New York City Poetry & the Adirondacks. Part 2: Natural Places.

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by Martin Schwalbaum
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GNATS
The lights are on the apple trees
At the little field below the Perkin's place
A pale glow along the crooked branches black with age.
A seasonal white carpet covers the bare ground
For this occasion the miniature new blooms
Closed tight over the soft greenery
Or already blown the fragile petals curled
And fallen away exposing orange seed.
A solitary flower here and there
Makes a surprise appearance with a purple face.

We clean the brush at camp and meet them
On the way up navigating the uneven terrain
With plastic ski poles for walking sticks.
A high end artist of natural subjects on film
With awkward manners we help get through the greetings
By our exaggerated high spirits.
She's new with a straight boyish figure.
Later on we see them as bright spots of unfamiliar color
Near deep woods and point out a favorite beauty spot
For them but they're already turning back
As she's allergic and is bothered by bugs.

Alone with nothing I lay down head cradled on arm
Looking into the old orchard rimmed by pines
Itself the sole reminder now of human presence here.
Beyond the hollow ring like ocean in my ear
I find a distinct pattern of whirrs and clicks
And an occasional loud song with a full pleasant melody
Each one a unique call to another of the same species.
An ordinary robin climbs out on one of the gnarled limbs.
I remember a broadwinged hawk lives here
Circling motionless in the air currents
High overhead and I look for it again.

A variety of small insect populates the air
Close to the ground dancing the clumsy maneuvers
Of a brief sexual phase zigzagging hovering
And landing occasionally on my skin and clothing.
Harmless I observe their sluggish movements
And when I brush at one without thinking
The plump body rolls lifelessly over my hand.
An individual lights on the scrap of paper I'm writing on
And won't fly off when I blow or shake it.
Unable to stand erect it rests on its side
One of the oversize wings pinned underneath.
The abdomen is coated with eggs in a sticky medium.

Water in a stagnant pool collects below the culvert
And rings in concentric circles appear at random on it
Spreading out in waves until they dissipate.
Spiders skim the top in short motions without a trace.
Tiny flies crisscross over from end to end
And a pair of them couple in midair
Falling and resting on the surface wings fluttering
Then lift off as one in cumbersome flight together.
An irridescent oily slick along the edge
Reaches a purple arm out to the center.
Oak leaves from last year line the bottom
And gas bubbles form on them rising and breaking in the air.
Old fern are just brown sticks with brittle fruit.

The marital counselor advises her to keep me informed
About relations issues from her perspective.
She hands me a clipping from the Times--KIDDIE RAPE IN TULSA.
Three runaway girls walk into a setup at a motel
Along with a gang of thirty-five men and boys.
No arrests for weeks. Hotline callers have mixed opinions.
There are few additional details.
While I'm polishing this they're out there in the rain
In yellow slickers walking close together
Along the highway shoulder waving their colored sticks
The white snow baskets shining above the ice points.
Next day house guests gone he's by himself
Dragging and stacking up the fallen debris
From the the most destructive ice storm of the century.
Jay NY 5/1/98

DRONE
Eyes dazed neck and shoulder stiff
From the computer work I break away
To the river beach spot the way we left it.
A growth of compass daisy takes over
By the folding chairs after the Summer.
Shallow waters run the same by the rocky shoals
But the ducks are gone for good.
A broad sunflower of another variety
With a thick stem moves in as well.
She says the seeds are from the Winter flood.

Up above wild apple I worried about
Shows no more sign of damage and the fruit
Large red and tart tasting for the season
Is falling for seed and food for deer.
Summer grass lays flat like a carpet.
I avoid a growth of brush making a path
Around it going uphill brown and dry.
Maneuvering the slope I smash into an insect hill
In deep cover ruining the side of it
And I jump clear of the sand scar out of instinct.

The right-of-way under the wires is littered
With forest debris from the pine harvest.
Pieces crackle and give way underfoot.
I steady myself paying attention to each step.
I find a state marker from the sixties.
They cut an old piece out for higher ground
And speeding traffic on a wide road.
Walking without a plan I find I've reached
The lot line where the cutting stopped
And I rest on a bank of disturbed soil.

