Carkeek Poems: Leavings – Joseph Anderson

Pop!

Nestled in amongst the driftwood
beneath the grafittied rocks
in the company of beach fire ash
and scraggly beach grass
a blotch of wrinkled red
a deflated heart-shaped balloon
a gap in its seam that seems intentional

Did she stomp on it?
Did he sit on it in disgust?
Was it torn asunder on a jealous tussle?
“My heart!”
“No, my heart!”
“I need it!”
“I need it more!”

Pop.

Recently it has seemed to me that my heart is broken
overwhelmed
a tug of war within me between fire and ice
between passion and dignity
between the ruins of my past
and the disintegration that surely lies ahead of me

My poor heart
shriveled
abandoned in the sand
as my warring partners finally stumble to their neutral corners
panting
bloodied
finally gazing at each other, rancor draining away
leaking out through the gash

There it lies
waiting to be recovered
repaired
infused again with warm breath

Still Smoldering

One beach party is still hot, at 8 the next morning:
a driftwood log radiates warmth, puts out wreaths of smoke

Whatever passion or drunkenness or conviviality, or earnest conversation
that may have unfolded over the course of a warm summer evening
is still smoldering

And you, o my soul,
whatever your aspirations, plans, projects, grand designs
relationships warm or cruel cold
fears disasters heartbreak
satisfactions, completions, contracts fulfilled or unfulfilled
you smolder on

This smoke is sweet and purifying
the embers remain but are buried deep

Yes! They will consume themselves and go out
but not yet

not yet

The Morning After

Redemption

I
Yesterday, as I sat on my big uprooted driftwood alder tree to write,
the stiff breeze blew an orange plastic bag against my leg
I was intent on my writing, and brushed the bag aside and it rolled down into the creek bed: a bright blob against the green algae

Caught up in my creation, my problems, the worries of the world and my body, I left it there and walked away

Today, there it is again
against my tree
on this very still day
giving me a second chance to carry it away,
that little crinkled symbol of plastic death among the rhythms of life

But also a life-giver itself, because
I can, at least, make one little thing right
One little leverage point of restoration

Who knows what might follow from that?

Dogshit

Magic Day

There is always magic here on the beach:

Transforming tides creative crows geoducks algae objects appearing and disappearing with rising and falling water beach parties monstrous trains snorting mountains manifesting and de-manifesting with the clouds

On this day 66 years ago I magically appeared
and magically still seem to be here.
and will magically vanish on some other day (not today, God willing)

On this day here, there is a magic pair of princess shoes, red, with sign of strawberry, suspended in air
and a witch with pointed hat
striding the beach
summoning

Broken Specs

specs: short for “spectacles” or glasses
specs: short for “specifications” or a set of instructions for building something

If it was warm yesterday
there must be remnants of beach fires today
but here, now, I have no need of sunglasses

It’s cool and grey, and whoever it was that lost theirs, trampled underfoot (I imagine) by some form of Beach Blanket Bingo,
today they don’t need them either

All our specs are broken
all our plans are plundered
all our designs dismantled by our exuberance or the exuberance of others

But it’s worth asking:
do we really need them?

Broken Pallet

The last few days there has been a wooden pallet
the kind used with forklifts and warehouses
drifting here and there on the beach

It was cannibalized for beach fires
and I thought it would meet its end that way

But the high solstice tides carried it away
waterlogged it
festooned it with seaweed

It has been in a different place each day
but as the tides even out with the movements of sun and moon
it will find its resting place
and probably be consumed by fire in the warm summer evenings
once it dries out

You imperfect rectangle
your slats are broken like ours
and like us will be eventually consumed

May we all bring light

Parallelogram

A wooden pallet
has been tide-tossed here and there on the beach
for a couple of weeks now
slowly disintegrating
splintering
adorned with seaweed
it imposes a geometry on the landscape
like the soccer ball, the ping pong ball, the notebooks, the dented beer cartons

Well

There is geometry everywhere: fractals and complex curves
waves and solids and the arcs of bird wings

We humans are so damn simple
I am simple
I pick out of this landscape those points of purity that my kind likes to generate
the white boats on the water
the airplane darts thrown through clouds
the monotonous drone of engine, leaf blower, railroad car

But as I approach the foam of my mortal end
the algal decay
the splintering of my wood
I have so much to learn about irregularity
so much of regularity to release

While the palette’s parallel slats may be
the last part of its form to collapse
they will collapse, and so will all my thinking

One Hundred

One hundred is a round number

round like the battered soccer ball
left on the beach
round like the champagne bail
like the bottom of the beer can
left as an eye in the driftwood root ball
like my concepts and constructions

but the crane is not round
nor is the flight of startled pigeons
this impending fall coolness on my rock
the crow ominously perched

nor my heart, nor this moment

I’ve written one hundred beach poems
(or will have in a minute)
it’s a number
it’s a poem

tomorrow, God willing, there will be another