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Jason Crane Posts

POEM: Roughing It

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Roughing It

“Could any of these people bear a week in Walden?” — Djelloul Marbrook

No signal?
Are you kidding me with this?
It’s a mile walk back
to the goddamned Starbucks,
and their wi-fi isn’t even free.
This was such a mistake.
I mean, I like burlap trousers
and a rustic fireplace as much
as the next guy, but
this shack next to a mosquito-
infested swamp is about as
pastoral as a prison camp.
When my agent suggested
Walden II as the idea for my
next book, I thought, why not?
If Thoreau could make a killing
writing about growing beans
and taking hikes, then so could I.
But come on, how is anyone
supposed to write out here?
The closest restaurant is
Karl’s Sausage Kitchen on Route 1.
I don’t know about you, but a diet
of sausage and West Nile virus
isn’t exactly the stuff great books
are made of. If I get a room
on the upper floor of the Ferns
Deluxe Motel in Saugus, I’ll be
able to see the pond
from the window. That’s got to be
good enough.
Thoreau can kiss my ass.

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POEM: Guilt

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Guilt

1.

The scientist created a machine
that could look back into the past.
He called it Guilt.
When activated, his invention
could whisk the temporal traveler
off to days gone by:
the job left unfinished;
the lie told; the lover jilted.
True, this form of travel had a limited
appeal in the marketplace, but
it was a must for the connoisseur
of despondency, the rueful explorer.
The scientist kept his creation
secured in the topmost room
of his falling-down house,
far from the notice of the
established academic community.
Those who wished to take
a journey into the embittered past
were carefully screened to keep
out the crazies and the masochists,
for he intended his machine to be used
by the pure of intention, if not the pure of heart.

2.

It was on Tuesday last that the scientist
heard a light tapping on his door.
He thought perhaps he’d forgotten
to let the cat in, but when he opened
the door he was surprised to find
a young girl on his front porch,
hair exactingly braided and white socks
pulled up just so. “Mister,” she said,
“I want to take a ride in the machine.”
He refused, of course, although his
interest was piqued. How could this
child even know of his invention?
“My dear,” he said, “there is nothing
for you here. Run along home.
Someone must be worried about you.”
She took one step forward,
hand on the doorjamb, eyes fixed on his.
“Mister,” she said, “I’m going to take a ride
in the machine.” There was something
about her, an emanation, an aura,
and before he knew it, the scientist
had stepped back to allow her to pass
into the living room.
“Where is it?” she asked, taking in
each feature of the sparsely appointed room.
“On the top floor, my child,” he said, pointing.
“But you must go alone.”
She nodded once and began climbing the stairs,
holding the railing with one china-doll hand.

3.

The scientist sat down to wait, sipping the tea
he’d been preparing before the girl’s arrival.
He could hear her on the top landing now,
and then the soft creak of the door as
she entered the room where he kept the machine.
Ah yes, there it was, the throaty rumble
as the machine began to work.
Was that a whimper? he wondered,
straining to hear every sound,
every nuance from the top floor.
Eventually, he could no longer resist,
and began to climb the stairs.
He knew this was a breach of his
standard operating procedure, but this,
this was a special case.
As he neared the open door, the deep note
faded away, disappearing like a ghost
through the wall.
He stepped into the room.
It was empty, save for the chair
and the machine. But then
something caught his eye,
a white flutter under the chair.
He stooped to retrieve the piece
of paper. Written on it, in the assured
script of an adult, were two words:
THANK YOU.

4.

(SAYERSVILLE) – Firefighters
responded to a blaze at a house on
the Sayersville-Freedom line Tuesday
night. The house, owned by Dr. B—-,
a researcher at the university, was nearly
consumed by the fire when the firefighters
arrived on the scene. They focused
their efforts on stopping the blaze from
spreading to the nearby woods. No
human remains were found in the wreckage
of the house, a no cause has yet
been determined. Police say Dr. B—‘s car
is missing, and he did not report to work
at the university this morning.

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Buy my book!

My first collection of poetry, Unexpected Sunlight, is now available. The poems talk of love, family lost and found, music and musicians, and scenes from everyday life. These poems were written between 2006 and 2009. I’m thrilled to be able to share them with you.

The book is now available in the store.

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A look back at the FootHills Publishing 25th anniversary celebration

There are some days that are hard to forget – your wedding, the births of your children … and the day someone hands you the first copy of your new book.