The understory cut away or crushed
Surviving trees stand out in detail.
Those along the skid trail have their bark rubbed off
By the heavy machines and logs in passage.
Torn pieces hang loose or litter the floor.
The poor ones are white with rust and dead branches.
A few are just dry sticks with nothing at all.
The rest of them benefit from the change and thrive.
A swarm of gnats bother around my head and eyes
And I brush at them without thinking about it.

A small bumblebee picks his way between the goldenrod
Timeless skill guiding the separate movements
That work the last remaining juice from each floweret
Floating on from one to another till I lose sight of him.
The stalks move slightly in the cool air currents
Rising from the river and some of them the tops
No longer gold are powdery and expectant with seed.
Remembering the sweet flow of Summer like a nectar
I see him once more feeding in the open field
With the solid house marking the end of it.
Jay 9/21/97

BIG DIPPER
When I ask him over he's just up for the week
And he's busy with friends in from California.
Days I see him on the tractor by the river.
Nights he cooks and they chant Hindu together.
Aster in the field are purple lamps that go out
One at a time as the machine passes over them.

Later he drops in to let her know they're gone
And he's free to come. We watch him cross the road
Between the houses with maples and grass.
Sun that slants in at an angle has more red
And less warmth in it. By the time he gets to the door
We're there to let him in and we shake.

He likes the New York white and I explain the growth
Improves over the years with new money and promotion.
Years ago as a school teacher he can't afford it
And now he drinks a little but he's unsure of his tastes.
With Rhone red over the fresh baked bread and pesto soup
His glass doesn't move and he has high cholesterol.

Our swallows are gone and we see bluebirds in the garden For a few days passing through. I find them in the book.
We clear the table for fruit and push our chairs back.
A celebrity through his nature photography he defines beauty
To us as a culturally induced biochemical state of awareness.
One of his shots blows up to cover a building on Times Square.

As a boy he starts off at the library with Steichen's Family.
He grows up with Diane Arbus herself the central character
Among the wierd faces that reflect her sense of alienation.
Later he does a video and eats apple pie with Eliot Porter.
He finds Schlindler still indulges in special effects
And sees better any day at the art cinema in Georgetown.

His people land in New Orleans and come upriver a good way.
They set up a trading post by an army fort on the frontier.
During the war boys from all over train there
Before going overseas to fight. His Mom has eight sisters
And they all marry soldiers they meet at the USO.
The only Jewish kid in town they strip him and shellac him.

He cares for a daughter in Washington. She suffers
Cerebral palsy and is quadriplegic from a car crash.
The coma lasts for months. We remember a sweet sixteen party
In colored tents with stripes. She's deaf and signs.
Visitors come from all over some in jalopies from Arkansas.
It's midsummer and the field is green and still wet.

The room is lit with candles that line the mantle
In little cups in storm glass at the deep windows
And in tall candlesticks on the table between us as we talk.
Last summer he puts a ramp over the steps and brings her
In a van along with a couple of health care attendants.
He may take her to Berkeley and sell the place he has here.

He has a romantic interest in a lady with silver hair
Who makes contact prints from leaves and organic materials.
She's out of the picture now. Today he hikes to a high ledge
With a large format camera and an athletic girl
From the art crowd who doesn't wear makeup or a bra.
He watches for the impression of her nipples on the fabric.

He completes an assignment at the agricultural station
Where they create in one season 3,000 new varieties of apple
With the latest genetic techniques. It may make a book.
When it's over he asks for a flashlight and I walk out with him.
He says he's taking his life six months at a time.
The dots are bright and I see a familiar pattern.
10/7/94 Jay NY

VENUS
She stays in town a week. Here in the country
Night life is active and I don't sleep.
Stars are out in every direction and under them
The hill behind the house is solid and black.
A low one sticks on top and flickers there.
I stare at it until it's only a point and goes out.

