Luanne Castle: Poetry and Other Words (and cats!)

I. From overhead see a route on an intuitive map. Scriven in earth, etched with blood and spoor. The route is wash. The wash is map. A kingsnake slides its stripes across the arroyo in the way that a T is crossed to finish the planet. It tastes the chemical scent of its prey. The stubbling of grasses amid stones optimistic in the hollow. We wish for custom monsoons a steady large-drop rain and little wind.

Alaska native Caroline Goodwin’s first poetry book, Trapline (Jackleg Press), is set at the edge–of the sea, the swamp, the wilderness. To get a feel for her poetry, imagine yourself walking along the shore, encountering “rot and salt,” dragonflies, gnats, the quahog and cockle. Then imagine focusing in on each treasure, closer and closer until you see a wing or an eye and then inside the organism. Once you’re amongst the blood vessels with your magical microscope, Goodwin will connect what you see to the human you through a hand, a thigh, a boot. What you discover will be big and beautiful and brutal.

The first poem offers an invitation to the reader: “come to the end of the wharf / when the last of the tide releases / the harbor with its trollers / and rigging _ _ its lampshells / and speckled anemone _ _ come / after work when the mind / / has grown plumes.” [The double underscore represents a larger space in the line. Since WordPress isn’t friendly to poetry, I had to make do.]

You will want to take Goodwin up on this invitation. You can click on the book above to order from Amazon. I didn’t get a free book for recommending Goodwin’s poetry; I simply bought her book and fell in love with the poems.

Here is a sample poem for your enjoyment:

WEEDING

I can see how the termites

draw themselves through

the opening now

to rise out of the hive

in a flickering stream

every leg full of

sun every abdomen a

jewel and I let myself

think about the un-

born and the almost

born — eggs packed

in brittle shells

in husks

in the wings

ticking

my husband

scraping at the crumpled

leaves

his song a thin leg

. . . . . . . . . at the edge of the yard