South Berwick, just across the Salmon River from us, has a downtown block that retains an iconic appearance. The town is also home to Berwick Academy, a private prep school.
A MAIN STREET IN MAINE
Tag: New England
NIGHT WATCH
1
between sunset and sunrise
the ocean returns to desolate obsidian
of her dark depths
in the character
at best, stars above
strand of shoreline, depending
maybe the moon
with her sea-legs
or repeated slapping
2
breakers arrive as a single point of reflected white
opening out evenly in a line on either side
a lip, sometimes to one side only
rarely claiming, “I love you”
sheets of gleaming water shift on the sand
or everything way out, obscured
in fog
scolding
pipers scurry about
on their stilt-legs
at highest tide, pebbles sound of boiling
with all the sunburned drunks long asleep
or the party, behind glass or on the deck
a cigarette meanders somewhere to my left
though I catch no shards of conversation
3
if only the beach were not broken
by rocky fingers and cliffs
unseen ledges and outcroppings
or overwhelmed in abrupt tempests
the night voyageur might sail dependably
by the compass
but vessels and their crews
mostly go down along coastline
blindly
mistranslating, the whole sense stymied
by a single word, a puzzle, upturned wind
4
count the seconds, then, in the flashing
points
matched to the chart
one red-lighted buoy
white caps below
Whaleback just clearing the hilltop
a large, well-lighted ship near the Shoals
waiting for high tide to enter Portsmouth
or on a very clear night, way off
Thacher Island, Cape Ann, Gloucester
how is it the Boon flare jumps about
three spots, playing the length of shrouded rock island?
of the available beacons
the closest, curiously, appears only a muffle
in the call of the underside
“come to me”
mournful bell or horn
and strobe light
restless, relentless
rhythm, however unpredictable
retreats, advances
restores, destroys
cleanses
5
I cannot imagine rowing ten miles to an island
at midnight
after an evening in town
but they did
for a drink or conversation
so they said
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems, click here.
CELEBRATING ‘HIGH SUMMER’
I’ve long been fond of collage as an art form. These Tendrils continue the stream.
~*~
- Tomatoes are in! Real tomatoes! Nothing like the ones in the supermarket all year, no way! Julienne is our workhorse variety, small but firm and reliable from the beginning to the end of the season. We dry and freeze many of them to use well through winter. Even while raising a dozen or more varieties, we find New England’s susceptibility to blight has erased most of our favorite big heritage varieties from our rounds. Hurrah, though, for some of the hybrids. For the big juicy reds we’re relying on Bobcat, Brandywine, and Cherokee Purple. Any other suggestions?
- “High summer” is what I celebrate once the oppressive heat and humidity of July break, rather than bemoan the few weeks remaining. …
- How tasty/zesty the wild blueberries on Mount Major!
- Dog Days, indeed. Swimming at what I call Fort Lobster. The water, choppy with a rip. A short swim can be exhausting. I can see how panic would set in. Meanwhile, she sleeps on the warm pebbles of this beach. Back home, we grill steak and corn on the cob.
- I really do have to learn to play bocce. Or bocci, as I usually see it spelled around here.
- At yearly meeting and other big Quaker gatherings where we rent a college campus for a week, we use golf carts to ferry folks from dorms to dining hall to the auditorium or classrooms. Has me thinking of amusement parks with their kiddie-car courses. Especially the faces of the volunteer drivers reliving a highlight of their childhoods.
- Still, I wonder about those who publish a short story and are then approached by an agent. Especially considering how difficult short-story collections prove in the marketplace. Short fiction, remember, is a whole different beast than a novel.
- Wandering through galleries of maritime paintings, she became fascinated by the way waves are depicted. Turns out to be a good way to traverse the collection.
- Before her, I had no real conception of house repairs! All these things that need to be done! Is it really endless?
- One-pot meals can be classic. To wit: I boil a pot of water, add corn on the cob. Remove the corn, replace it with lobster in the same (now seasoned) boiling water. Serve with butter and lemon and beverage of choice. All yummy!
~*~
ONE SIGN OF AMERICA’S CHANGING TASTES
Yes, you expect a range of ethnic foods in any big city, and many smaller ones, including the place I call home, now feature a range of international dining options. But when you’re driving mile after mile inhabited mostly by cows, you’re surprised to find anywhere to eat, apart from the occasional convenience store gas station. You know, hot dogs accompanied by potato chips and soda.
This, though, was enough to make me swing around for a second look. As it turned out, they weren’t serving breakfast.
OVERLOOKING DOWNTOWN
Here’s a bit of scale for the town I call home.
