MichaelBrown
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Michael Brown, Professor of Communications at Mount Ida College, has three books of poetry, "Falling Wallendas" (Chicago: Tia Chucha, 1994), "Susquehanna" (Princeton: Ragged Sky, 2003), and "The Man Who Makes Amusement Rides" (Newtown, CT: Hanover Press, 2003). He has performed poetry, taught classes, and lectured in various world venues. His current project is Dr. Brown¹s Traveling Poetry Circus, winner of the "Best Poetry Troupe" at the 2004 Cambridge Poetry Awards. Brown brought the poetry slam to New England, and he is the Boston representative to the Individual World Poetry Championships in Worcester in February, 2005.
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Decoys
Fall used to begin when
plaintive honks from a long V
of Canada geese high in scarlet
dawn down the Susquehanna
drifted in the open window by my bed.
It ended in gray morning air
cut by sleet and clattering thumps
of decoys into wooden boats followed by
the wet slap of bloody ducks.
In silent lines on seamless water
decoys lured noisy gangs
to skid and shake themselves to sleep
crowded with quacks, honks, and hoots
among sandbars and islands.
When first light crept above low hills
and illuminated the water, we couldn¹t tell
ducks from decoys, reeds from blinds.
Men had filtered through the night
on flat silent hulls, slid into
cozy shooting stands, or bobbed among
sleeping fowl. Maybe a decoy bumped
a boat, but never a goose, and the dogs
were quiet as empty clouds.
The first shot commenced the mayhem‹
bird cries, barking dogs, shouting men,
shotguns, and the holy whirr of wings
covering the air until all subsided to laconic
voices across the river, the mournful whistle
of a wounded canvasback, moist panting
of excited retrievers, and decoys bouncing
like clowns, stiff replicas with glassy eyes,
oval cork bodies, and wooden heads,
bound by ropes at four foot spaces,
luring flyers to false safety.
Today Marty leans against a work bench,
surveys three teal, and says he has to carve
because painting them drove him crazy.
The new bufflehead gets passed among
four gray men. One notes the delicate
green sheen on its back, purple on the forehead.
Another admires the compact shape and carving.
Marty slides a square neck into smooth body.
"You have to remember," he says,
"You¹re always taking something away."
Among windowsills lined with profiles,
tables littered with roughed out types,
a great black slatted goose in the corner,
I find a cork bodied mallard, tell them I smell
my grandfather¹s beer and tobacco juice,
and catch sunrise in their eyes, even if
the only ducks we ever touch
are covered in oil.
Horse Chestnuts
We tossed our book bags into the trees,
and when we caught some,
pressed our small thumbs
along the wet seams inside the spines
to pry open the pulpy husks and hope
the nuts were large and dark,
round and smooth.
In wanton excess we threw them at each other
on the last strands of cement before
we ducked behind solid doors.
Mothers called them dirty because
dead leaves, shells and small chestnuts
mashed by cars at night littered the asphalt.
We loved the tall broad leafy trees
which gave such summer shade,
held armies of cicadas in their arms,
stately in strong wind, and dropped
sharp questions that popped on the ground
and showered boys with rugged fun
no other tree could match.
The Editor at My Table
for Keith Flynn
Thin shanks stick out like two legs
of a trapezoid chair. Wild hair is gathered
above his Sun Records shirt, and rock energy
drives his hands to pick at syntax;
he growls over sense without sound.
This is not a man who breaks strings,
violates language, or lets the school teacher
from Western Carolina criticize his usage
when he whispers with poetic lips
and things melt south of the Mason-Dixon.
Closing the mailer is like opening a guitar case.
He stands tall; his hair comes down,
brow smooths, jaws relax; he smiles.
Supple fingers stroke wild chords,
and the half moon shines in the middle of the night.
