Robert Leitz

 

 

 

ORIOLE

 

 

    After another springtime watching the carolina wrens nest

and nurse their young along in Lizzie's Mother's Day impatiens,

I watched the young I'd photographed leaving the nest, one

falling to the bench below and injuring its wing, easy pickings

for the hawks that eye our woods, try as it might, urged, to

fly across the yard to the sheltering Christmas spruce

and then the hardwoods. The poem alludes to these experiences

but more to the lives and music of Sonny Til and the Orioles,

to their enormous success in the years following World War Two,

and to the terrible car wreck near Akron, Ohio that took the life

of their guitarist, Billy Gaithers, a few miles north of the juncture

where I was delayed by traffic after just beginning another three

hundred mile plus round-trip.

 

 

    The poem considers, pays homage to the music, and celebrates

the arrival of the first oriole to our woods, after years of watching

and attempting to attract them, following our return, the evening

before Mike's graduation, from supper at a local restaurant, delayed

an hour almost by storm and power outages, and followed by

the rainbow I photographed and the oriole, perched on the chaise

lounge less than a first down from our porch-screens, a blessing

we believed, on the summer ahead, our graduate, and on our

love and engagement, formalized summers ago

in south Alaska.

 

 

snatched     -- wren following --

and     ( later )     this shrill wren piping

we've been used to --

the youngest     ( maybe )     / the hurt one

answering     / surviving --

leaving the deck where it had fallen

from the planter     -- ignored

by the cardinals     / ladderback --

by this oriole –

perched overhead on deadwood --

cheered to the spruce

we think     -- to the leaves

behind

and to the woods'

concealings.

 

 

*

 

 

    Was this the bright that started me just yesterday

/ on miles      -- with Sonny Til --

imagining -- before there were iMacs

/ Eniac -- hazards

artillery    and     infantry-men     trained for     -- then

dozens of songs from Baltimore --

and     -- since it's summertime     -- already

another century     -- to speak

in behalf's impossible     -- even to pick

those winter colors out --

or lights from the wharves

on winter sweat       on

beads of sweat as newsreels

wash up

between features --

lives damaged

or simply

young

 

 

    where hunger is more maybe than hawks

decided on     -- than

this father again     -- singular and piping --

who will not be told

how passion's dangerous     -- how birth

/ how the absurd's

uncushioned edges change a family --

until     -- abstractly genuine --

hunger must fix in place     -- and

a turquoise Charger

I cannot choose to follow     -- behind

the dip and rise --

will be forever vanishing     -- into

the air     -- which

now     -- with coming

storm     -- seems

treacherous     -- and

only

by so much south

/ in mid-west

summer

time.

 

 

 

*

 

 

     Maybe     there'll be     a time for exercise --

co-authoring        fable      / storyboard --

 

    with paper and rock and orioles      -- scissors

and rock and miles for distraction --

 

    wineries ahead and family      -- restaurant

samplings      -- choices of Upstate light

 

    / catalpa shade and pinot grigio      -- of roll calls

or guest lists    / lyrics      -- sometimes

 

    political      / and Sonny Til     / and Orioles --

and sometimes this foggy stuff --

 

    or this thunder now      -- edged gold

and indigo      -- storylines / theologies --

 

    and still more kindly schoolings      -- in

the ways hands wrap a happy thing

 

    for handling      -- in this warmth you think

as warm almost as mothering

 

    / bringing the outlaws out      -- in the usual

what-have-you brands

 

    and microfibers     -- angels and thugs --

with rules for tag and local genius --

 

    easing the shocks that hastened them --

recalled     -- to this day --

 

    in ancient      / re(re)membered

documents     -- in

 

    folders and files     / stones --

barbed or spiked

 

    and sloped that way

for

 

    spilling over.

 

 

 

*

 

 

    It might be worse    -- we're sure of it --

and     --  as   accounts describe --

matters of gambits / history     -- complicity

initialized     -- vectors endure --

recalled ( today ) as stupid heat

and frost heaves     -- until

accounts must satisfy     -- and dining out

again      -- wardrobes again --

bought new     -- but just this much

familiar anyway    -- revealing

as seasons dared

/ and tones    -- walks

less ( you think )

/ or no less

veteran

 

 

    sounding    ( behind the shrines ) cobbles

that end with garden slopes

or studying     -- in other minds and studios --

in ( even ) one dark moonlit

and solitary Christmas     -- with families

and wars undone     -- and ( after all )

such loveliness     -- no matter how cold

that gets in Akron / Baltimore –

how icy the hazards get --

or the tape hiss     -- surface

noise     -- never before

so personal --

 

 

    as patrons enjoy this peace    --     short-lived

among the peoples --

concluding in Paradise   --      in centuries

of fable

and coastal snows   --     with Sonny Til

and Orioles   --     Billy Gaithers'

leads    --     sweet riffs     / sweet heart's

high trump    --     made news

by words and arms around

and dancing

/ by these young men

from

houses like their own

or

Baltimore. 

 

 

 

*

 

 

    Prepared as these were for crowds

and upstairs clubs and half a century --

    what would they say to us    -- to two

like ourselves Elizabeth     -- come home

    from our day's travel     -- and finding this Oriole --

this first our June woods

    have invited     -- after the rain and restaurant

/ the traffic north backed up

    from Belden Village to Route 30     -- from

Tuscarawas to Akron say     -- where

    someone     -- stirred by serious or excess--

forgot what seasons mean --

    or waiting could mean     -- for restaurants --

opened     -- after outages --

    and homecoming then     -- where feeders

bring the evening's cardinals out --

    and the whole woods to suppertimes --

to these tunes by Sonny Til    -- and

    to this rainbow now     -- spanning the range

from origins to summer listening --

    and on this chaise ten feet or maybe

fifteen from our porch screens --

    this oriole     -- black / bright orange--

Sonny Til we joke      -- maybe

    the soul of Billy Gaithers     -- headed home --

first oriole!    -- drawn by the redbud

    say     -- by the tunes or conversation

over music     -- as we are drawn

    love     -- to Flint    -- our last child's

graduation     -- and to ( after )

Ithaca     -- to evenings again like these --

    such as Haines or Ketchikan

or Juneau influenced     -- by the idea

    then we'd ( surely ) marry

by this summer     -- with more than

    the grizzlied and eagled woods

for influence     / more than the sea chill

    and ocean summertimes

and snow light     / mid-western

    storms     / rainbows

and our best wishes

    counted on.

 

 

 

                     copyright © robert lietz

                                2010