Formicaleone

Cinque poesie di Chad Norman

ACCIDENT AT THE MILL
for Ken Cathers
 
Ant
large in size,
a new friend
found in the sticks,
sticks going into stacks,
stacks of two by this
and two by that,
destined for the kiln.
 
Ant,
fallen between boards,
able to survive
a journey to me,
unprepared for the injury
you managed to take on,
your head up proud
but your rear-end taken.
 
Ant,
I see your legs
trying to do what
they always do,
carrying something,
but this moment
must be uncommon
as I see
and don’t want to.
 
There is a different direction
you didn’t choose
going in circle after circle,
all that can be
leaving me
the big reckless man,
trying to help those legs,
legs part of your damage,
part of how
any escape is possible.
 
Ant,
I don’t give up.
I continue with a Sliver
of fir, holding it so still,
moving it under
the crushed section
until I pick you up
and try to prevent
any further confusion.
 
Ant,
perhaps during the next shift
I will know
you survived,
see no sign of you
on any piece of wood.

FINALLY, I HAVE WRITTEN A GREAT POEM
for Lainee
 
Time, really,
went away…
believe it.
 
To walk
in
the accomplished grass,
 
I continue
to believe
every
attentive blade.
 
Yet
both of us
easily knowing,
maybe,
why
we are here.

FINDING MOTHER IN THE GOLDENRODS
for Carole
 
As I ponder near the entrance
of a path through the goldenrods
stopping and standing in what
I see is the middle of what I 
have made, caused the seasons to
gain entry to, not only the memory
but a brief gaze into the imagination.
 
And there what touches me
is no longer alive, does not show
all what was golden, what I
used to get through a property;
twelve years taught each visit
to look up as I took the steps 
briefly between ferns, before 
I chose that small section
where I was told I am a trespasser,
do not continue to use this forest.
 
Being there in the middle of my path,
to return after all the summer colours
is no choice, simply a way among ways
through, step after step an easy entrance
into a place I never knew to share
would matter to other than myself.
 
Alone with all of them dead,
each one I have known during 
the attempt to know each golden top
and every waving leaf down 
the surging green stems; walk after walk
up out of what was and remains the Muse
there is no escape from, even though
the rain keeps with the wind,
both knocking down all what was brown,
dropping into my body, nourishing me
like my mother once did.
 
When my birth was something golden,
and she stood in the middle too,
a path to be of her making,
of her choices, those ones leading
all of this mystery, this seasonal beauty
where we somehow have ended up,
I embedded in a generous wet present
and mother close, even though
an entire wintry nation 
remains between our lives.

LAST OF THE QUEEN ANNE’S LACE
 
A feeling speaks
during another walk…
beside me the yellow flowers
looking like miniature dandelions
can’t stop waving
like the wings of the last 
adored yellow butterflies.
 
The way the wind
places dead twigs
back on the Earth,
designs I try to figure out
failing with a smile on my face.
 
Traffic beside me goes on,
in the gravel colour teaches,
a leaf there or in the air
knows me, I want this,
to be known, above us
there is a welcome, crows give
directions to deeper regions
I contain, finally seeing flowers
more after they die and disappear.
 
Nothing today is interference
I require no orchestra to
hear what this windy aria
wishes to heal within me,
where I live for now
asking all of what is
reaching inside the body.
 
Where a stem also controls,
decides whether joy is
or joy is not, a chance
to allow a ladybug
at least one tender bite
on an arm, or stay tuned
hearing how I brought
what each caw says I did,
the peanuts, and the dog-food.
 
All this I want to be…
how I dismiss myself as a human,
like Stafford I was stopped
with only the taillights shining,
the red in the exhaust, a scene
mixed so much so I can now
let go of what was purely indecision,
going onward the next moment 
weeping due to the crows’ thank-yous.
 
And value how no tables
are required to say and see
wild lace still looks like a doily,
spots for this new season
to set out drinks for a lone drinker
 
Yes, all this I want to remain…
lined up just inside
the forest where it begins
younger golden-rods thrive
adding to my education,
the catch being, as a man,
is understanding time’s not
always a clock or a watch
seeing how summer has signalled,
new endings don’t begin for nothing.

NO NEW CASES TODAY
for Victor
 
As I wait and watch for the crows
hearing the distant periodic cawing
a kind of group ruckus the trees hide.
 
During those moments of seeking
a tiny plane
drops its roving shadow,
growing larger and longer
moving through the neighbourhood
like some kind of reminder
I see as a spotlight.
 
A darkened circle ready to reveal
the breakthrough to bring about
the beginning of a cure,
exactly where and when it will be found.

September 1, 2020
Truro, Nova Scotia


Chad Norman lives beside the high-tides of the Bay of Fundy, Truro, Nova Scotia (Canada).  
He has given talks and readings in Denmark, Sweden, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, America, and across Canada.
His poems appear in publications around the world and have been translated into Danish, Albanian, Romanian, Turkish, Italian, Spanish, Chinese, and Polish.
His collections are Selected & New Poems (Mosaic Press), andSquall: Poems In The Voice Of Mary Shelley, is out from Guernica Editions.

(In copertina: foto di Raffaele Auteri)

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