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*—

This is to certify that the

thesis entitled

WATERSHED

presented by

WILLIAM DAVID BARILLAS

has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

M.A. English

degree in

 

 

 

 

Date MAY 19, 1989

 

0-7 639 MS U is an Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Institution

 

PLACE in RETURN BOX to remove this checkout from your record.
10 Avon FINES return on or befm data due.

DATE DUE DATE DUE . DATE DUE

 

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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MSU Is An Affirmdm Auden/Equal Opportunity Institution
cWMt

 

 

 

 

WATERSHED
By

William David Barillas

A THESIS

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fullfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1989

ABSTRACT
WATERSHED
By
William David Barillas

This thesis project collection of original poetry explores themes of land,
lore, language. and life in places near and far, with particular concern for
experience in the Michigan region. The author makes use of prose/poetry
collage and of tale/parable in margin-justified ”prose” form. The collection
begins with a poem entitled "Manitou" which introduces the central theme of
the poems that follow: what it means to be a native of a place. Prose fragments
adapted from histories of the author's locale of origin (near where the Flint
River. Pewanagosibi. in the Ojibwa, turns north at Flushing) are interspersed
among the poems, echoing their themes and providing continuity. A personal
essay concludes the thesis. stating the author's objectives as a poet of place.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The historical prose fragments which bridge sections of this thesis were
adapted from various nineteenth-century histories of the area of Michigan
where I grew up. including The History of Saginaw County, Michigan (Chap-
man & Co.. 1881), The History of Genesee County, Michigan by Franklin Ellis
(Lippincott, 1879), Michigan Pioneer and Historical Collections, and archival
material included in Flushing Sesquicentennial History (Flushing Area
Historical Society, 1987). The fragments woven into the poem "This Name"
were adapted from Guatemala: A Historical Survey by Amy Elizabeth Jensen
(Exposition Press. 1955).

I would like to express my appreciation to the Department of English. in
particular those professors whom I've had the opportunity to study under
during the past two years. Their wisdom and good spirits have made every
moment under their tutelage a discovery. Special thanks are due to Associate
Professor Douglas Lawder, my thesis advisor. who helped me relax about the
idea of reading and writing poetry, and to Professor Diane Wakoski, who kept
me from relaxing about it. The two of you together represent the best of both
worlds.

Finally. I would like to thank Professor Justin Kestenbaum of the
Department of History, who has been my mentor, teacher, confidant, fellow
Michigan history buff, and best of all, my good friend. This thesis is
dedicated to him.

ii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

 

watershed

 

MANITOU

 

DOVE POEM/LAND POEM

 

WINDROWING: SOUTHERN MICHIGAN COUNTIES. C. 1840

 

GILLIAN OF

 

"The native: we saw here..."
BLUEJAY FEATHERS FOR MEDICINE BAG

 

 

CAMPBIRIGTT

 

IN SEARCH OF THE GIPPER'S GRAVE

 

NRD LAKE
Speech of Ogernawkeheto, Treaty of Saginaw. 1819

 

THE GLACIER

 

 

THE GREAT FIRE OF 1881

 

"The black-capped chickadee...."
BIRD IS NOT BIRD (Track One)

 

 

BIRDIS NOTBIRD
'IHEIDTWITHTHEREALTYSIGN

 

 

SONG OF MICHIGAN

“The Hab‘way House on the stage route between Flint and Flushing..."

 

 

OEDHWD

 

YOUTH
iii

‘# N'

\DWO‘U!

10
11 I
l3
14
15
17
19

21

t:

26

'IHE DANCING DUCK

 

 

"T heir trip, in October 1835. to Flushing...”

 

HEARTWOOD
CAN CER'S CURE

 

I PRONOUNCE YOU

 

 

THIS NAME
FATHER

 

THIS CAT

 

 

"John Reed of Flushing had a fiery temper...."
PROJECT POEMS

 

AUNT ROSE (A Poem For My Former Landlady)

 

 

NICE. THE SOUTH OF FRANCE
DEORA CRIOST

 

THEHARDWAYUP

 

”Mrs. Paton F lashing, Near Flint River, April 6, 1843....”

 

 

MY FATHER'S YARD
"Around the bend of the Flint River.... "

 

FIRST DAY OF WINTER

 

 

WATERSHED, IN PLAIN TALK (Personal Essay)

iv

27
28
29
32
33
34
37
38
39

42

47
48
49
SO
52
53

54

wa-ter-shed n l : a summit or boundary line separating the
drainage districts of two streams or coasts : WATER PARTING :
DIVIDE 2 : a region or area bounded peripherally by a water
parting and draining ultimately to a particular watercourse or
body of water 3 : a crucial dividing point or line (as in time)

--Adapted from Webster's Dictionary

MANITOU

SOfily.
under pines that reforestation planted
chokingly close,
I pause,
stopping to rest on rises
only delving could discern
as burial mounds
(sacred, peacepiped)
from mere eardt plowed
(the work of a bulldozer

and a day's pay).

The aborigines sought Manitou
with its feral joys
and Good Medicine.
The pioneers sought Manifest Destiny
armed with a work ethic
that feared the wild.

My back to the earth, my eyes to the heavens.
the sky's blue reminds me of birds.

The cry ofa hawk remindsme

that birds are not symbolic.

Ghosts say that birds have changed.

Gulls were not always seen so far inland.
Swans did not always mimic pigeons.

When Indian Summer has glowed its end,
ducks still feed without handout.
When the river rushes winter ice,
a flock will form a row.
Striping a fish swum channel,
twenty feed as ducks do -
ducking down, ducktail up,
billing fish that cannot wish for else.

3

The first, at front, has first chance,

but soon relinquishes.
Turning, he drifts to the line 's end.

giving another room at the top,
as a solitary mallard watches all

from farther midstream.

I am cold.
I rise to leave.

The needles could blanket me,
but I am not a native

yet.

LOVE POEM/LAND POEM

Somewhere in Michigan

What?

This.
Where?

Here.
Why?

Because.
Who?

Us.

WINDROWING:
SOUTHERN MICHIGAN COUNTIES C. 1840

The oaks were chopped

halfway through. until began

only the slightest trembling

of their fall. Down a line

a quarter mile or more

they were cut. Then at one end

a tree was chosen

that when felled

would crash into the next

that would crash into the next

and so on for a quarter mile:

”a sight, a noise of paralyzing grandeur
that none will ever see or hear again."
This was the drive.

