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Lyle Daggett's most
recent book of poems is What Is Buried Here, published by
Red Dragonfly Press.
Poets he likes to read include Thomas McGrath, Sharon Doubiago, Federico
Garcia Lorca, Kenneth Rexroth, Joy Harjo, Etheridge Knight, Miroslav
Holub, Jenne Andrews, Gerrye Payne, Anya Achtenberg, Dale Jacobson, Mary
McAnally, Tu Fu, Yosano Akiko, Robert Edwards, Nancy Morejon, Miroslav
Holub, Anuradha Mahapatra, Anna Swir . . . these are a few among many
many. Like most people, he is constantly teaching and learning, though
mostly not in schools. His blog is
A
Burning Patience. He lives in
Minneapolis.
tropic of cancer
the sun rises in a cloud of questions
vapor trail fading above the harbor
green river golden land
how many are in your party
we’re doing a promotion no visitors keep out
inspections are conducted daily
gray-winged hawk grasps a fish in its claws
west longitude sub-tropical dolor
terra cotta beachfront nightmare
sun glint on radio mast freight bound for the antilles
bearing one two five east by southeast
wind from the east 14 knots barometer steady
somewhere off san salvador an end of sorrow and desire
gray mist rises in the wake
explosions of hospitality
moon sunken in clouds
there are no more clocks
caves of ice sea of jewels
sweet ting-a-ling steel drum song
honeyed light plies the tongue
slumped in lethargy by the chlorine pool
a complimentary charge will be added to your account
the nightclub show begins at eight
“darker than the wine-dark sea”
illusions of the burning night
if i look into your heart what will it cost us
if you look into my heart what will we tell each other
scorched earth for sale
smoke and mist the growling of waves through the night
thunder of enterprise mutter of empire
now party till all life ends
there are no secrets here
satellite transmission may vary
The line "darker than the
wine-dark sea" is quoted from the poem "The Isles of Greece" by Thomas
McGrath.
meditations
the constant far-away weeping,
the method of mapping the hidden currents,
the sub-tropical latitudes, pale gold to shimmering green,
shadowed azure to indigo midnight,
quinine and strychnine and burgundy,
the bell-shaped sounds at dawn,
the laughter from the dwellers
near the shore, crowded with islands,
constant and far away, describing the quality
of light playing across the waves as they
break on the shore, the sea-foam
that forms a coherent shape, encrypted
and alphabetical, the frills
of spray that hover perpetually above the surface,
a seacoast steeply rising, standing alone
in the middle of the ocean, a sailing vessel
archaic, defunct, any piece of wreckage
tossed up by the sea, a fear
of driftwood, one who observes the ocean
with hidden motives, the capacity of the ocean
to swallow up anything thrown into it,
the ocean as a whole, in slowest movement,
describing the sounds made by the ocean
that resemble an ancient woman crying in the night,
constant, far away, moon-dark, oblong, cave-rounded.
We were a tiny group, five
students and five instructors (a couple of whom doubled as students in
the other instructors' workshops). Some people were traveling with
family and friends.
Beautiful relentless constant merciless sun. The heat was overwhelming.
I loved it. I've lived most of my life in a place (Minneapolis)
legendary for cold weather, and in the Caribbean heat I often felt I was
about to boil away like a jellyfish. I didn't mind.
I generally liked the poetry workshops. I particularly responded to the
ones led by Nick Carbo (in which, following Nick's directions, we all
made origami cranes from paper on which we'd written words and possibly
added colors) and Denise Duhamel (inventing new definitions for words in
alphabetical lists). The classes led by Gabe Gudding (where we wrote and
traded curses and then wrote praises), Annie Finch (on poetic forms) and
David Lehman (on finding sources of inspiration for writing) were fine
too.
In St. Thomas I wandered Charlotte Amalie, spent time sitting at the
water's edge feeling wonderful east breeze in off the bay, watching the
activity of the harbor. I sat a while in Emancipation Park, a small
town-square type of park named in commemoration of the official
abolition of slavery in 1848 after 245 years of slave trade.
In St. Maarten I wandered Philipsburg on the Dutch side of the island,
which was okay though if I had it to do again I would go to Marigot on
the French side. Both days on the islands the heat was overwhelming. Did
I say that already? I was afraid of the sun. I kept finding shade to sit
in. I was in no hurry to do anything.
On both islands I did the best I could to avoid the streets a block or
so back from the harbor that were crowded with jewelry stores.
Newsletters distributed to passengers on the ship were filled with ads
for jewelry stores on the islands.
Deeply entrenched poverty on the islands side by side with the
aggressive tourist business. A large migrant worker economy in the
Caribbean, people working service jobs following the tourist industry.
When I was on the islands I tried as much as I could to withhold any
conclusions and just let the places work on me. I tried to let myself be
aware of my ignorance.
The days at sea I spent a lot of time sitting in shade and watching the
ocean. More clouds than I'd expected, though they provided no relief
from the heat and sun. On one clear night a crescent moon above the sea.
Island lights on the horizon. I kept my eyes open for sea life (dolphins
etc.), never saw any, though I talked to a couple of people who had seen
small sharks once.
Massive quantities of food on the ship, although—when
I finally found something to eat in St. Maarten with real flavor in it—I
realized how bland much of the food on the ship had been. In St. Maarten
a woman who worked in a small cafe told me it starts to cool off in that
part of the world sometime around November.
The last day of the cruise we were at Princess Cays, privately owned by
the cruise company, at the southern tip of Eleuthera Island in the
Bahamas. Basically a beach with a couple of bars and gift shops and a
boat dock. The ship anchored offshore and small boats shuttled
passengers to shore. While I was standing on an open deck (under a roof)
at the bow of the ship, debating whether to go ashore, it started to
rain, a little for a few minutes, then the entire sky opened up from
horizon to horizon, and the island disappeared in the mist.
It rained like that for 15 or 20 minutes, with huge thunder and
brilliant lightning. Then the rain let up and over the next half hour
the weather cleared. I sat on deck, feeling rare cool breeze, and just
watched the weather. As the sky cleared, I saw colors of the water and
sky I'd never seen before—
dazzling clear greens, astonishing turquoise, deep-shaded violet. Then
after a while it got bright and clear and hot again, and I decided not
to go ashore, I was satisfied.
Toward the end of the week we had an open reading by the students—Mike
Alexander, Kelly Thomas, Angela Armitage, Barbra Nightingale, and me.
The last night of the cruise we had a general gathering and a reading by
the five instructors. I really enjoyed the readings.
This past weekend here in Minneapolis it barely got up to 60 degrees on
Saturday, with gray sky. I wore shorts and sandals all day.
© Lyle Daggett 2006.
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