Kick and pull and rage

2.21.2025

ON THE FAR BANK OF THE RIVER JORDAN

When you're young, you remember the years
That they died. Grandmom died in 1969,

Grandpop in 1971. And Uncle Ray? 1984.
When you get a little older, they come at you

A little faster. There are funerals every year.
You lose track of the order that they happened.

Then, there you are, on the edge of getting old,
And you attend another funeral every few weeks.

There is barely time to properly grieve everyone.
One day you hear an old song after many years

And think, "I like that. That would be a good one
For my funeral." You tell this to your wife.

She doesn't answer you, and you find yourself
Thinking that one of you will see the other dead,

There is no way to escape it, no way around it.
After all the years, all the love, the children,

The work, the tears, the laughter, one of you
Will have to stand at the grave of the other one.

And the one who dies first? That one must wait
On the other side, patiently, lovingly, like always.

jobe

When you're dead, you're dead. That's it.

Marlene Dietrich

Photo by Torsten Dederichs on Unsplash

If only we could rent a house in Antarctica near a grocery store.

We are driven by our absurdities
To great lengths and mad deeds.
On our better days, we are hoist
By own petard, and on the bad ones
There are some casualties.
To be fools would require some improvement.
If only we could try life again on another planet,
Another continent, or as another species.
If only we could be dogs or monkeys,
Or perhaps politicians with a ridiculous cause.
Let's save the squirrels,
Let's destroy the trailer-parks.
If only we could rent a house in Antarctica
Near a grocery store.
Then we could get things right.

jobe

The thing that is most beautiful about Antarctica for me is the light. It's like no other light on Earth, because the air is so free of impurities. You get drugged by it, like when you listen to one of your favorite songs. The light there is a mood-enhancing substance.

Jon Krakauer

Rain falling into the dark water of the creek at night. This is how I was formed, dark water into the flesh of a man. O how quietly I flow along this old creekbed.

jobe

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

Sylvia Plath

My light reading for bedtime. It’s over 900 pages, not counting the index. Who wants to hear some Plath trivia? Very soon I will have lots of it. -jobe

Saying Your Own Name

At the end of this poem, say your name out loud.
Close the book, or turn off the screen
And re-enter your life, but not the place where you exited.

Re-enter your life at the next sunrise.
Re-enter your life at the place where you stopped growing.
Re-enter your life at the place where you shut down

And start up again.
Everything that happened, every joy, every sorrow
Happened because of the grace of your life.

This existence belongs to you
And no other. No one else commands you.
At the end of this poem say your name out loud.

You are defined only by the walls you built yourself.
Tear them down now and walk away from the rubble.
Kick and pull and rage until the walls come down,

And re-enter your own life.
No one can stop you and no one can start you,
Friend, this life is yours.

Yours.
At the end of this poem say your name out loud.
This poem is over now.

jobe

In a tangle of cliffs I chose a place —
Bird-paths, but no trails for men.
What’s beyond the yard?
White clouds clinging to vague rocks.
Now I’ve lived here — how many years —
Again and again, spring and winter pass.
Go tell families with silverware and cars*
“What’s the use of all that noise and money?”

Han-shan, translated by Gary Snyder

*Translating these poems in the 1950s, Snyder intended to make them more relevant to 20th century readers, hence ‘cars.’ Han-shan was really around some 12 centuries before that. Han-shan had no Prius.

Faucherie Lake

Late summer, some years ago.

I came back down the trail to Faucherie Lake. About 6000 feet above sea level. There is a primitive campground, but no one else is there. I had set up a little camp there and spent a couple of hours wandering around. The perfume of the pines. Fresh air with a bite, just a little on the left side of being cold at this altitude in August. The sun was already down just behind the ridge. Each step in the growing darkness is a dance between me and the earth. The moon had not risen yet, and soon it would be a jewel in the night sky. The only sounds were my footsteps and the breeze in the branches. Earlier, a woodpecker. Later, an owl. In my camp, rice, beans, fresh vegetables, some coffee, a very small stove, and the poems of William Stafford. No tent between me and the stars, just a ground tarp between my sleeping bag and the ground. Young and alone in the Sierra Nevada, a small and perfect lake that I had first seen on a map. Older now, but rich with memory.

jobe

A poem by Anne Sexton —

The Fury Of Earth

The day of fire is coming, the trush
will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket,
the beetle will sink like a giant bulldozer,
and at the breaking of the morning the houses
will turn into oil and will in their tides
of fire be a becoming and an ending, a red fan.
What then, man in your easy chair,
of the anointment of the sick,
of the New Jerusalem?
You will have to polish up the stars
with Bab-o and find a new God
as the earth empties out
into the gnarled hands of the old redeemer.

Anne Sexton 1928 — 1974

Something in Anne Sexton’s face reminds of my late sister, Dottie (Jobe) Sparks. The shape of her face, the sadness in her eyes; there is a look of doom about her. Sexton was in her mid 40s when she killed herself, and my sister was in her early 70s, and my sister’s death may not have been suicide, so there’s differences.

My brother-in-law, Jimmy Sparks, was murdered with a shotgun early last year, and Dottie, who had multiple health issues and was on some serious meds, went downhill quickly. They had been married 50 years. Dottie added some illegal meds to her legal ones after the murder. Once a thick women, she had been losing weight for some time, years, and when she died was down to 90-ish pounds. Jimmy’s sister tried to help get her some care, as did a cousin of ours, and I did as well. Dottie wouldn’t have it. She walked out of the hospital and stopped speaking to us; we all lived a long way from her. 1200 miles for me. It wasn’t long before we heard that she was found dead in her bathtub. Not drowned, but she passed on while taking a bath. Personally I believe she lost the will to go on, took drugs, stopped eating regularly, and let herself run down.

Dottie went down some hard roads, bad roads, but she was a really good sister. She taught me to read when I was 5 and she was 10. That’s something. I still remember the moment when I got it as we read a Dick And Jane primer. When I started writing poems she got me a set of books including classics like Wuthering Heights, The House Of The Seven Gables, Poe’s short stories, Shakespeare’s sonnets, and others, plus a two volume dictionary and a set of encyclopedias. It changed my life. Also this; she was a tough kid. If you messed with me my big sister would climb right up your ass with no mercy.

Hmm. I started this about Anne Sexton, and as soon as I started I went right to my sister. If I have a point at all, and often I don’t, there is a darkness to life sometimes, and Anne Sexton captured it.

I had intended to make this post with the first part being for everyone and the second part being for paid subscribers, but after all that about my sister, I think I’ll make it free for everyone.

Your support is appreciated. Many thanks.
All Good Things,

jobe