After the cattle and the deer

had browsed the foliage

after a season or a year to dry

boys and men would touch flame

to the tinder below the great trunks
and the air would be sucked in

the night illuminated for miles around
as centuries of broadleaf life

were sacrificed for the clearing.

GILLIAN OF

Gillian of the pink shirt I gave her

Gillian of sandalwood and patchouli

Gillian of cream lace curtains draped on nails

Gillian of bonsai trees and borzoi dogs

Gillian of glide between line dried sheets, mackinaw blanket warmth

Gillian of calloused feet

Gillian of angelic hands

Gillian of line drawn nudes riding horses

Gillian of fresh trout. tomatoes with vinagrette

Gillian of cosmos flowers, femy strivers concealing the cannabis

Gillian of the lawyer's farmhouse where I met her at sixteen

Gillian of "swim in the nude, we won't watch, it's liberating"

Gillian khakiclad, pulling up in her jeep as if reining in a horse

Gillian of man's world, forsythia bloom in the parking lot

Gillian of three years later, recognize me through the restaurant window,
call me, embrace me in the street before I know who it is

Gillian of phone numbers exchanged

Gillian of sixteen years beyond my age

Gillian
Gillian
Gillian
Gillian
Gillian
Gillian
Gillian
Gillian

who was advised in 1970 to buy gold but bought clothing instead
of "you sleep on the sofa"

of second night, poem of which I shall not tell here

of name change, learned only from an old envelope

of black cat birthing six kittens Easter morning

of rainy day, let's go to bed

of sunny day, let's go to bed

of ”How happy can one perfect sunflower

make one imperfect old lady?"

Gillian
Gillian
Gillian

of lake eyes
of agates gathered on the Superior shore
of camping in the rain, shoo skunk with hot coals,

absentminded tomato soup in the coffee instead of powdered cocoa

Gillian
Gillian

of blistered feet: "you run down the dune to epiphany"

of cheerleader photograph, bare legged, wry schoolgirl grin

I wish I'd been there to kiss

7

Gillian of paw paw fruit, puffballs, purple flaming aster in the woods
Gillian of 1963 Volvo, Pee Wee Herman doll strapped in up front
Gillian of nile table, snakegrass bouquet, ivory, pewter, brass
Gillian of the second petoskey stone bolo tie
in the shape of the Lower Peninsula
Gillian of reluctant kiss and handholding in public
Gillian of the pink shirt I gave her
Gillian of sandalwood
Gillian of patchouli
Gillian to whom I devote my tongue in this utterance of love

The natives we saw here
Were forced from their plain
By a curse which they say

Here yet does remain

We now proceed down the Flint River until we come to the
high bluff one mile above the Village of Flushing, on the
Bailey farm. I first saw the mounds at that point opened in
1833 or 1834. At that time the farm was one dense forest. I
think there were about twenty mounds, great and small, some
forty feet or more in diameter and six feet high, with large
pine trees growing on the top of them. We found upon
opening the largest one that it was still full of human bones.
The skeletons did not appear to be arranged in any order, but
had been thrown promiscuously together before they were
covered. This left hardly a doubt that they had been slain in
some battle. The bones were too much decomposed to find any
marks of violence upon them, but subsequent inquiries have
confirmed my belief that a once populous tribe of the Saginaw
Valley was exterminated by another group of people.

BLUEJAY FEATHERS FOR MEDICINE BAG

Found the brightest blue/black/white
stabbed into moss on the bank

of the River Raisin's tributary Saline
east side of a maple stump

the scene of the struggle

enough feathers for a wing

to gather from the drying moist

of bird body torn

on last year's leaves

this year‘s periwinkle

(on the stump, a single tuft
of brown and white striped owl down)

10

CAMP BIRKETT
Pinckney, Michigan

On the east side

of a glacial drop lake
silvering the Huron flow
children run

and chance to learn

the ways of leaf and land.

Elbows back
'to send the arrow
through colors into straw.

Splashs in the shallows:
this amazing substance water.

Turtles in the pit.
Snapper by the tail
as the kids scatter screaming.

The bounce of a rubber ball
in this place

of juniper and pine,
hombeam, sycamore,
hickory and oak.

May asphalt never encroach
upon this living place.

11
IN SEARCH OF THE GIPPER'S GRAVE

”Rock, when the team is up against it, when things are
going wrong and the breaks are beating the boys--tell them to
go in there with all they've got and win just one for the

Gipper. "

--Attributed to Notre Dame football star George Gipp,
on his deathbed, Christmas 1920, by coach Knute Rockne.

Driving up the Keeweenaw spinal column

In copper country, up 41 past Houghton

We're headed to Calumet, which means "peacepipe"
Where the 1913 copper strike ended at Christmas:
Someone entered Italian Hall

Climbed the stairs to the ballroom

Yelled "Fire!"

We search for the Hall. An oldtimer says

"Ya, dey knocked it down, den.”

Standing on the vacant lot

I talk with the former police chief

About the Jacobsville Sandstone

And how his generation moved away

Coming back now to die

In their hometown.

Driving more, a roadsign says

”Welcome to Laurium, Michigan”

And I know that name. something or someone
About it; not the panicked crowd

Of Italian children trampling and suffocating
Or the photographs in the local laundromat
Of the mass funeral of tiny coffins

Or Calumet's rococco opera house

For the mining company society wives

But a person

Whose name occurs to me

12

Even before I can read the inscription
On the roadside monument.

I say:

"The Gipper! George Gipp!
Win one for the Gipper; this is his town.
We have got to find his grave!"

Driving, searching.

Taking directions from people
In bakeries, at the post office,
By a gas station on a corner;
Scenes from the Ronald Reagan movie occur to me:
I've never watched it all the way through.
Somehow I knew before books confirmed
That Gipp was a drinking, gambling legend
Not a clean cut, processed smiler.

He dropkicked with his hands to his side
Not held up in a Hollywood pose.

The graveyard: always follow

The first set of directions you hear:
Drive farther than you think.

A longhaired boy on a riding mower,

Wearing a Twins cap, says "Look in lot twenty."

