Author’s note:
When San Mateo County, CA shut down in March 2020, I found myself with hours of “new” time on my hands. No carpooling! No commuting! I got right into the practice of getting to my writing desk first thing, spending time with a favorite book: Discovering Wild Plants: Alaska, Western Canada, The Pacific Northwest by Janice Schofield. I loved the process of going through the pages slowly, thinking, saying the words out loud, remembering. I don’t know why I hadn’t realized this before, but the book belonged to my late husband Nick, who died in a cycling accident in 2016. It’s filled with his notes and highlights, those moments that were important to him as an undergraduate student in Environmental Science at Sheldon Jackson College in Sitka, Alaska. So, my time with the book became my time with him and with my grief. The series of 17-line poems came quickly. Thank you for reading this collection of six of them.
the fresh, cleaned fish, rabbit, or duck
and under my feet green ice, the ice
holding its own array of paper birch seeds
and they are like stars in their shapes and
in their assorted romantic arrangements and
they are: lady birch, gray birch, Kenai birch
under the soles of my feet of my bootprint
the fresh, cleaned fish, rabbit, or duck
whose habitat varies from the bogs and tundra
to the lowlands and subalpine meadows, whose
jawbones gleamed in the rushes, the palms
of my hands, the extremities where the pelt
and the sinew, the woodstove and snowshoe,
and they are like pools shining or holding
the white sky before us and they are like
my skin, the very cells, the marrow and helix,
the fresh, cleaned fish, rabbit, or duck
the sun-dried or fresh sea vegetable, steeped as tea
and a gold bell you gave me, the shape of steam
drawn over the window, hemlock, syndrome
and experiment, where you placed the crown
and the jewel thorn and bracken fern, you
arranged in the doorway the membrane and
you are: husband, thimble, father, marine summer
at the back of the skull, that which empties itself
of the sun-dried or fresh sea vegetable, steeped
as tea, as the number of heartbeats or allotted
breaths, hairs of the head, sparrows of the field,
paths along the river, estuary, all night breathing
next to me warm and mammalian, industrious,
bladderwrack of ancient origin, salt smell, a fleck
of metal, chain link, conveyor belt, backbone, copper
pipe and my arms full of branches and nomenclature
the sun-dried or fresh sea vegetable, steeped as tea
blend with other tonic herbs (such as dandelion root
and flower spikes, colored, pinnately compound,
the styptic qualities of the plant’s leaves, sanguisorba,
and a photograph, a hospital bed, a blue flame after
the float plane docks, oxygen, my hand at the throat,
as if the land had pinched it, windpipe, there were starfish
and they were six-legged, rough-skinned, reddish in color,
over-easy, if you stood at the bedside if the newborn
blend with other tonic herbs (such as dandelion root
and a couple of emergency vehicles, to stem the flow,
to dam, what other objects filled the torso, the limb
torn, if I bit you, if a soft cape of petals gathered,
a little gasp, a thistle, and you rising, and a housefinch
at the glass, tapping, and someone stopped the very
arrival, the quickening spirit, as if it never existed as
if we hadn’t spent ourselves like that in this earth
blend with other tonic herbs (such as dandelion root
flowers were often mixed with buckbean, eyebright,
chamomile, lavender, a few words of elucidation
regarding the masterpiece, the ancient pipe, the felty
undersides of the leaves and I stood listening, sliced
my own wrist inhaled the cooling smoke and a world
appeared, the essentials, that which strikes and enlightens,
wholehearted, where even the most extraordinary
strength will hardly be sufficient, be alive in the tundra,
in the coniferous woods, the ladies of quality, these
roots that taketh away all spots and blemishes, whose
flowers were often mixed with buckbean, eyebright,
primrose, harebell, and the people revered them
and called them Saint, and after a time the incessant
workings of the mind turn visible, turn concrete in
this the hour of lead or of fair trade, of black sugar
or the coming twilight, heliotrope, wild rose, tobacco
flowers were often mixed with buckbean, eyebright
people weave the spring bark to make strong
string, from sorrow and mourning (weeping
willow) to the hearts of oak and breast, eye
and ovary and red wheelbarrow, clavicle,
portent of spring, a slip of paper, anthracite
burning with a little flame or smoke, and there
was the shape of the bud against the eyelid,
silver fur, silk and how do you see yourself in
all this? American linden, jackdaw, purloined
key, steel-blue and purplish, privileged, at dawn
people weave the spring bark to make strong
shapes out of the darkness, out of the fish skin
or the diamond ring or leisure gallery, galaxy
cornice or drumlin, loom, the spindle drift
the treaty the textile the hand against the lip
or was it a finger a scissor a doll a blue fawn
people weave the spring bark to make strong
based on the Doctrine of Signatures, a European
method popular in the 1600s, associated the healing
powers with resemblance to human anatomy, human
growth according to its benefits, its rituals or nine bark,
streambed, riverbank, chosen landscape, women’s
work, nursery catalogue, tea rose, picket fence,
copper kettle, a cotton cloth embroidered with blue
flax flowers, a pot holder, a bruise there if you would
just, in the driveway, and what I meant to say was
based on the Doctrine of Signatures, a European
bushel of timothy, the moment by which you judge
the other pain by, the pinprick of light at the eye’s edge
and this for your own good the snap crackle cobweb
the mothwing caught and he’s so sorry and say this
then, buckle up, it happens, the raised hand the nosegay
the rivermouth repeating, pearly everlasting, an Eden
based on the Doctrine of Signatures, a European
Caroline Goodwin moved to California from Sitka, Alaska in 1999 to attend Stanford as a Wallace Stegner Fellow in poetry. Her books are Trapline (JackLeg Press, 2013), Peregrine (Finishing Line Press, 2015), The Paper Tree (Big Yes Press, 2017) andCustody of the Eyes (dancing girl press, 2019). Her chapbook Text Me, Ishmael was published as Steven Hitchins’ Literary Pocketbook Series #2 in 2012. She lives and teaches in the San Francisco Bay Area.
3 Comments
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Mags Munro May 3rd, 2021
I’m currently taking your class and while only having first read 17 Vaccinium ovalifolium Whortleberry 01-22-20 0900 PDT so far, I wanted to share with you how much I am moved by your style of writing. It’s very unique and appealing on many levels. I’m sorry for your loss and am glad you were able to process your grief through writing.
Mary Fisher October 25th, 2021
I particularly appreciated the imagery and sentiments in Bladderwock,” “Sitka Great Burnett,” and “Pussy Willow.” Intertwining aspects of your husband’s book, margin notes, and your thoughts wove a vivid picture of his love for his work and your loss and sorrow. I took your class “Writing through Struggle” in 2019. I found solace and purpose in my writing through that class. Thank you. Today, I embrace more discoveries and growth possibilities in your “A Poet’s away” class. Thank you again.
Brenda Corelis October 25th, 2021
Caroline.
Thank you for sharing these poems. I am in my fourth class with Stanford Continuing Education, all on poetry but my first with you. After reading these poems, I have to say I am fascinated how unique they are and as a new poet I am so curious about your thought process. I find poetry to be very healing for me as I can see how you experience writing, thank you for sharing these. I must read more of your work.
Brenda