Saturday, April 17, was such a day for me. I traveled to Geneseo, NY, with fellow poet Alan Casline to attend the FootHills Publishing 25th anniversary celebration. More than 25 FootHills poets read their work, first at Dante’s Books and then at the Idle Hour pub.

Alan and I drove the four and a half hours from Albany in my tiny red pickup truck. Alan is well over 6 feet tall, and the poor man could probably write a nice elegy for the nerves and muscles in his legs after a total of nine hours in the truck. He was a good sport, though, regaling me with stories of his life as a poet and independent press owner, and enlightening me about the wonders of the Normanskill watershed, the area on which he focuses his passions. Alan was in the first FootHills anthology 25 years ago, and he was published by them again last year with his book Thirty Poems.

In fact, I was so absorbed in the conversation that I completely missed our exit from the Thruway and ended up driving an extra 20 or so minutes to the next exit and back. With just that little hitch, though, we managed to arrive at Dante’s Books (99 Main Street, Geneseo) a few minutes before the reading began. Poets had come from all over the state, from Pennsylvania and from as far as New Orleans.

There’s no way I can review or even comment on all the poets who read, mostly because there were so many and my usually faulty memory was wiped nearly clean by the time I arrived home. Here are a just a few brief sketches of people and poems I remember:

FootHills founder and traveling bard Michael Czarnecki started the day with three brief stories about serendipitous encounters with poetry, poets and lovers of language. These charming stories ranged from classrooms to caves to hot springs.

I read three poems from Unexpected Sunlight, the first copy of which had been put into my hands about 30 minutes before I stepped on stage. It was a wonderful experience to read from the pages of my own book. I also read a new poem about the difficulties of a Walden-like existence.

Robustly bearded poet David Michael Nixon spoke truth to power in a series of short, strong pieces.

Catharine Faurot teaches at SUNY Geneseo. Her second poem cleverly combined mythological figures with the inner workings of a car radio.

Around 4 p.m., we moved from Dante’s to the Idle Hour pub (5 Center Street, Geneseo). It was a much louder venue and required a lot of concentration on my part to hear the poets, but the reading was a great success. A few more brief sketches:

John Roche, the man who brought the entire event together (and also the person who gave my manuscript to FootHills – thanks!), is never afraid of political poetry. He read a poem from his book On Conesus about the objects he found after the winter on the lake after which his book is named. He also read a poem called “Joe The Poet” that appeared in the latest edition of Alan Casline’s Rootdrinker.

New Orleans native Paulette Swartzfager read several poems about her hometown, as had other non-native NOLA fans earlier in the day (including me).

Susan Deer Cloud, just back from AWP in Denver, read from her most recent book and from the anthology she edited, I Was Indian (Before Being Indian Was Cool). She was followed by another poet from that anthology, Rochester’s Monty Campbell.

Then it was my traveling companion Alan Casline with his carefully crafted observations of life and nature in the Normanskill area outside Albany. His creation poem about the naming of animals was a particular crowd favorite.

Finger Lakes bard Steve Lewandowski read two short works from his new FootHills collection. It was a delight to meet Steve, who had a fantastically wry sense of humor.

Bruce Sweet‘s voice alone was reason enough to listen to him read, and his strong writing made that voice even more potent. I was particularly struck by his final poem, a prayer for various kinds of political, social and economic change. It was laced with humor, but had a deep core.

I picked up several books by a variety of FootHills writers, including Michael Czarnecki, Susan Deer Cloud, Steve Lewandowski, Alan Casline and Dennis Formento. I can’t wait to dig into them, and to spend another wonderful afternoon in the company of FootHills poets.

(For another version of events and some wonderful photos, visit Martha Deed’s blog. And be sure to join the other folks who have left their own memories in the comments section of this post.)

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The book!

Me with copy #1 of Unexpected Sunlight, my new collection of poems from FootHills Publishing.
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POEM: Muse, Inc.

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This was prompted by a small contest over at the Poems Out Loud blog.

Muse, Inc.

Nothing happened.
I mean it, nothing.
I’d put my blank pages in
the Amazing First
Book Creating Machine
and pressed POETRY
on the display. I’d
driven to this bowling
alley in Duluth – all the
way from Plano, Texas –
because I’d heard that
Ginsberg and Olson
and Creeley and Ashbery
all used to bowl here
once a year. Scholars
always wondered, why Duluth?
Why bowling? No one ever
thought to check the Out-Of-
Order stall in the men’s room.
No one until me, that is. And
there it was. The machine
they’d all used to create their
first books. Howl, Le Fou,
Call Me Ishmael, Some Trees.

