(found black and white photograph, unknown origin) |
Patterns Of Fragmentary Experiences To My Internal World - First Skate
A short effort combining prose, poetry and painting based on childhood remembrances and in the relationship with a found black and white photograph of unknown origin.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
To Prologize
The external world of my youth, as I know it, was comprised mostly of small towns. A distillation of characters, places and experiences compressed into a catchment oft described as “within walking distance” from each other. Custom with observance played a large part in such places, celebrations and formal recollections marked calendars throughout each year. Holidays coupled with the change of seasons emerged as the reason for being in light of a routine existence. Such events ferment a mythology bubbling from base to cap of our memories, creating a product of equal parts sweet and bitter. One honeyed time began the day after
Thanksgiving in my little inner world as seen through the eyes of a photograph.
“Trans-ice-formation”
A narrow road passes
By the dark shed
Walled by bush and tree
Brittle faded yellow, green
And gray.
Frames of mountains
Show first snows
Disappearing into the valley.
Close by the peaks
From roofs break through
Barren branch of birch,
Alder and maple.
A consistent quiet
Save the old crows
Preening fluffed feathers
While young ones trace
Small white flakes
Against the sky.
Through caw and whistle
A rumble of dust and diesel
Cuts the cold day air.
Once dark red
Now aged with pallor,
As the rose’s last petal,
Show’s her face
Pumper Number Three.
The truck occupied by two,
Fireman Tall and Fireman Small,
Rolls to the place
Once graced by blankets,
Baskets of wicker and
Shirtless children.
Long past the summer measures
Now marked for cold pursuits
To create
An ice rink.
The field surrounded
By board and post
Waits for Fireman Tall
Thick and round
Chewing his cold cigar
Unfurling a white hose.
Fireman Small balances
A giant wrench upon
His narrow shoulder
Resembling a mechanic
Marching off to battle,
His foe the hydrant.
Couplings attached
Nozzle propped high
Fireman Tall raises a hand
In unison with the cigar
Fireman Small pulls hard
The wrench lurches.
Water erupts
Trapped forward as
Dammed dancers bursting
To arc and fall upon the ground.
Fireman Tall stands hands to hip
Carefully assessing the geometry
Of distance and time.
Fireman Small bends
His thin angles
Upon the truck bumper
Staring through small
Metal diamond shaped holes.
Each settles in.
They wait.
Above old crows look on
Preening fluffed feathers
While young ones trace the
Spray against the sky.
Sheet of Perfection
Small towns of northern bearings sometimes found time to flood a low field, adding boundaries of wood panels to define the lines and curves of the rink. The process required patience over several days, applying thin layers of water to freeze, build up then wait and repeat. Patience and timing were deemed necessary in attaining an even sheen free of cracks and deformities, it was a pursuit for the perfect sheet of ice.
Finally the day arrived pulling occupants of brick, wood and stone away from their place of work or habitation. With anticipation they teemed along a narrow path past rows of tree and shrub still clinging to pale brittle leaves. In the far distance white caps streaked high ridges, evidence of a recent snow soon to cover the valley. Dignitaries embellished the informal excitement huddling round a large metal drum filled with burning wood. Grandmothers shared fresh baked bread combined with their larder endeavors. Shiny urns of coffee and cider flowed near an elderly farmer entertaining the gathers with his mouth harp. Children chased dogs and dogs chased children.
As a casual observer one could become lost in the energy and movement of the event, yet with little effort one could see the greatest focus was on the rink. Arms of all lengths hung over the wooden boards examining the giant curved rectangle with a critical eye. First skaters sat crowded upon long benches, at their feet a path of ice leading to the gate draped with cedar branches bound by red ribbon. Legs shift back and forth, hands cupped against cheeks, tiny streams of steam pass from mouths over heavy caps and scarves.
With few words the dignitaries wave their arms lifting the green and red drape. Young and old flow down the frozen path, through the gap and then the long anticipated meeting … between metal and ice. Gloves and mittens clap while dogs bark. The old farmer smiles displaying what is left of his teeth. Edges create designs below while young crows trace the patterns in the sky above. For a moment there is a vision of perfection before the sun lowers and snow begins to fall.
Finally the day arrived pulling occupants of brick, wood and stone away from their place of work or habitation. With anticipation they teemed along a narrow path past rows of tree and shrub still clinging to pale brittle leaves. In the far distance white caps streaked high ridges, evidence of a recent snow soon to cover the valley. Dignitaries embellished the informal excitement huddling round a large metal drum filled with burning wood. Grandmothers shared fresh baked bread combined with their larder endeavors. Shiny urns of coffee and cider flowed near an elderly farmer entertaining the gathers with his mouth harp. Children chased dogs and dogs chased children.
As a casual observer one could become lost in the energy and movement of the event, yet with little effort one could see the greatest focus was on the rink. Arms of all lengths hung over the wooden boards examining the giant curved rectangle with a critical eye. First skaters sat crowded upon long benches, at their feet a path of ice leading to the gate draped with cedar branches bound by red ribbon. Legs shift back and forth, hands cupped against cheeks, tiny streams of steam pass from mouths over heavy caps and scarves.
With few words the dignitaries wave their arms lifting the green and red drape. Young and old flow down the frozen path, through the gap and then the long anticipated meeting … between metal and ice. Gloves and mittens clap while dogs bark. The old farmer smiles displaying what is left of his teeth. Edges create designs below while young crows trace the patterns in the sky above. For a moment there is a vision of perfection before the sun lowers and snow begins to fall.
Chaotic Grace
(the first moments when learning to skate)
Collect the coat
Collect the coat
Cover the head
Circle the scarf
Cinch the laces
Clean the blades
Clatter to the edge
Clasp the other
Creep and tilt
Collapse
CAN’T
Compassion’s hand
Cotton-like voice
Corrals hope
Compels to try
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