A Collection of 12 Poems

Eric Stephenson’s poems are like notes found in bottles floating in the wake of a long voyage.

They rarely contain conclusions or directions or morals. Far more often, they celebrate the mystery of human existence, wearing the accessories that “make us think this is who we are,” catching an occasional glimpse of pure being, knowing – for as long as the glimpse lasts – that it is inextricably conjoined with Not Being.

At the same time, these poems are filled with poignant love for ‘the body and everything that goes with it,” for the real beauty of this world that may not be real at all. For the “squadron of Canadian geese,” for the “clean arching curve” of the fish pardoned from the net, even for the down-coated coward turning his back on all the beauty to hide in a technological cave. Eric Stephenson is mercifully short on judgment.

These words most worth sharing are waiting for the sorcerer’s wand. That’s you.

–Malcolm McCollum

***

Sometimes when I get lucky, poetry channels through me like warm buzzing electricity. When this happens, the “me” I know as a social invention sits dormant and just let’s the process unfold. For instance, I woke up dreaming “Never Departed” on a breezy summer afternoon. I wrote it down as quickly as possible and published it with only minor edits. Then there’s the poetry I consciously direct toward a particular person, yet it still speaks to common experience, like “Fishin’.” I will also admit unapologetically that some of my writing leans toward literary convention. “Caliban Alone” is my way of thanking Shakespeare for being such a powerful force in my life. The key for me is to use symbol gracefully without giving away too much. Good writing often inspires a sense of mystery and uncertainty because so does life.

But what about bad writing? I like the poetry in this collection, but some of my poems are so botched I don’t even bother trying to resucitate them into something readable. They won’t allow me to do that. When I can’t bear looking at them anymore, I move on to something else although now and then I’ll return to the crash site to scavenge an idea, word, or phrase for a new poem I’m working on. It’s just part of the process. And I no longer feel sorry for myself when my words careen into the gutter. They’re invisible thoughts spilling out of my head for no sensible reason. They’re not even real.

I wrote this collection of poems over the span of around eight years. I thought each poem was a separate, distinct event at the time. Thematic and stylistic continuity never occurred to me. Then, when I started collating the poems, certain patterns did seem to emerge although I’m still not exactly sure what they meant then or mean to me now. Maybe you’ll notice some of those patterns or detect ones I haven’t considered. Maybe not. I don’t know. In any case, I tried to give the arrangement coherence because I wanted to find out something about myself. We are the chroniclers of our own histories every time we share honest expression. We’re all swimming in a sea of words, never certain of which direction the tide will pull us. Poetry is the wave that gets me to shore. I hope you find something familiar in these poems. There are no strangers in the world of art, even when we are strangers to ourselves.

— Eric Stephenson

***

The wind ripples across my back,
and sunlight paints my depths with golden streaks.
In this delicious moment of sound, light, and flow,
I fear the clouds will soon close in and end
my holy celebration on this remote autumn morning.
In time, I’ll change my shape to fit the long quiet night.
and dream of things I’ll never tell the sky
in deep winter sleep.

I chose the third wave of the set,
gliding over water so aqua cool
that every cut, bruise, and scar along the way
faded into something I never was
but am forever becoming.

That night, gazing at the sea,
I dribbled blood red wine down my shirt.
It glowed like a birthmark in the fading sunlight,
crystallizing focus in a quieter land,
and the lapping waves told me
that this was a good place to die,
but a better place to live,
between the fishermen and the shore.

——————–

Escogí la tercera ola del grupo
Deslizándome sobre agua tan aguamarina fresca
Que cada corte, moretón y cicatriz sobre la marcha
Disminuía en algo que nunca estuve
Pero siempre me estoy convirtiendo.

Esa noche contemplando el mar
Goteé vino color de sangre por mi camisa
Brilló como una marca de nacimiento en la luz desvaneciendo
Cristalizando el enfoque en una tierra más callada,
Y las olas lamiendo me dijeron
Que este fuera un buen lugar para morir,
Pero un mejor lugar para vivir,
Entre los pescadores y la orilla.