RETURN
1
slowly approaching a line
that grows from the edge of the sea
and then spreads at the harbor mouth
slowly, details emerge
and at last, some recognition
in what’s become familiar
home, or at least neighborhood
extending
attuned here, more than elsewhere
the awareness, something all your own
has happened with this place
but not knowing precisely when
in the tide
returning
2
introductions, by degrees
lapping and receding
even in six hours
Plum Island with Eric, Bill
and the baby, “Why don’t we leave our towels
down there?” rather than the crest of the dune
“you’ll see”
once the surf bubbled inches
from our possessions
or high tide covering the jetty
that shaded the sailboat venturing out
or entering a ferry on one deck
and exiting
on the return, from another
or weather
on a carefully selected
Sunday picnic, and air
optimal for swimming at the sandbar
only to have the Coast Guard
pull up in an inflatable raft with a bullhorn
“Out of the water! A storm’s coming!”
while the sky’s still cloudless but
before we reach shelter two hundred
feet away, the sun’s gone and a deluge opens
with or without hail
or the mid-afternoon ferry
through twenty-foot swells
and returning at sunset
on calm water
not that we’re friends
or have much of what you’d call
a relationship
3
miles inland, closer to the house
detecting high tide in marshes and rivers
or its absence
salt hay in cow milk
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems, click here.
ON OUR OWN GROUND
each springtime and summer
we go our rounds, grubbing out
pervasive maple sprouts, glistening slugs
the evil elegance of bindweed
to open way
for what flowers or what bears would harvest
each repetition its own mixture
of success and disappointment
* * *
as my Lady of the Fabric Bins explains
the palette of the tongue
its savory and sweet
variations of wine tannin or bite
torches in our smoking garden twilight
with charcoal, glowing and ready
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
ALL OVER AGAIN. OUT OF NOWHERE
Why wait for the dust to settle? Here are 10 bullets from my end.
~*~
- A bit of gardening before Meeting for Worship. A round of picking raspberries, peas, string beans. Blueberries and currants are next to ripen.
- One foot in the present, the other in the past. Not just a pattern for dreams. It’s intrinsic to the process of writing. Add to that smells, sounds, touch, taste.
- I love the concept of the Commonplace Book – a kind of scrapbook of observations of a personal journey. It’s related to the tradition I discovered in whaling ship logs.
- The logbooks, by the way, had a specific form, which by 1840 came in printed versions with columns H, W, K – hour, wind, knots – plus course and comments like “lost sight of land” or notations of birds seen. Across the bottom of each page are other notes, such as latitude and longitude or the distance traveled in a day, where I saw up to 140 miles recorded. Turns out the entries also helped determine or justify extra rations for the crew and so on, depending on the conditions. Wonder how that format would work as a personal journal.
- What do we make of rounds of thunderstorms, interrupted by bursts of sunlight, knowing more weeds and garden slugs are on the way?
- The Portsmouth Greek Festival differs from ours in Dover. Their event has two food lines, rather than one, and an outdoor tent for dancing. It all takes place behind the church, rather than miles away. I’m surprised how little interaction there is between the two Orthodox congregations.
- Been meditating for 66 years now, one way or another upholding the spiritual discipline. More than half of that time has been as a member of Dover Friends, worshiping in our 1768 Quaker meetinghouse. Some of the members have been there the whole time with me. (How could that be? Already!)
- I’m not a big fan of comparative religion, looking for commonalities and similarities. I’m more interested in vital differences and nuance. How far this is from what I’d envisioned, back when I was largely agnostic.
- In a very fragile condition, a snake having just shed its skin.
- What was the biggest mistake in my life? (Or in yours?)
~*~
ALONG THE SALMON FALLS
The Salmon Falls, a river separating a section of Maine and New Hampshire, once powered mills along its way.
My fondness for old mills, by the way, did prompt a novel, Big Inca.
A BIT OF SWEAT, EVEN IN THE SHADE
The mind dances here and there, rarely in a linear fashion. So what’s on my mind these days? How about counting on these fingers?
~*~
- Picking peas and raspberries. Then mow the lawn.
- The Hour of Visitation: that moment you have to decide. Accept Jesus. Agree to marry. Call the sale. Or it typically slips away. The door closes, sometimes ever so silently. Reopening it may be far more difficult.
- On the street, a fat porcupine pondering his shadow.
- How many strange events transpire unseen? A sense lingers after a chance observation, a moment of revelation suggesting a much vaster possibility of reality at hand.
- My goal is no longer to collect but to cull. I’ve been decollecting as much as I can, one sweep at a time. Recordings, books, notes, clothing … amazing to revisit so much that’s already here! Trail markers from a long journey to now.
- She’s often thought I’d be more at home in an earlier era. Well, maybe if I had some wealth and privilege. There, I’ve said it. That edge that’s too often been lacking.
- Watching bridge construction in tidal waters, I’ve wondered what keeps the cranes from swaying in the daily rise and fall of the current. Spud Legs, I’m informed, are sunk into the river bottom for stability. What a funny term! As in potato? Naw, more like spud bar. However the name ever originated.
- Sometimes life’s a whirlwind. Just what do we do with the calm?
- Teaching or translating as their source of income. The world is bigger than that. And so should the literary horizons.
- Looking back on your life, can you point to any work you’re truly proud of? Or does even the best somehow fall short?
~*~
Jnana's Red Barn 