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Jim McCurry
 was
born in Los Angeles 10-3-43, and has been teaching
at Carl Sandburg College (Galesburg, Illinois) since 1980.
Poetry publications: Alba, Annetna Nepo, Blue Fifth Review,
Eleven Bulls, Fish Drum, Identity Theory, Muse Apprentice Guild,
nycBigCityLit, Niederngasse, Pig Iron Malt, Quarterly West, Rio,
Snow Monkey, Sun Oasis, Tryst3, Word Riot, Writer's Forum
(Gerard Manley Hopkins Award, 1999), Zacatecas Review, Zuzu's
Petals, & several other on-line and print journals. There are
two books slated for publication from Tryst3 and Snow Monkey
/Ravenna Press.
Mail id- jmcurry@sandburg.edu
For Bosnia (12-22-96)
Little stars continue to confide their silken hopes
among rough leaves.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
What we fear begins and begins. Fools and criminals
rule the world. Life is a handful of stones
loosely held in their fists.
Denise Levertov
Apple, why provoke yet another form of
the unanswerable question?
Each moment a mystery,
‘God’—unnecessary straw.
Apple, I hold you in my palm & again
you start to oxidize, rust—
I think of Newton, Coleridge, Priestley,
analytic investigators of the dharma,
private eyes. O apple, half-devoured,
even the stain, the blight,
this flowing, dark encroachment
holds some interest—& yet,
no self! No name! How do you--do we--
re-enter that old peace,
that mythic garden before concepts
& names brought in division?
Apple, I wonder what metaphysic
this rust(ing) holds, as the poet
Charles Simic appears by satellite television
to us, to speak of Yugoslavia, his home
turned inward: “caged … self-mutilating”?
II
For a moment, before I start to blend
apples with yoghurt, I stand
before the humming white
porcelain shrine
the appliance by Maytag: a corporation
that went through several incarnations
in my home town: Admiral, Midwest Mfg.,
Rockwell International, and so on.
My mother, a ‘Rose the Riveter’ type
before Pearl Harbor
worked there. Then came back
to work thirtyfive years.
Well, the story of Maytag’s out-sourcing,
down-sizing, etc., was in the Wall Street
Journal, and Lou Dobbs’ business news
on television. Ho-hum.
Mom draws $370 a month pension,
about $715 a month social security,
and doesn’t qualify for
Medicaid. She hums, Ho-hum.
I apologize for turning left
toward Daytona that time
fifteen years ago when she could
have stood it to visit Juanita,
her sister, in Miami.
Juanita called or wrote
the other day to say
if one more hurricane came through,
she’d move out. There’s
snow outside, another inch or two
expected tomorrow.
I just checked: Mom is warm.
Apple, Charles Simic, Mom—
absurdly, I want to say,
Be of good cheer--
in spite of all hellish
outward signs & appearances
to the contrary—
the writhing child in Bosnia,
the child with tiny spots of blood
on his forehead,
the desperate Red Cross angel
who raises the child in her hands
imploring the heavens,
the nurse, the empty-eyed woman.
U of Denver Alums
Intrepid kitty-cat
pads across the highway,
ice and snow.
I’ll get it right someday.
Thanks for inviting me
to apply: consider human form:
inspect the display.
I am particularly interested
in these poetic neuroses
crocuslike pushing
up below
the snow. Save me
a place in the Empyrean,
will ya? thanx.
On little catsfeet
gingerly clambering
up the bank where glitter
randomly shards of frozen
waste like vajra
daimons in the sun …
diamonds: the only
spirit in the scene,
this mere cat. Otherwise,
sun, ice. A frozen clarity.
Relieved by scampering
persistence
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