Translation by Majel Campbell

What a clean arching curve I made
when I leapt from the deep green sea
and cast myself into your glittering net.
Gently, you pulled me from your web,
studied my scales, and said,
“Oh, Mr. Fish, you’re splendid!
But I’m afraid you’d never do.
You see, I’m waiting for the perfect catch.”
Then you tossed me back
into the deep green sea.

Bright light, whiter than the sun,
glittered for an instant
before the sound split my ears
and I dissolved,
my last and only thought
that no one would know
I had come home.

Years later, my daughter
paused on a remote sidewalk
and stared down at my shadow,
which had been seared into the pavement.
She thought of me,
lost in an era of misguided honor,
and wondered where I had gone.

It took years to dislodge the hate
searing my brain and every limb,
like a tree burning in a firestorm.
I’m charred but still standing,
waiting for the rains of spring.

That thou punished me and made me hate thee is true.
But I promised to be wise thereafter and seek thy grace.
Why didst thou forsake me for my faults
when I merely mimicked thy heckling tribe?
I loved thee when thou strok’st me
and taught me the charms of thy art.
But now that I am subject to none,
my torment is solitude.
Prithee, magician, return to these sands!
I will bring thee wood, berries, fish,
and every gift the isle provides.
I am afeard of the quiet. Now, in dreaming,
the clouds no longer drop riches down upon me,
and when I wake in hush’d midnight, alone in my barren cell,
I think of the tempest that spelled thy departure
and wish another storm would carry thee home.

I wanted to return to some imaginary life
based on a collection of unstable memories I thought were real.
I would gaze fondly on those memories and dwell in their hazy light,
hoping they would do more than flicker in and out of my thoughts
like quiet visitors shapeshifting from one identity to another,
never staying long enough to keep honest company with me.
Memories are never real, and they don’t change the fact
that everything went south on me by slow degrees
due to the causal forces of my own behavior.
There was no point in trying to reinvent something
from misunderstood origins.
It was better to go it alone in the here and now.

The shades enter and leave each frame in unexpected ways.
Being human means being part of the projection.
I’m a visitor, here for a while but then off to somewhere else,
wearing the body and everything that goes with it.
The accessories make us think this is who we are,
but they’re just borrowed trappings cloaking the penetralium,
tight-fitting suits we have to wear
until the ceremony is over.

A squadron of Canadian geese
lifted off from the half-frozen lake, 
curved in a smooth semi-circle,
and powered over my head in a perfect V.
Solitary fishermen stood along the shoreline
at distant intervals, like quarter-mile markers
measuring the bike path I travelled.
A man in a down coat sat at a picnic table
and stared at his cell phone, his back to the lake,
turned inward from the cold.
I gulped the crisp, biting air and pedaled on,
slicing through the February wind, 
my tires humming warm against the pavement.

The words most worth sharing
are sometimes never expressed
because they are too honest and strange.
They are born in privacy and exiled to memory,
the product of our fearful neglect.
Yet, like a beam of light ready to pierce the darkness,
they wait in restless joy,
for the touch of the sorcerer’s wand.

Identity is a vessel to fill,
we the chalice makers and liquid artisans,
the inventors, hosts, and cupbearers,
serving ourselves and our guests
the flavor and finish of our secret recipes
in spacious galleries of the mind,
a white orchid petal
floating on a sanguine sea
of blood red wine.

When the summer breeze blows warm across my face,
I will come to you through the slanting light
and watch you paint the picture
you said you always would.

We’ll capture the moment in a silent instant
and hold it for as long as memory serves,
untouched by heartbreak,
with nothing left to hide,
in the shade of our thoughts.

We’ll talk long into the night
beneath a canopy of moonlight,
watching meteors streak through the sky,
wondering what just happened,
and why.

You are everyone I have ever lost,
but you’re always remembered and never alone.
Soon, we’ll meet again
in a place you like the best,
where everything matters,
a place where all is forgiven and forgotten
by the edge of time.