They’d all come out of this stall.
But when I put my pages in,
nothing happened. I mean it,
nothing. Maybe the machine
was broken?

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POEM: Strings

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Strings

Perhaps Beethoven was wrong.
This may not be the best method
of organizing groups of tightly
wound cat intestines.

Or aren’t those used anymore?
That would be foolish —
there are certainly
too many cats.

Everywhere you look, they stare
at you with disdainful eyes
before turning away in disgust
to lick their own assholes.

There are too many people, too,
if we’re being honest. Of course,
most of us can’t lick our own nether
regions – we need help for that.

But we’ve each got 25 or so feet of
intestines. We’re each like our own
string quartet, just waiting
for someone to play on us.

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My son’s poems

Bernie reading at Third Thursday Poetry Night in December 2009. Photo by Dan Wilcox.

My 7-year-old son Bernie has been writing poems for the past year or so. Today he submitted his first poems and tonight he’s attending his second open mic at the 2010 Albany WordFest. I’m so proud of him and I’d like to share some of his work with you.

The first four poems were inspired by a contest being run by Fair Trade Delmar, an advocacy group in a small town near Albany. They’re looking for kids to write poems about chocolate. The prizes will involve chocolate and the winners will also be printed in the town paper. Here’s Bernie’s suite of poems for the contest.

Chocolate Poems

Chocolate

Chocolate chocolate chocolate
Chocolate is all I can say

Dance To The Chocolate

Dance to the music right?
Wrong! Dance to the chocolate
Dance to the chocolate
Dance to the chooooooocolate
Yay!!!

Chocolate Catastrophe

I love chocolate I’d eat
It day and night but
When you find them really
Take a big bite.

You Love It Too

You love chocolate too
Don’t you? Well if not
START LIKING
IT NOW!! Well eat
It now. I guess it’s either
Now or never.

* * *

And here are two more short pieces, the first of which I find both sad and beautiful.

I don’t know why

I don’t know why
I go to school
I don’t know why I eat
I don’t know why I even live
But I do and I know why
I’m me

me me and me

me I love me me you
love me me love me
me play me play me
play games me

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POEM: Lottery

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Lottery

Ida plays the lottery every day
walking slowly to the pharmacy
next to the pizza shop

she hands a worn sheet of folded paper
to the Pakistani man who
pushes the numbers into the machine

then she sits next to the display
of walkers and canes,
painstakingly checking the ticket

7 24 23: Eddie, her oldest brother
he always dreamed of being an actor,
until that day he hit the beach
and it never stopped raining metal

11 19 24: That was her. She was
the only daughter, Mama’s pride and
the light in Papa’s eye. She was the one
her brothers looked out for

12 24 26: Walter, born Christmas Eve
the same year they’d had to move
because Papa lost his job after Mr. Monroe
skipped town with the receipts

3 13 46: The war was over, she and Tom
had moved into their bungalow near the
rail yard, and along came Edie, named after
the uncle she’d never meet

7 1 49: That was Joe, the quiet one. He
didn’t say much, but he didn’t miss much
either, and she knew one day he’d
be there to lean on, and he was

10 14 74: Joe and Liza got married
at the old church. It’s a set of fancy
condos now, next to an espresso shop
that used to be Gianelli’s bakery

6 30 76: Edie was a June bride, thirty
year old. She and Tom had given up hope,
figured Edie’d be living with them until they died.
Then Edie met Leroy at a church picnic

5 9 77: The day of the accident,
when Edie wouldn’t stop crying.
The policeman said it was nobody’s
fault, just fog and a slippery road

1 17 80: Her grandbaby, James.
She loved her children, but she’d
never known anything like the shiver
in her stomach when that baby smiled

10 5 91: She’d been holding Tom’s hand
when the time came. Everybody was there,
and Tom was peaceful. She slept
on the couch that night, Joe close at hand.