The copper money went to Boston
And the mines closed up forever.
Seventy died that Christmas in 1913.
Reagan's movie was a hit

Though the Gipper's last request
Was more likely a bet on some horse.

The stone reads:

GEORGE GIPP
1895-1920

13

FORD LAKE
A Poem in Prepositions

In Milan, Michigan, 1938

at the Huron Valley prison

under the Emergency Bank Robbery Act
the last

execution

in Michigan

took place

Here,

Henry Ford

created an artificial lake

by damming the Saline River
built

an electric plant

powered by the water

flowing under the bridge

over the dam

into and through the generators
which no longer light the homes
of Milan, where all--

the power plant (now the library)
dam and bridge

evoke lost architectural ideals--
1930's Art Deco

--linear concrete and chrome,
cool curving steel bars

still green, now diminished

by chain link,

the bridge's cast steel supports
since painted over

with now peeling white

"The bridge knows it's green"

14

Speech of Ogemawkeketo to Lewis Cass, Treaty of Saginaw, 1919

You do not know our wishes. Our people wonder what has
brought you so far from your homes. Your young men have
invited us to come and light the council fire. We are here to
smoke the pipe of peace, but not to sell our lands. Your people
trespass upon our hunting grounds. You flock to our shores.
Our waters grow warm; our land melts like a cake of ice. Our
possessions grow smaller and smaller; the warm wave of the
white man rolls in upon us and melts us away. Our women
reproach us. Our children want homes. Shall we sell from
under them the spot where they spread their blankets? We
have not called you here. We smoke with you the pipe of
peace.

15
THE GLACIER

"I think this cumbered confluent envies its clifi' then..."
—Robinson Jeffers, "November Surf“

A great sheet of ice

four miles thick

comes roaring, crashing

down onto the lakeland from the north
(attherateofaboutaninchaday)

and it dips into Superior

to buck up on the UP.

having scoured out the asbestoform fibers
on the floor of the western arm

of the greatest lake

tossing ore boats onto M-28

burying all the poachers

and inbred drivers of all-terrain vehicles
not even pausing at the Straits

but crushing the bridge

to bounce it to Ohio

with the world's longest porch

on Grand (Turtle Island) Hotel

and south, the sacred pines of Hartwick
(who know their time will return)
grinding the windshields of Winnebagos
into a fine sandy grit

knocking down pizza franchises like dominoes
not bothering to check in with security

at Dow Chemical at Midland

and at Ludington to the west

but plowing them under

with the dredging projects and condos
shapping malls and survey system
Theodore Roethke's grave at Oakwood Cemetary, Saginaw
General George Armstrong Custer statue at Monroe
and everyone who listens to the scientists

16
up in the Renaissance Center in Detroit
with their lasers pointed north
whoareunabletostoptheice
which buries them, notepads, lasers and all
on its way to Ohio.

17

THE GREAT FIRE OF 1881
Michigan's Thumb Country

"Ah Theodore Roethke...what would you have made
of the greenhouse efl'ect?”

Slashings left by the loggers

and by farmers clearing land

covered thousands of acres-

a tangled welter of pine tops, limbs, and stumps

on which a man from Port Huron had walked for a mile,
leaping from trunk to trunk, not once touching the ground.

That summer of drought, the Thumb country was

"as dry as a man after eating salt mackeral."

Streams stopped nrnning. Swamps dried down to clay.
Old timers remembered the heat of ten summers before,
and when a white haze, the scent of burning popple,
descended from the west, and the sun burned bright red,
they muttered that these were the signs

that had preceded the fires of seventy-one.

Then came the winds-of a howling force

to tear roofs from houses,

to lift and violently toss large men,

to splinter trees and roll boulders like pebbles.

Darkness fell at noon, and when the sky rained burning pitch,
farmers fought to extinguish spot fires

with shovels and brooms. Then they ran:

gathering their children and belongings

in buggies and carts, racing the flames

that burned handles off ploughs.

that leaped into arches, sparing what was leaped

and destroying what was struck.

Potatoes roasted in the ground. Fish cooked in the streams.
Peach trees burst into blossom, and birds flew over Lake Huron,
drowning for lack of a perch.

18
People near the coast waded into the lake,
having to dive below the lye poisoned surface
for drinking water. People inland jumped into wells,
or wrapped themselves in wet rugs
against the walls of flame and smoke.
Some ran to clearings-as did bears, deer, and other mammals.

And some...many...bumed, or suffocated

in the fields, in the woods, in the streams,

in their homes. When relief came to bury the dead,
to feed and clothe the survivors,

some saw that now the land was truly cleared,

that what isolated fires and timber cruising could not,
this inferno had done: leveled the ground

so that streams could be straightened,

so that the Indians left, canoeing south to the reservation,
so that the timber was ash, and the ash was scattered
for the bigger farms and smaller woods yet to come.

19

The black-capped Chickadee, the Parus atricapillus of the
Europeans, nests in the woods during fine weather, and comes
into the city or village to spend the winter. It thankfully

receives all the crumbs which fall from the tables of the
people.

20

BIRD IS NOT BIRD

(Track One, in rhythm to Track Two--
Track Three, cardinal. Chickadee, nuthatch.
and thrush songs. crow caws, kestrel cries.
and mourning dove cooing, optional)

Bird is not bird
is not bird is
not bird is not
bird is not bird
is not bird is
not bird is not
bird is not bird
is not bird is
not bird is not
bird is not bird
Is not bird is
not bird is not
bird is not bird
is not bird is
not bird is not
bird is not bird
Is not bird is
not bird is not
bird...

21

BIRD IS NOT BIRD
East Lansing, Michigan

Bird is not bird

is a crow

is a thrush

is a nuthatch or crow

that flies through these dreams
that perches in trees

a dinosaur with wings

that didn‘t get extinct

got smart, got feathered
flocked all together

like kingfisher, dove

kestrel above in the trees

in the lot with the realty sign
where crows caw caw black
being bird

being crow

22

THE LOT WITH THE REALTY SIGN
East Lansing, Michigan

Two
black squirrels
gambol like lemurs
in the overhead.
I crouch, observing a mallard
dabble for something
in the water
of this swale.
Grackles bathe. and over
the distant humming of a bandsaw
a racket of jays
resounds.
I stop counting species
to watch a male cardinal,
preening red.
fend off another suitor for his mate.
Cars bias on the mainroad
and I resolve
to remove the strands
of plastic survey tape
that festoon the trunks of trees
of this remnant wetland

within city limits.