The kids leave on a light and trees are white from it.
Window squares make shadows on them with vertical lines
And I go turn it off. When a glow begins to form
Hours before dawn the forest has a jagged edge
And above it the brightest one lasts the longest of all.
Big pine nearby raise their arms in a curve.

Mornings I get them out on time and they horseplay
On the side of the road waiting for the bus.
They do a comic ballet in baggy clothes with bookbags.
Small evergreens dot the field behind them and the rest
Is a jumble of color and straw all the way to the river.
They don't see me from the window and I don't wave.

The land grows over and I bushhog it end to end
Taking my time. Where it's dry milkweed and aster--
By cattails and reeds wheels dig in and the blade
Kicks up black dirt and sand. At a high spot
Fine grass is pressed down in waves like water.
The sky is white and mountains are lost in haze.

The moon is out and it makes a half circle
The color of clouds. Days we don't see stars--
I guess at her location by angle and distance.
Pine is soft but aspen and cherry are vigorous
And spring back. I go over them again to be sure.
A bird calls from high up and I can't find it.

She gets back the next day. When the fuss is over
We take each other's hand and walk out where it's cut.
Along the fence by barbed wire and the old elm she finds
Raw green and black berries together on one branch
And a prickly pear that's bright apple with soft spikes
In bunches on a vine. We don't find them in our book.

We pass the spot the old timer has his garden.
Up for the weekend to the cabin years ago it takes us
Extra days to fix the pickles and tomatoes he brings.
The river is dry with wide shoals that stretch across
The open space to the opposite side. What water there is
Stands in pools by gravel and sand in a narrow channel.

The sun is low and the glare from it makes points
And long rays that slant down in a red dazzle.
Trees grow up on an island of washed stones.
The old butternut along the bank is bare
And the frail branches hold out their pulpy fruit.
Turning back we look up to see the first one out.

We have candlelight dinner by ourselves and clink glasses.
She has an understanding with her Dad about the money
And stays with East Side friends who dress up and go out.
They shop and do the galleries. We see a white crescent
And we skywatch at the window looking for the star.
The place is empty and dark until they meet.

We finish up and linger over the wine. The Whitney
Takes a trip up the Hudson and after the Big Bang
Everyone is his own philosopher. There are clearly defined
Periods of expanding matter and collapsed perceptions.
Upstairs I say Let's not talk and we undress.
It's always better after she's away.

Jay NY 10/2/94

DURHAM FAIR
The bus squeals to a stop and the two kids
Throw themselves over the wall book bags and all.
A low sun makes long shadows on the grass in front of them
And the little row of sugar maples start to turn.
On the Boston Road past Albany we stop at an old tavern
That still serves beef and popovers in a basket.

In early days coaches sound a warning from the top
Of the hill. Rooms are papered and added on as needed.
Each has exposed beams and a walled over door or fireplace.
Couples are alone and silent or together in conversation.
This season our weather's ahead of theirs. Too late to make it
We stay at a motel run by a dark man with an accent.

We find him at the kitchen table with the paper.
He eats his meals out and waits till we get there
For breakfast together with good coffee.
She's been gone six years with blood cancer and he lives
In the empty family room on the couch with a bad TV.
The kids watch a morning talk show with green faces.

In revolt from a welloff family of engineers
He goes to the state agricultural college
And marries the farmer's daughter. They meet
In the Grange booth cooking hamburger at a county fair.
She's tall and a redhead just eighteen.
They wait during the war and write letters.

Hers follow him all over the West Pacific
And he sends back whenever the fighting stops.
It's the only chance they ever get to talk to one another.
He makes it through to finish his tour at Portsmouth
And his Dad gives him the foreman's house with the 60-acre lot
Above the woollen mill to start a farm.

Fridays he takes the kids with him in the old truck
To the market in Hartford. They camp overnight
With school chums at the log cabin in the cedar thicket.
A black snake lives under the chicken coop for years
And the brook fills with watercress. When eggs fail
He drives bus and puts it all in Christmas trees.

