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I wrote this poem this week after listening to Gary Snyder reading from his poems at the Library of Congress in 1966. The 'facts' of the poem are true, but not contiguous in time. I wanted to write a concrete poem about an incident that happened a few years ago when I had literally stumbled on a deer skeleton after stepping into the bushes to pee. When I got home and began to write, the older story of being left on the side of the road just snuck into the poem and the theme began to emerge. It is true that I have always been teased about my small bladder, but as I have gotten older it just seems to be more acute. Hence the theme of growing old and ending up, ultimately like the deer.
I drive home in the rain from the train station, a point along the way
Car to train to subway to office building and back again.
The beer I had in the club car cries for release and
I finally can put it off no longer.
I pull over at wide spot beside a stone wall and slip into the woods.
I step in a bit and piss into the wet leaves, steaming in the drizzle.
God, I hate growing old, with a bladder
The exact capacity of a twelve ounce beer.
Curse my age. . . . but only a little.
There is relief in standing amid the dripping trees
Beside the empty road beyond the undergrowth – a bit naked and free at least.
And it is not as though my need to pee is really
All that new . . . night on a lonely road in Connecticut
Three of us standing in the tail light’s red glow,
Piss splashing off the warm asphalt.
We were young or drunk or possibly both.
They drove away without me because I was too slow or the butt of some joke.
I watched the tail lights round the curve into the black forest and was left
Standing on the empty road.
The sound of frogs in ditch water and a breeze crossing the grassy fields,
Undulating in the darkness, I am sure I laughed with joy.
They came back, of course and we all laughed
And probably drank some more.
Now I finish up with the wet air cold on my face and turn to go.
That’s when I see the bones heaped under the pine.
I first see the cage of ribs and then long thigh bones;
Coming closer, the skull and antlers, the bare grin of teeth.
I am no huntsman so I can’t tell if this deer staggered
off the road with a shattered pelvis to die panting under this tree.
Or was he blinded in his majesty by a flashlight and a sharp report?
One shot echoing in the night, then another for good measure.
Was he hastily butchered - the hindquarters and shoulders
Skinned and sliced away, the rest left to throw wardens off the trail?
I can’t tell. For all I know this deer died a natural death;
Died of starvation;
Died of old age;
Died of love.
How the hell should I know?
I run my hands lightly along the smooth antlers,
As yet unchewed by porcupine, squirrel, rabbit, mouse.
I am tempted to take some souvenir but think the better of it.
I chose to honor this open grave, this white memorial to change;
To coming and going, to life and death, to wide eyes and
Twitching nose and strong legs and flashing tail;
Honor this white monument of pure smooth bones.
Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway, as I zip up and
Make my way through the waning light
Back to the car,
And the drive home.
05/22/2012
You have to check out this very cool site of images of the Goddess . http://www.pbase.com/stephen_collector/the_goddess&page=4
