Poems

It has been a while since I've read poetry. The recent death of the writer Jim Harrison inspired me to read through some of his work. I am unfamiliar with him besides Legends of the Fall and, oddly enough, seeing him on TV as part of an Anthony Bourdain travel show. He reminded me of version of Charles Bukowski - the rural outdoorsman instead of the rough-and-tumble city dweller. Here are two of his poems that stood out for me:

Return

The sun's warm against the slats of the granary,

a puddle of ice on the shadow of the steps;

my uncle's hound

lopes

across the winter wheat.

fresh green cold green.

The windmill, long out of use, screeches

and twists in the wind.

Spring day, too loud for talk,

when bones tire of their flesh

and want something better.

Barking

The moon comes up.
The moon goes down.
This is to inform you
that I didn’t die young.
Age swept past me
but I caught up.
Spring has begun here and each day
brings new birds up from Mexico.
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now there’s no chain.