23

SONG OF MICHIGAN

Longfellow was either deluded,

stupid, or the first of the foresters.

If Hiawatha was other than a fool's noble savage,

he would have made a Big Canoe and paddled away--
away from the land lost to a pillage

that stripped the big pines for a midwestem floor.

They left two at Hartwick to boast evermore

of how a few men with axes, saws, and narrow gauge rail
laid low the mitten’s mighty wood

where I'd have dreamed of the white pine's rule.

24

The Halfway House on the stage route between Flint and
Flushing was built on the north bank of the river about 1850.
It was busiest under its third owner, John Ponsford. Ponsford,
a big man who was liked by all, killed the last big bear to be
seen in this area. One night a party was going on and about
midnight a storm came up with crashes of lightning and
roaring thunder. It was too dangerous to go outside and start
home, so the merrymakers kept dancing. In the middle of the
storm, when both the elements and the music quieted a bit, the
group heard the squealing of a pig which was evidently in
great distress. Ponsford and some men ran out onto the porch,
and during a flash of lightning saw a huge black bear
standing up on its feet and holding a good sized pig. Ponsford
grabbed his gun, quickly loaded it, and went out to rescue the
pig. At the next big flash of lightning he fired. Then it
sounded like the place had been struck by a cyclone and the
pigpen and the fences were being demolished. When things
quieted down a bit, one brave fellow with a lantern discovered
that Ponsford had, with one shot, killed both the bear and the
pig--the very pig that he had hoped to fatten for the next
winter’s park. This called for a celebration. For the next
several days the guests of the Halfway House enjoyed roast
bear, roast pork, and a generous helping of the liquids of the
day.

25

CHILDHOOD
Flushing, Michigan

The other boys would net the fish
(The little fish that browse the shore)
And cast them on the drowning beach
To flap and gasp and nevermore

To swim the circuit of the pond.
Deferred by size and age I'd wait

For them to leave so I could toss

The little fish back to the pond

To breathe and swim therein.

26

YOUTH
Dayton Blvd., Flint, Michigan

I remember in the dark

In the back seat of the Ford
Winter coming on

My father driving home

I had spent another day

At play and being young

Until time to drive away

From my Grandmother's house
Past the glass and window shop
Approaching the main road curve
We slow and come to stop

The light turns green, we move

 

27

THE DANCING DUCK
For Kira

I am just a dancing duck
A dancing duck am I.

Some other ducks.

They like to flap

And others like to fly.

But I amjust a dancing duck
A dancing duck am I.

I like to swim

And dive about

In rivers, lake, and sky.

But most of all I love to dance
A dancing duck am I.

I eat mussels, cress, and fish
(I'm known for minnow pie).
And after lunch

Why, then I dance

A dancing duck am I.

And if you're walking on the beach
And find duck prints on the sand
And if those prints make patterns
Like only waltzing can

Wantsi, twist, or rhumba.

I tell you this is why:

I the dancing duck was there

A dancing duck am I.

A dancing duck, a dancing duck
A dancing duck am I.

28

Their trip, in October 1835, to Flushing, occupied three
weeks time, the journey being made by canal to Buffalo,
thence to Detroit by boat. The third day, they reached Thomas
Irish's tavern in Grand Blanc. Upon arriving there, Mr.
Evans drank a great quantity of cider, and very serious results
very nearly followed, he becoming for a time like one dead.
His daughter became alarmed, and the presence of a crowd of
roughs and horse thieves, who deliberately proceeded to strip
her father and hunt for his valuables, tended to heighten her
anxiety, she in the meantime being scoffed and jeered at by
them. At length the landlord appeared and stayed
proceedings.

29

HEARTWOOD

Wayne's getting on in years and his relatives want to send him to a
home. He retired nine years ago from his job at the tool and die and went
home with a gold watch that a nephew will inherit, forget in his trousers,
and run through the washer. Wayne's little house in this little town was
heated with coal until 1959 when Wayne bought a gas furnace from the
hardware store. He turned the old coal bin into another storage room for his
mason jars filled with nuts, screws, and nails. Wayne has his tools neatly
arranged on the wall. Plugs in the pegboard hold his hammers on the right,
his wrenches on the left, and his screwdrivers in the middle, according to
size. Wayne can fix anything, even though he often buttons his flannel
shirts the wrong way, and doesn't discover the extra hole for hours. He
keeps the plumbing working in his house, and the wiring, and the toaster,
and the lamps. Since his mother died, he has dusted the antique furniture
every week, and has tried to keep the house picked up. He doesn't go out
much. His Nash in the garage hasn't been driven in years. His relatives
bring him groceries. His relatives drive him to the hardware store when he
needs to go.

Wayne owns three acres. The back two are wooded with about forty blue
spruces, all at least thirty feet tall. He doesn't like that they were planted in
rows, but they make him happy. Songbirds come in the spring and Wayne
sits out back, listening and watching. He shoots at the starlings with his
pellet rifle, but he puts out nesting material for the others, and three kinds
of feed. In summer he trims the bottoms of the trees and patches any holes
with tree cement. He has only cut down two in thirty years--one spruce

whose heartwood was diseased, and a little one that never grew and took light

30
from two healthier, bigger trees. His spruces are his pride and joy.

Today his relatives are coming--his nephew Jerry and Jerry's wife
Marcella. When Wayne's other relatives want something done, like getting
Wayne to spend less on birdseed, they ask Jerry and Marcella to pay Wayne a
visit. Jerry is Wayne's next of kin and stands to inherit what little Wayne
has. He probably will because Wayne likes him-Jerry has his own business,
a general store in the little town he lives in. So generally, Wayne listens to
what Jerry has to say. Today, Jerry has to say that some of Wayne's spruces
have to go. Wayne doesn't really understand Jerry's explanation about the
neighbors' drain field, but he nods his head in silence, listening to Jerry.
After a fidgeting moment, he asks "How many?" Jerry replies "Oh, not too
many. Maybe five or six in the back." Wayne swallows, looks at the floor,
and says "OK."

