here’s a wonderful quotation I found on twitter about what poetry does:
"Lyric poems, even when based on narratives, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory or defeat.
Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded"
3.1 miles 1.5 mile warm-up/the hill x 2* 42 degrees
*1.5 miles = 36th st, east/edmund, north/33rd st, east/river road, north/32nd st, west/47th ave, south/34th st, east/edmund, north/36th st, east the hill = .45 miles, above the tunnel of trees on the road closed for construction
Even colder today. Foggy. Had to wear running tights, almost gloves. Too early for this weather. I like running in it, but don’t like turning on the heat this soon or feeling freezing taking Delia the dog for a walk. I’d like to have a few more weeks of sitting in the sun on the deck or in my red chair under the crabapple tree.
I saw my breath this morning–or was it fog? Encountered some roller skiers and runners and bikers. A squirrel almost ran in front of me. Many of the trees look like they’re about to change from green to red or yellow or orange. I like orange the best. Didn’t see the river or think about much. Do I remember anything I thought about? No distinctive sounds. No ridiculous performances (except for maybe me sprinting up the hill). No Daily Walker or Man in Black. If I had ran closer to the ravine would I have heard water gushing from the sewer? Saw a stack of stones on the ancient boulder.
These poems don’t amount to much, just some words thrown together at random. And still to me there’s something good in making them, it’s as if I have in them for a little while a house. I think of playhouses made of branches we built when we were children: to crawl into them, sit listening to the rain, in a wild place alone, feel the drops of rain on your nose and in your hair— or snowhouses at Christmas, crawl in and close it after with a sack, light a candle, be there through the long chill evenings.
I love this idea of poems creating a space to crawl into–a playhouse or a snow fort. It makes me think of secret hiding spaces and my favorite children’s book, Oh, What a Busy Day!:
What wonderful weather for running! Cool but not too cool. Calm, quiet, overcast, uncrowded. Ran on the river road trail all the way to the trestle and back. Didn’t run through the welcoming oaks or the tunnel of trees but on Edmund and the river road. Glanced down at the river. Heard some strange rustling in the thicket just below the trail. Didn’t notice any new orange or yellow or red leaves.
Sound, Sight, Smell
Running on the river road, hearing a Daft Punk song–Lose Yourself to Dance, I think–from a bike’s speakers
Running through darker, more covered stretches of the trail, looking straight ahead, noticing how blurry my central vision seems. Difficult to make out details, only able to determine forms
Running up the hill on Edmund between 33rd and 34th, the smell of gas was so bad–maybe from the construction site or the tree trimmers on the corner of 33rd–that I had to pull up my buff and cover my nose for a few minutes. Yuck
No more walks in the wood: The trees have all been cut Down, and where once they stood Not even a wagon rut Appears along the path Low brush is taking over.
No more walks in the wood; This is the aftermath Of afternoons in the clover Fields where we once made love Then wandered home together Where the trees arched above, Where we made our own weather When branches were the sky. Now they are gone for good, And you, for ill, and I Am only a passer-by.
We and the trees and the way Back from the fields of play Lasted as long as we could. No more walks in the wood.
On the poets.org site, you can listen to the poet read this haunting poem. Such beautiful rhythm and rhyming. I love the lines, “Where we make our own weather/When branches were the sky.”
About 2.5 miles into my run a woman on the other side of the road called out, “Nice running weather” and I called back, “Yes, great!” It was wonderful running weather. Not too much wind or sun. Cool. Uncrowded. I felt strong and relaxed. Thought a little about my kids–a freshman and senior–who were starting school this morning. All online. Not as fun for them as in-person school, but safer and less stressful.
things I remember
The river was a blueish gray, mostly concealed by thick green
A flash of bright red leaves on a tree lower down on the Winchell Trail
A few walkers discussing squirrels, taking up a lot of the parking lot above the oak savanna
The loud crack of an acorn falling to the ground
Muddy trails on the narrow stretch of grass between 42nd and 44th–what Scott calls “the gauntlet”
Down near the turkey hollow the road had strips of dirt or mud or something that had fallen from the trees. I ran over it and it was soft–not like dirt, more like tree debris
Being greeted by a runner as we passed each other–I think we were more than 6 feet apart
Sort of racing someone running on the river road trail while I ran on Edmund. Did he notice that I was there like I noticed him?
Lots of cars rushing by on the river road, feeling like a normal fall workday morning
Looking for the turkeys (none spotted) and wondering how far they travel from their home in a day and whether they move their home and what their home consists of
With the kids both in school and Labor Day having passed and the air feeling so cool (46 degrees!), it is fall. So strange. What happened to August? The summer?
Found this awesome letter poem by Aracelis Girmay on twitter:
Scott and I decided to drive over near Lake Nokomis and run (in opposite directions) around the lake. We parked on Nokomis Avenue and ran together on the creek trail, then under 28th ave on the part of the path they just built this year, over by Lake Hiawatha, up the hill to Lake Nokomis Community Center, and then down to Lake Nokomis where we split up. I turned left, he turned right. So wonderful to be running by water and around the lake. This is the first time I’ve run here since last November 14.
Ran by the little beach first. The buoys are still up. Will I try swimming once this season? I’m not sure. Had to run on the grass a lot to avoid people. Noticed how many changes they’ve made: plastic fences up to protect the shoreline, some trees missing. As I ran over the big bridge, I looked down at the water and the wide strip of shimmering light on the surface. Luckily Scott took a picture of it when he ran over the bridge.
Thought briefly about open swim as I ran by the big beach. I checked to see if anyone was swimming this morning. I don’t think so. Saw at least one kayak but no rowing shells or sailboats. I’m sure they’ll be there later today. I miss being by the water. I miss not being slightly terrified all of the time.
blind spots and mood rings
Still thinking about my latest writing project on blind spots and mood rings. I think I’ve finished the text for the mood 1: wonder. I haven’t quite figured out the visuals behind it. How to show the ring? How to show my vision loss? I’ve been researching concrete/visual poetry and found this cool eye poem by Lauren Holden:
further & further & further
I really like how this looks and its effect. And I like the repetition of the words/phrase. Maybe I want to do this too? As part of a ring chapbook? I’m thinking that each of my mood rings would involve 2 poems:
A justified block of text with my blind ring superimposed on the text
A visual poem similar to the one above made up of 2-4 words describing the mood repeated and making the shape/effect of my blind ring.
