lost poems or recovering notes from the deep, part 19

circa 1977-1978

so i'm kinda resigned to the fact

that all those raw words

got left behind

strewn across dried up frozen hay fields

bitter down to the root

leaving northern minnesota passion

( 3 miles north of nashwauk 
across from nurka's corner store)

to fend for itself

stripping everything to bare essentials

locking away everything not claimed already

there were some beautiful words in the fall

as the words grew and took form

memory doesn't serve me well at this point

but i get the deep down guttural feeling

that everything written

on that old underwood typewriter

could only have been written once

and at that exact moment

the wind swept in out of the northwest

somewhat confused

like it was going to a dance

without a partner

waking you to what only could be described

as stumbling forward on strike benefits

and borrowed pencils

and then from time to time

reverting back a decade

to muster all the courage from a family

of shoemakers and tinsmiths

draft resisters and tormented writers

when the strike finally ended

there was a small pile of papers left

stowed away in the attic eave

of a brown loose-leaf notebook

left to gather the maturity or abandonment

of another season

which came and went

and then went again

left leaning into every episode

retrospect vexed or otherwise

for alternative explanations

ultimately recovering what's possible

finding solace

and space
between the words

--- e b bortz