Jerry smiles and walks out the front door to his car. Marcella makes
small talk with Wayne as she looks at the silver in the china cabinet. She
moves a small plate on the top shelf over to the left a few inches. Five
minutes later an angry buzzing sound kicks up out back. After ten minutes
of this high pitched buzz and rip, Wayne begins to nervously straighten his
collar. Marcella notices this, and pats him on the shoulder, saying ”I'll go out
back and see how it's coming."

She walks out the back door. Wayne sits with his hands clasped between
his knees. Marcella soon returns, saying "He's done. He's just dragging the
logs closer together." When Jerry finally enters. sweaty and very piny
smelling, he laughs and washes his hands in the sink, saying "Well, Wayne,
I'll come back next weekend and cut you a nice stack of firewood for the
winter." Wayne slowly smiles, and says "Thanks Jerry,” as he stands up to

walk to the back window.

31
He stares out back for a moment. When Jerry and Marcella leave, he sees
them to the door. He resets the plate in the china cabinet where his mother
put it. He looks out the back window again then returns to his chair to sit.

He says to himself aloud "I don't think I'll go out today."

32

CANCER'S CURE

Somewhere once a cloistered monk

Drew his cloak in the cold of stone

Shut his door of oak and walked

To a room of scrolls and feather pens
Where his brethren wrote the Truth against
The pagan lies they had spared the flame
Saving, unwit, the words of Greece

Somewhere else an armored man
Climbed the temple pyramid

And laughed to burn as Devil's work
The codex of the Mayan mind
Making ash that day of cancer's cure

33

I PRONOUNCE YOU

For the last time:

his name is

Garcia Lorca

not just Lorca

but

Federico Garcia Lorca

. perhaps even lisping his surname
as would the Catalonians:
Garthia

just as my name

isn't Bar ill as

but Bar e as

with silent Spanish L's

so maybe I should spell it
phonetically

so all you well meaning anglos
and anglicized spies

and name dropping poets

will get it right:

William Boreas

nah

34

THIS NAME

Barillas

signifying
silver bars
(originally a plural, diminuative noun)
was a title
given by the Spanish Crown to designate
a family of the Basque region
as members of the lesser nobility
(who may have spelled it with a V)
one of whose descendents somehow found himself
in Guatemala
the founder of it landed family
(with a town by their name)
one member of which

one Manuel Lisandro Barillas
(my great-great Grandfather)

was elected President in 1885.

At first Barillas was a kind and generous man, but he was not able
to control the country. which was in a troubled state. He
immediately withdrew the decree of the federation, and he made
peace with the other republics.

I have heard many inventive

mispronounciations of my name: this doesn't anger me.
In fact, I am amused,

unless the speaker intended...
But I can't blame others,

I who speak no Spanish myself

except for my name

and to order breakfast: ”jugo de naranja, por favor...."

35

Barillas was elected and served for one term, but he was defeated
for re-election. Angered by his defeat, he went to Chiapas, on the
Guatemalan border, where he had a force of twenty-five men

heavily armed.

I visited Guatemala one summer this decade.
What I most remember,
other than that my relatives drank instant coffee.
was leaving flowers at the family tomb
as jets buzzed the National Palace.
We learned later that a coup d'etat had taken place.

To this group, he hoped to add others who were dissatisfied with

the government of Guatemala.

Imagine this:
A Guatemalan who speaks no Spanish
A Michiganian named

Barillas had given up everything he had, and his daughter had
even sacrificed her diamonds to purchase guns and ammunition

for his campaign.

My older brother is bilingual.

I asked my father why not me as well.
"It's the mother who teaches
the children how to speak,”

he said

saying more about himself, me, and the family
than about linguistics.

Barillas was killed in Mexico City on April 7, 1907 at the age of
sixty-seven. He was riding on a streetcar when a youth of
seventeen climbed aboard and stabbed him twice in the neck.
severing the jugular vein. His assassin, it was learned, had come

to Mexico for the particular purpose of killing him.

36

Silent Spanish L's.
Slender silver bars
on the field of the family crest.

37

FATHER

Perhaps at his age I too will stop for yellow lights.

38

THIS CAT

curls beside me on the sofa. The black and white
television is tuned to a program about a leopard
family in Africa. Once, this cat noticed the shape of
a bobcat in a show about Canada, its dark feline form
racing across a blank of snow on the screen, in
pursuit of a rabbit. This cat pressed his nose to the
screen, and was startled when the bobcat pounced,
successfully. Some disbelieve this story. No matter.
I speak this cat's name. He answers, and I watch the
mother leopard stalk a deer.

39

John Reed of Flushing had a fiery temper which was not
always under control. On one occasion he became angry with
his cow and drove her away into the woods to the north,
kicking her at every step, until finally both were tired out.
He had tried to turn her back at first, but she was obstinate,
and that roused his ire. His foot came up at the same time with
his ire, and when at last he stopped to rest, he found himself
in a strange neighborhood, lost in the forest. He finally
pulled off one of his boots, milked the cow into it, drank the
milk, and lay down on a log, where he was found the next day
by the neighbors, who had instituted a search for him. He had

fought mosquitoes all night and looked somewhat the worse
for wear.

PROJECT POEMS

1. Find a posthole shovel
and dig a hole two feet deep.
Dig itinsoftdirtorwet sand inthe woods,
so when you've dug an identical second next to it,
you'll step in up to your knees.
\Vtggle your feet around so you can stand flat.
Stand there for days. Don't sing.
If you get hungry, eat snakes
or other small animals that happen by.
Never hold your breath.

2. Pick a photo of yourself.
Not one of your favorites.
Not a recent one either.
Pick one that's at least three years old.
Use your scissors to out yourself out.
You only want your head, maybe with your chest
down to the third button.
Color black over your eyes with a permanent marker,
like sunglasses.
(You don't want to be easily identified).
Take your photo to an open field, maybe a cemetary.
Climb a tall tree. A pine is best for this.
Pin the photo at the very top, onto the trunk.
Face it so it can see a long way.
Climb down and never go back up.
If you have to because you get too curious,
wait at least one year.

3. Stack shoes on top of the basement stairs.
When you are sure that someone is in the other room,
push the shoes so that they fall noisily down the steps.

41
At the same time. yell loudly and sound surprised.
Rundowntotbefootofthestairs
and lay on tap of the shoes.
When the person who was in the other room
canes running down,
play dead until they're kneeling over you saying
"Are you all right?"