Ida plays the lottery every day
the same careful numbers
she doesn’t play to win, just to remember

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POEM: Amputee

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Amputee

“don’t you miss it?”
that’s always the first question

for so many years
that metal was part
of my body, wedded
to my fingertips

I would wiggle my digits
and the conjured spirits
would wail and cry

“not really” I say
fixing my expression
to sell the lie

I’m an amputee, still
feeling the ghost limb

my appendage sits in a case
that the cat peed on
in the room where
I record the voices
of women and men
who would never dream of
allowing the doctor
to complete the operation

they would leap from the table
shove past the nurse’s grasping
hands, trailing the ends of
their open hospital gowns
and screaming “not that!”
as they plunged through the
double doors into the street

me, I catch sight of it
out of the corner of my eye
feel my fingers twitch

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POEM: This pervasive inequality that we call choice

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I enjoy the visual work of Joanne Johns, whose blog I highly recommend. Today’s offering is in that spirit. As for the text: When you include multiple links in a Facebook status update, a window pops up asking you to type in two words to prove that you’re human and not a spambot. I’ve been saving those words for a while now, and this poem uses all of the words I’ve saved, plus some others thrown in for good measure. The title of the poem comes from a quotation from Melissa Harris-Lacewell, whose work I respect very much.

Click the image to see a larger version.

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POEM: Another Song For Occupations

Listen to this poem using the player above. The music is “Down By The Salley Gardens,” performed on tin whistle by Jason Crane.

Another Song For Occupations

Walt didn’t mean invaders
he meant good work, done well
not camo-clad crusaders
turning Gaza into hell

not Kabul and not Baghdad
or next to Kandahar
a mother or a granddad
when is the bridge too far?

Walt thought of driving carts
of crossing on the ferry
hat doffed to gentler arts
eating, drinking, merry

not strafed by chuckling guns
the toys of discontent
not being forced to run
or tortured to repent

Walt never dreamt of walls
cutting parent off from child
obscuring blood relations
casting friends into the wild

although he’d been through war time
had soothed the soldiers’ pains
he’d thought that there’d be more time
to reap those hard-won gains

but now the jobs he spoke of
are gone, sailed overseas
Walt’s song for occupations
has faded on the breeze

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POEM: Comedy Gold

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Comedy Gold
(for Jeff Vrabel)

laughter is the energy, compassion
the generator, a limitless supply
impervious to disruption
like the golden sun that permits flight

it’s a super-power, being liked
not everyone has it
some folks are more Kryptonite
than hoped-for hero

you don’t need the phone booth
although you’re always near it
when the call comes, ready
to rip buttons and leap

gold isn’t the right metaphor,
either, because gold is too soft
you can put marks in it
with your teeth, like a marshmallow

steel is more apt, or maybe iron
something that carries the idea
of strength, durability, conviction
you can throw what you will

at a steel pole or an iron bar
and it will be there when you’re done
scratched, maybe, but otherwise
just the same as when you left it,

no matter how long ago that was
that’s a promise on which no price
can be placed, to which no value
can be attached; it just is, thankfully

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POEM: Spring Robins

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Spring Robins

I’ve been seeing robins everywhere this season
on the lawn when I leave for work
outside my window at the office
in the yard while I’m playing with the kids

they wander to and fro, looking lost and confused
and who can blame them — it’s still early days
prey is scarce and the bright red gives them away
before they can pounce

I think the main problem, though, is that
they’re longing for Batman
he’d only choose one of them anyway
who ever heard of Batman and the Robins?

the warm weather always brings them out
once it’s clement enough for short shorts
and tights, they don their masks and capes
and head out in search of crime

do you think Batman and Robin were dating
like the Comics Code people claimed?
I don’t — they were too far apart in age, and
Robin was in great shape, he didn’t need to settle

for a much older man with obvious identity issues
that said, Dick did agree to let Bruce
dress him in that ridiculous outfit
he should have been twirling a baton

not swinging punches into the jaws of
painted evildoers and crazies
you don’t keep your boyish good looks
being eaten by a shark or buried alive

if you see a Robin, don’t feed him
you’ll only encourage him to come back
before you know it he’ll be on your porch
looking glum and asking if you’ve seen the Batmobile

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POEM: Oh Lord

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Oh Lord

Don’t Let Them Drop That Atomic Bomb On Me
When Charles wrote that,
the (magic) mushroom
seemed like a very real possibility.
Like there could be a day
when there were no more days,
when spring would jump
straight to winter
and the switch would get stuck.

Now his words sound quaint and old-timey,
like interring the Japanese
or smallpox blankets
or the city of gold that was exchanged
for dark flesh. Like bomber blackouts
on the West Coast and ships
in Davey Jones’ locker,
sent there by folks flapping their gums.

We don’t worry ’bout that no more.
We have seen the enemy and they are winning.
With friends like we’ve got, it’s just as well
Dastardly Dan leaves that girl tied to the tracks.
She’d better pray the train kills her,
because her insurance won’t cover just
losing a limb or two. That’s an act of God,
they’ll say. The Big Guy doesn’t like it
when you don’t pay your rent.

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