Ray Atkeson, from Northwest Heritage: The Cascade Range, 1969

Today outside your prison I stand
and rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;
you have relatives outside. And there are
thousands of ways to escape.

Years ago I bent my skill to keep my
cell locked, had chains smuggled to me in pies,
and shouted my plans to jailers;
but always new plans occurred to me,
or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,
or some stupid jailer would forget
and leave the keys.

Inside, I dreamed of constellations—
those feeding creatures outlined by stars,
their skeletons a darkness between jewels,
heroes that exist only where they are not.

Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,
just as—often, in light, on the open hills—
you can pass an antelope and not know
and look back, and then—even before you see—
there is something wrong about the grass.
And then you see.

That’s the way everything in the world is waiting.

Now—these few more words, and then I’m
gone: Tell everyone just to remember
their names, and remind others, later, when we
find each other. Tell the little ones
to cry and then go to sleep, curled up
where they can. And if any of us get lost,
if any of us cannot come all the way—
remember: there will come a time when
all we have said and all we have hoped
will be all right.

There will be that form in the grass.

_______________________________

On Thursday, February 27th from 5:30 to 6:45pm at the Princeton Art Museum, fans, friends, and fellow poetry lovers will gather to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the American poet and beloved Oregonian Poet Laureate, William Stafford (1914 – 1993). Join us for readings, recollections, cakes and ale.

Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief

by Maxine Kumin

Blue landing lights make

nail holes in the dark.

A fine snow falls.

We sit

on the tarmac taking on

the mail, quick freight,

trays of laboratory mice,

coffee and Danish

for the passengers.

Wherever we’re going

is Monday morning.

Wherever we’re coming from

is Mother’s lap.

On the cloud-pack above, strewn

as loosely as parsnip

or celery seeds, lie

the souls of the unborn:

my children’s children’s

children and their father.

We gather speed for the last run

and lift off into the weather.

_____________________

Gordon Parks, Black Muslim Rally, Harlem, 1963

If Into Love The Image Burdens

by Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka

The front of the head

is the scarred cranium. The daisy

night, alone with its mills. Grumbling

through history, with its nest

of sorrow. I felt lost

and alone. The windows

sat on the street and smoked

in dangling winter. To autumn

from spring, summer’s questions

paths, present to the head

and fingers. The shelf. The

rainbow. Cold knuckles rub against

a window. The rug. The flame. A woman

kneels against the sill. Each figure

halves silence. Each equation

sprinkles light.

Grey hats and eyes

for the photographed

trees. Grey stones and limbs

and a herd of me’s.

Past, perfect.

Each correct color

not in nature, makes

us weep. Each inexpressible

idea. The fog lifts. The fog

lifts. Now falls. The fog

falls.

And nothing is done, or complete. No person

loved, or made better or beautiful. Came here

lied to, leave

the same. Dead boned talk

of history. Grandfathers skid

down a ramp of the night. Flame

for his talk, if it twists

like light on leaves.

Out past the fingers.

Out past the eyes.

Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka, The Dead Lecturer, Grove Press, 1964