Assume an ideology.

Structure your thinking accordingly.
Squint your eyes a lot.

Don't accept any contradictory arguments.
Compile vast archives of footnotes.

Mail yourself letters. Change your name.

42
AUNT ROSE (A Poem For My Former Landlady)

Aunt Rose, you're breathing your life away

and your nieces don't want your canned food from the attic.
I see you on your way to Lucky Drugs.

I'm just out of a bookstore, out from looking

at Michigan books. It's cold out, Aunt Rose,

October in Ann Arbor. Cold out, but not as cold

as last winter, when you made my sister wait outside

on the step, the bitterest night of the year.

Atmt Rose, I'll never see one of your little notes

on the stairway again.

Atmt Rose, I took the best Life magazines

from the stacks in the basement.

I know you knew because you placed milk cartons on them,
just so. Atmt Rose, 1 should have known $50 a month

was too good to be true.

No lock on my door, a skeleton key for the front,

and all your shades drawn tight.

Aunt Rose, sunlight is good for you.

At least you could have left my draperies alone.

And I don't care if you have to clip the obituaries.

Old newspapers are a fire hazard.

Atmt Rose, I know something of your story.

That was your parents' house.

I found an ancient, unopened package

of Gillette Blueblades in the medicine cabinet.

Aunt Rose, I remember your musty dusty carpet

and your knickknacks. Even your new wallpaper looked old.
Aunt Rose, you're not poor. Even with a house and money
you muster only a sort of smile.

Aunt Rose, the demonstrations stopped years ago.

The campus is pretty quiet these days.

Aunt Rose, I can still hear the theme music

to "Jeopardy” beneath my floor.

When the Tigers won the World Series, and some people
got too crazy in Detroit, you said

43

"It's too bad a few can spoil everything for so many."

Now I know for a fact that wasn‘t an original thought!
Aunt Rose, I joked to someone

that your hymen has fibromated.

Atmt Rose, I remember the icons around your house.

Aunt Rose, you were always saying ”Well I didn't know..."
as in "I didn't know I was running a greenhouse.”

when I moved in my houseplants.

Atmt Rose, your refrigerator is disgusting.

I know because my sister looked.

And when you cooked, there was a weird brown smell everywhere.
Aunt Rose. I took four old half pint milk bottles

from your basement.

I still have the skeleton key I thought I had lost.

Aunt Rose, you wouldn‘t let me in

solhadtoget amastersettomove out.

Aunt Rose, I see you screaming from the porch as I do so.

44
NICE, THE SOUTH OF FRANCE

THEY:
walked through garish neon commercial streets
not sleepwalking in the least
bearing crosses of light luggage,
backpacks containing all their life
grumbled hungry in their sneakers
in search of the first cheap eat
walked more, past fountains and liberation plaques
to the stony beach
made their bed in the shade of the bridge,
by the floodgates, amid litter
sleeping fitfully but thankfully, unsure
if the others there were violent
awoke early to the Mediterranean sun
foreboding the day's heat to come
had double espressos in a cafe,
thinkingofrealfoodtoreallyeat
went straight to the beach
tostartonthesummer'sfirsttan
armed with grass mats, mnglasses, tanning oil,
mineral water. and tropical fruit
disappointed that this was a beach
tocome awayfromwithtanlines
one of them actually having brought no bathing suit
but trunks for the occasion
slathered on oil intent on not letting
their bodies burn instead of tan
baked on one side then the other
in the crazy shining silly Frenchman sun
swimming in the heaven blue water
believing in spontaneous generation
body surfing incredulous
wishing for wet dreams then and there
watching the rich play
and the rest mimic the pretensions of the rich

45

sickened by bulbous Michelin women
who shouldn't be allowed to take off their tops
encouraged by the slightest darkening of their skin,
wishing the process was faster
rinsed and dried, then left to eat yet more
French bread and cheese, not believing they were
bought the biggest bottles of the cheapest wine
and drank them quickly
headed for the salty, rocky, palmtreed beach
once again
tried to sleep, this time with cameras
to capture the elusive sunrise
awoke at 2 am. to the sound of gendarmes digging
in the rocks, probably looking for dope
were forced to leave, and therefore
trudged half asleep across town to the train station
made camp behind a concrete potted tree
on the steps of a restaurant
tried to sleep though the city raised a clamor
and the cement was very hard
6 am. arriving with two gendarmes breathing
authoritarianly above
turning over they looked up to the cops
and felt like ants before the stomping child
were told to leave and therefore packed their bags
and sought coffee
were bitched out in the supermarket
for not knowing how to work the fruit scales
surprised the attendant by threatening in French
to call the manager
left to spend another burning day on the beach,
pineapple and pear their salvation
watched the sun go down very pastel,
waterwashed, and sandy
drank more wine and were accosted
by an ugly woman with overpriced hashish
tried to drown their bewilderment

46
in the color wash and warmth around
watching the rich end another day
of play and sun and sea
saw the arabs packing their cases of drink
and food for sale to leave
having advertising on the beach with hissing voice
”Heineken beers! Orangina! Schweppessssssssssssss!
all so existential and inexplicable
refused to risk being kicked off the beach again
and so walked into town
were welcomed as brethren in a Lebanese restaurant
but were cheated and felt like dupes
sought a crash in the residential areas
as the dark came tumbling down
stood on a street comer debating whether or not
the place was right to jump into a courtyard
leaving instead and being exhausted
took the first place to sleep they saw
lay down on a 45 degree angle on woodchips
under a small tree or two
worrying about rolling away or into
excremental candy wrappers
drank more espresso and bought more bread, cheese,
and water for the trip
then took the first train out with the tickets
they had saved in their pockets

47

DEORA CRIOST
Dingle Peninsula, Ireland

The land stops here at Dingle.

Europe ends here, where Brendan prayed

To his God for a safe journey westward.

America, where a new sleep awaited a peeple
Lies many times beyond that blue.

This is the season of fuchsia

Whose nectar is honey

And Christ's fallen tears when bitten.

Some who travel here unbridled run

Like the woman who rested from her ride

And cried to see her horse stumble and fall

Off a cliff. Or the boy who hitched to Tralee

With a man who traded Connemara marble

For the boy's pendant of Michigan petoskey.
They all see and learn of the same green land

A land long unaccustomed to trees.