The fair gets bigger and more crowded every year.
This is the 75th and we drive to the Industrial Park
At a muddy field where they shuttle us in a steady stream.
All kinds of people come from far away as Springfield
And New Haven and we don't see anyone we know.
He stays away helping out in the apple orchard.

He takes us all to dinner at the regular place.
They build it by the river with insurance money
On an ancient site and we look down the pocket for the wheel.
Since service days his speech is peppery and he chain smokes
Through the old jokes and stories and kids with the owner
And the waitress who's young with a pink face.

In the only part of his life he can recall with energy
And conviction he's detached with two platoons
In the desolate middle of the New Guinea jungle and beach.
His unit never makes the expected engagement and he survives
The fifty years on field rations and fish from a tidal lagoon
Well dug in camouflaged with a good line of fire on all sides.

On the highway going North colors brighten
As we get closer home. Maple on the hillsides
First begin to lose them at the top and outer branches.
Birch and apple slip from green to yellow with time.
Individuals stressed by disease or drought go bare.
Brittle leaves on beech and oak live into winter.
9/29/94 Middletown CT

TRILLIUM
Smoky Mountain
I leave her for another woman
And the kids get hurt in the fight.
When she's finished making love after two summers
The girl splits breaking my heart on the way out.

I take a week off from work
For a trip South with my son who I hardly know.
It's Easter vacation and we head for a National Park
In Tennessee and stay at a rustic hotel.

In those days progress hadn't caught up with the place
And the town is pretty with good country food.
At night in the restaurant he listens while
I talk to him about my personal problems.

Days we drive around the narrow roads and stop
At old buildings and natural places along the way.
For a while on a steep trail I think we're lost
Until the view opens up to Mt. LeConte in sun and smoke.

We follow a road along a little river with daffodils
At the old homesites and a wildflower I can't name.
I rush him to the clinic for a butterfly stitch
When he climbs a waterfall and cuts his lip coming down.

Red Dragon Inn
We invite a few kids from his boarding school
For an overnight at our place in the woods.
They play a popular fantasy game in a medieval setting
With unfamiliar creatures and precise attributes.

Each session is a goal oriented adventure
Where luck and resourcefulness determine the outcome.
Fighter cleric or thief the character
Is decided by dice and set for life.

The scholarship boy asks about the trees and I explain
About tolerant types and the succession of species.
He doesn't believe a million seeds will fall
And none will take unless disaster opens up a spot.

In a clear sky extending on every side above the trees
I spend some quality time with the evening star.
On the way home a single wasp sways through
The cool air in a series of jagged lines.

Lying face down to the earth I learn
Where the smell of hay will come from this summer.
I crawl back hands and knees to get a close look
At the emerging forms that are sprouting from the ground.

At two in the morning I get up to make a sketch
Of this idea while it's fresh in my mind.
When I step out to take a leak the sky is jam full
Of pretty lights and I can't tell which way she went.

Tending the fire while they sleep the old headline tells about
A flood or a hurricane I can't do anything about anymore.
In the morning I show them by the barn where new nestlings
Raise up their pink heads in a chorus like a flower.

Further Encounter
Up on the lot where the pine is cut apple green
Vigorous waves of new aspen shimmer in sun like tall grass.
A spruce grows out of one corner of an old cellar
And nearby red alder have blown in on the wind.

The black brook overflows into a stand of paper birch.
A culvert fills with sand and ditch water
Spills down the old roadbed in a stream.
Marigold takes up a bright spot in the Spring run.

Deep woods are bare after a long Winter
And he and I walk together into the empty space
For a fresh look at the fragile blooms suspended
Along with rocks and trees above the moist soil in shade.
Jay 5/15/94

Poetry at Fourpeaks. (A Complete Poetry Index.) Camp. Repose in a natural place. Wainwright Mountain. Camp and the everyday world. Connery Pond. Louise and Martin. Giant Mountain. Louise and the kids. Cascade Lakes. The kids. Feeding Birds In Winter. The life cycle. More Adirondack Poems. New York City Themes. (A change of pace.) Order Information: Poems For My Kids. (Including Author's Biographical Note.) Email the Author. (Exchange poems or . . .)

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