JOURNAL 5

ERIC PANKEY

Metaphor

  To capture the morning

     Along the washed-out town road

above a slope too steep to grow crops

    he shoveled up this tangle

     of weeds and grasses –

  each separate, clustered:

     feathery shoots of yarrow,

dandelion florets closed tight above

  their jagged damp leaves, cocksfoot,

     spare spikes of heath rush

  and fleshy plantain.

     He carried it home before

the dew dried, before the green mass grown

  heavy with itself wilted.

     The sod in his hands

  was wet and ragged

     with white tubers and nerve-like

roots. The dirt sifted through his hands

  fell in a trail behind him.

     Posed at eye-level

  on a shelf above

     his table the square of earth

grew richer as he painted –

  creeping Charlie, meadow grass,

     clear for the first time

as the light, which was

     by now water and color

dried still and permanent on paper.

  Springtime held in check, steadfast.

     A cool wash of green.

  A study, he called

     it later. An exercise

toward some greater painting. Perhaps

  the wild growth among the rocks

     of Calvary hill,

  or beneath the head

     of a waking guard surprised

by light from a tomb that bright morning

  when spring arrived forever.

     In this old story

  about a painting,

     in this long mediation

there is another, unknown story

  about the young apprentice

     who mumbled and bitched

  as again he swept

     the floor after his master

tracked in the red-clay soil, the straw

  thrown down outside the doorstep.

     When the boy stopped work

  long enough to say

     he had had enough, he quit,

the artist did not look up, did not

  take his eyes off the green clump

     loosing its luster.

  The boy cared nothing

     for a mess of weeds, for years

of calculating the pure proportion

  of head to hand to body,

     the raw stink of oil.

  Although his trained hands

     were skilled enough to copy

Christ’s passion, a body in torture…,

  he cared nothing for beauty.

     He wanted to be

  a soldier, wanted

     To feel the taut right angle

of a bow-string as he released it

  shimmering into music.

     He wanted to go

  to the Promised Land.

     So he gave up sweeping

and walked out into the clearing day.

  He walked the rutted roadway

     pocked with black puddles

  south away from town.

     The old man could have his weeds,

He thought, stopping by the embankment

  From which the sod had been cut.

     It looked like what it

“Metaphor” by Eric Pankey is a 17-stanza poem in free verse that not only reminds us of the fact that people all see the world from their own unique perspective, but of the inquiry and response found in an artist’s exercise.  The short, clumpy stanzas all begin and end with relatively short lines and in their construction physically emulates the messy mass of sod that propels the story.  The alliteration speckled throughout the poem is generally covert and consistent, but breaks for a few stanzas—highlighting a shift in scene or subject.  Pankey allows reading this poem to be its own “study” with rich description to allow us to dig deeper into his intent, but not in a way that feels strung along.

THOMAS MERTON

Landscape, Prophet and Wild-Dog

The trees stand like figures in a theatre.

Then suddenly there comes a prophet, running for his life,

And the wild-dog behind him.

And now the wild-dog has him by the ankle

And the man goes down.

“Oh prophet, when it was afternoon you told us:

“Tonight is the millennium,

The withering away of the state.

The skies, in smiles, shall fold upon the world,

Melting all injustice in the rigors of their breezy love.’

And all night long we waited at the desert’s edge,

Hearing this wild-dog, only, on the far mountain,

Watching the white moon giggle in the stream!”

The two trees stand like Masters of Arts

And observe the wild-dog

Nailing his knives into the prophet’s shoulder.

“Oh prophet, when it was night you came and told us:

‘Tomorrow is the mellenium,

The golden age!

The human race will wake up

And find dollars growing out of the palms of their hands,

And the whole world will die of brotherly love

Because the factories jig like drums

And furnaces feed themselves,

And all men lie in idleness upon the quilted pastures

Tuning their friendly radios and dreaming in the sun!”

“But when the grey day dawned

What flame flared in the jaws of the avenging mills!

We heard the clash of hell within the gates of the embattled Factory

And thousands died in the teeth of those sarcastic fires!”

“And now the rivers are poisoned,

The skies rain blood

And all the springs are brackish with the taste

Of these your prophecies.

Oh prophet, tell us plainly, at last:

When is the day of our success?”

But there is no answer in the dead jaws.

And the air is full of wings.

The crows come down and sit like senators

On the arms of the two trees.

At the edge of the salt-lands

In the dry-blue clay

The wild-dog, with a red claw scuffs out a little hollow,

Burying the prophet’s meatless shin.

These poems offer reason for serious consideration of the values we keep.  Merton clearly takes a more serious and harsh approach in comparison to Pankey’s sauntering stanzas that seek first to invite with lush imagery.  I imagine Pankey’s young apprentice to be part of the crowd that cries to Merton’s ill-fated prophet.  The artist clearly holds his comments to himself, but cannot be caught up in the boundaries of words and instead draws his interest through the crumbling patch of sod.  Soil appears in both as a means to providing and denying truth, false-hope and an urn.

When I Knew Where to Find Him

 

Shopping seemed like an honest activity we could both enjoy.

Sometimes it is hard to reconnect with a friend from the past.

Besides—I needed new sneakers.

Her eyes were smoky, her hair pressed in waves.

Mine were naked to truth and a limp ponytail hung behind me.

We are who we are—

not forgetting that one day not so long ago we laughed at the same things.

I should have realized as we walked in that

Our footprints foreshadowed the scene.

Mine full and blob-like; hers detached and pointed.

Still—I needed new sneakers.

As I stated my intention cold air met our

Rosy faces as the door swung open.

Her eyes likely cause her ears to stop functioning.

I followed her path, but diverged based on a number indicating size.

White has never served me well—especially the mesh.

Shopping for new school shoes each year was a chore.

Finicky taste and comfort aren’t easy to express

When from the outside everything looks fine.

I’d developed brand loyalty over the years,

Which I’m not at all proud of.

Selection goes faster and fit and style are never upset.

Scanning the rack I find a suitable pair.

Dark colored, fair support, aesthetically pleasing (to me).

Sitting at the end of the aisle, I slip them on.

I decide to walk around—testing them out and searching for her.

She’s a few aisles over and

Gently puts a pair of something pink back on the rack.

Looking at my feet and she appears

To be         speechless.

“I found a pair I like.  What do you think?”

Words chosen delicately, but decidedly not sparing the truth:

“They’re alright—if you want to meet a guy while…

…um…hiking.”

And this is why I suggested shopping. 

___

Pankey, Eric. “Metaphor.” Wild Reckoning: An Anthology Provoked by Rachel Carson's Silent Spring. Ed. Burnside, John,

     Maurice Riordan. London: Calouste Gulbenkian Foundation, 2004. 88. Print.

 

Merton, Thomas. The Collected Poems of Thomas Merton. New York: New Directions, 1977. Print.