The land has grown weary of its own

Yet will heal the wounds and hide the scars.
When houses are built of rock like the walls
That divide the flocks into their colors and farms
They stand like the people who work with the soil
Who lift up the peat to warm their lives.

When the houses are left, the ceilings soon fall
And the land creeps up close to cover the walls
With ivy, then grass, defining the windows
Reclaiming the rocks like the shawl does the widow.

48

THE HARD WAY UP
Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh, Scotland

Down, past mountain phlox,

through clefted crags from the summit
the mountain stream, cool and good to drink
sprays up into the air just for your photo.
Between volcanic mounts

the inland bound gulls glide

no, shoot on thermals from the sea.
Wingless, I take the rockface instead

and throwing bad handholds

to crash on the plain below

freeclimb daring or reckless

ninety feet to a summit of sorts.

But the way!

Climbing is man's flying

falling would be but dying.

49

Mrs. Paton Flushing, Near Flint River, April 6, 1843

According to accounts that can be relied on, we have had
the hardest winter that has occurred for fifty-four years. It
commenced in October and is now snowing; the snow in the
woods is from two to three feet deep. But we don't suffer an
the timbered land anything like those on the oak-openings, as
regards our stock. We have the woods to resort to, where there
is plenty of maple and basswood. We cut them down, and the
cattle feed on the tops.

50
MY FATHER'S YARD

I grew

to love the dandelions

and to wish

for more delicate wildflowers.
But that was his yard.

He never used pesticides

or weedkillers

and before

the spring's first mowing

I saw the prairie and the forest
making their first struggling rise
toward climax.

Juniper children

by the hundreds:

we tried pulling them once
wearing garden gloves

but it was useless.

There is no grass
only moss

under the crab apple
and by the spruces.

On our west side

the white pine strives:
a foot diameter now.
Violets spread

among the needles

at the base.

My father
has an imperfect knowledge
of composting

51

but he never dumped

clippings in the woods.

I have planted periwinkle
and a succession of pines
where the birch died.
None have taken

because I'm away:

no one waters them.
I often disagree
with how my father

prunes the fruit trees.

But it is his yard.

52

Around the bend of the Flint River below the Main Street
bridge is a spot where baptismal ceremonies were held many
years ago. One year the congregation decided to hold winter
baptisms. A big hole was cut in the ice, and all was in
readiness--but of the number supposed to attend only one
young woman appeared. The ritual was carried out, but the
next day the woman had a bad cold, which developed into
pneumonia. After a long illness, she partially recovered, but
was for many years in frail condition. That apparently ended

winter river baptisms.

53

FIRST DAY OF WINTER
Flint River; Genesee County, Michigan

I sat in the potter's field
Waiting for noon
On solstice day.

I had stopped in the spruce grove
Where skunk cabbages rise in spring.

I faced south

To the cold white sun
Tracing its lowest course
Over the river valley.

The oaks on the far bank

Were twisted silhouettes.

Sitting low before the rise
I couldn't see the road.

WATERSHED, IN PLAIN TALK

Personal Essay

My earliest memory is of Lake Superior, staying with my family in a
cabin by the beach, iron ore carriers bellowing in the morning fog, the
other children and I laughing as we grab our towels and run out onto the
beach. While this memory of my third year has the abbreviated, cinematic
quality of a dream, I nonetheless sense that it is a memory and not just
something I was told about. The memory consists of details, like the color of
our cabin (blue, my Grandmother's next door, yellow) and the varnished
wooden pegs on the wall for our towels. Then there is the unmistakable
feeling, in breathing, in the joints. on the surface of the skin-~the scalp

even--of being in proximity to one of the big lakes.

55

From the start, then, I've closely identified with the geographical
uniqueness of my location, the Great Lakes, and more specifically, Michigan.
While I have spent most of my life in the Lower Peninsula's suburbia, where
some effort is required to find wildness amidst roads and manicured lawns, I
have travelled around the state enough to know that wherever I may search
for what I need to grow as a person and as a writer, somewhere here is a
river valley that I will reinhabit, celebrate, and sustain. I have cultural
harkenings to points around the globe, and a sense of the planet and of the
continent as places, but my point of reference is within the Great Lakes
watershed.

I mean to contribute to a bioregional poetry of Michigan and the Great
Lakes. While the lack ‘of a distinct Michigan poetic tradition may seem
daunting, I suggest that the nascent quality of geographically sensitive
poetry in the region is a boon to a poet of place, a challenge to perform what ,
Olson called a ”saturation job" on knowing the largely untapped body of
Michigan myth, natural lore, and human history, that such knowledge may
be applied to treatment of local experience. Williams' Paterson, Snyder's
Sierra Nevada, Berry's Kentucky, and even Faulkner's postage stamp
Yoknapatawpha stand as models for how one universalizes the local,
reminding me that my undertaking is not so far from certain main currents
in modern--if not modernist--American literature. The poems of this thesis
collection constitute a step. however modest, toward a Michigan extension of
the idea of place as promulgated by such authors.

The difficulty lies not in materials or tradition but in approach. Wendell
Berry (see "The Regional Motive” in A Continuous Harmony) states that true
regionalism, as opposed to a false provincial chauvinism, is distinguished by

its commitment to life in the region before writing of the region. This

56

implies that an author cannot live in isolation or in exile from life in the
place, which of course must be further understood in the context of other
places--watersheds within watersheds within the planet. Bioregionalism
implies not only literary expression but political community and ecological
responsibility. To sing of the place one must live in the place and make one's
life an example of commitment to, defense of, and love for, the natural and
human (and to cite Dr. Williams, the elemental) character of the place.

Toward such a commitment, book work is helpful, but cannot replace
footwork and handiwork. There is no abstract "Michigan” to which I hold
allegiance-not that cumbersome agent of industry under the capitol dome in
Lansing, nor the behemoth itself in Detroit. The Michigan that I am
speaking of consists of two peninsulas surrounded by the waters of the
greatest lakes (freshwater seas) in the world, centering on a basin of
Pre-Cambrian and Paleozoic bedrock blanketed by the deposits left by several
glacial ages, the last of which (better, the most recent of which--we're in an
interstadial period) retreated north from Lake Superior only ten thousand
years ago. It is a land of ancient forests, deciduous in the south, coniferous
in the north, that survive only in spirit, and in a promise for the future
embodied in second and third growth timber. It is a land of subtle
beauty-~the grey expanse of cloud cover that descends on us from the lakes,
the nesting of a killdeer in a grassy swale--that occasionally rises to
grandeur--late afternoon sun on Sleeping Bear Dune, or a thunderstorm on
the Pictured Rocks. It is a place where water determines so much of the
elemental character-~how towns grew up by rivers and lakes, the
availability of clean water becoming part of the Michigan myth that all this
natural beauty and abundance was endless.

It wasn't, and it isn't. The waters have been poisoned. The soil is

57

washing away. Urban and suburban and industrial sprawl crowds out the
other peninsular inhabitants--birds and mammals and the spirit of open,
undeveloped shorelines, and wild forests. The land is carrying too many
peOple, too many of whom live in an unsustainable manner. We are of the
world, and the world burns itself up, at the expense of the planet. Humanity
has declared its independence from place; our culture celebrates mobility
and homogenization. Those who try to live responsibly, with reverence for
the web of life that weaves itself uniquely in each place, find themselves
besieged by a thoughtless, terminally adolescent, ego-fixing, shortsighted,
eat-your-fill-and-trash-what's-left way of ”life". Would-be reinhabitants
easily become down-trodden, defeatist.

What's a poet to do? Rouse. rouse! Thief of fire, unacknowledged
legislator, bringer of wisdom through delight--these are the roles that the
poet, earth-diver, can play to bring back our world from the depths. Descend
and arise-relate the past that we may have a future. Sing of the
lumberjacks and the pioneers, that their magnificent though misplaced
energy can be channeled into tree planting. Tell us about the native tribes
of this region-~and listen to the natives themselves relate-how over the
course of ten thousand years they discovered the sacred spots and learned
what songs would make the hunt or the planting successful. And celebrate
the land itself, from your own intimate knowledge of the forest, Roethke's
"far field”, the shores, the rivers, the glacial moraines, and yes, the city,
which one day will not be a monstrous tick sucking the life-blood of the land,
but the civilized, cultural gathering place it was meant to be. Be angry and
irreverent, observant and contemplative, capricious and jocular, mournful
and bereft, ecstatic and involved--in the life of the place, and then, if

appropriate, in song, sweet song.

58

Romantic? So be it. All the knowledge one can obtain, all the
reasonable, "reasoned” means to transforming culture--science, religion,
government, whatever—-are nothing without spirit, passion, and-~oh, you
kid-Jove to make them serve the biosphere. Informed love that knows how
to use the right tools to fix, build, rake, dig, plant, or whatever the task of
transformation calls for. Poetry is one such tool among many.

The poems that make up this collection are by necessity the expression
of a yet tentative bioregionalism. The task that I set for myself in the poem
”Manitou", to become a native. is a lifetime proposal. Roethke differed with
Eliot's "Old men should be explorers” by countering ”I'll be an Indian." I
agree with Uncle Ted, but posit that exploring is a valid endeavor for poets of
place, especially in their youth. I feel the need to understand other places
and cultures, especially those to which I have a personal attachment, before
I reinhabit a particular place, making the local universal. Thus in ”This
Name” a challenge, akin to that of "Manitou", arises: to explore my Latin
heritage-I've arrived in Michigan via Guatemala from Spain. Homage to
Catalonia, indeed, and the Mayan city of Tikal. Thus also with ”Beam Criost":
Spain isn't the only European nation I harken to. Like all North Americans
(Turtle Islanders), I come here from somewhere. We weave the tribal
blanket of many threads; many places converge here to make us who we are.

I have undertaken a good deal of exploration within Michigan as well,
since extensive intercontinental travel has been possible so far only in
reading. Many of my poems have come from my residence and travel in
locales around the state. Walking along the Saline River near Milan I dis-
covered the paw paw fruit, puffballs, and purple flaming aster of "Gillian Of",
as well as the spot where an owl tended its prey, evoked in ”Bluejay Feathers

for Medicine Bag." Endless staring out of a window in East Lansing inspired

59
"Bird Is Not Bird," a poem in triphonic. I'm happiest when knowledge from
books informs and heightens an experience: I've always known that Pictured
Rocks and Sleeping Bear Dunes were two of the most sacred spots in the
region, but returning to them with a deeper appreciation of Indian lore and
geology made them even dearer on later visits. This kind of marriage of
education and experience occurred in the writing of "In Search of the
Gipper's Grave." The "saturation job" of subsuming the geological,
limnological, biological, historical, and cultural background of the region
gives actual contact with life on the land a context and a conduit for

expression.

Of my aesthetics, which are of course in a fairly early state of .

development, I should first state that I am first and forever a lyric poet. 1
have ambitions as a writer of fiction and I love to read narrative poetry but
narrative isn't what I'm after in my own verse. I'm trying to work out the
implications of Williams' work on the line as breath-unit, the so-called
"variable foot.” Typically I want each line to be a phrase, a memorable one at
that, that is uttered and savored with an actual or at least a mental breath to
follow. Even the incantatory Whitman long-breath of "Gillian Of" follows
this general and intuitively applied practice-the phrases are just longer
and for a different effect. A line is a place, a location within the poem's
greater geography. The poem moves through space and time, and its parts,
syllables, words, and phrases, are rocks and rivers in the terrain.

In my short lined pieces I tend to break to a new line after a noun or
verb, not on a preposition or a conjunction. I think this results from a desire
for each line to be taken in without a feeling of the next coming up,
ready-or-not, lickety-split. Lately I've come to question this tendency of

mine, and have begun to experiment with a longer, discursive transition

‘A

60

between lines. Rhyming and half-rhyming are effects I savor, should they
arise naturally and playfully, as in "Manitou", ”Bird Is Not Bird", and "The
Dancing Duck." I also think of the delight I take in the names of things,
forsythia, Garcia Lorca, nuthatch or crow, as part of my lyricism. In any
case, I prefer forms and content that lend themselves to vocal delivery; I've
recently become enamoured of the oral tradition, and have found that
song-like phrases help in the task of memorization for recital. An essential
characteristic of oral poetry is the way it bridges the personal and the
public, the experiential and the historical, the speaker and the audience.
The listener breathes in what the speaker exhales, and the speaker paces the
lines according to the response the listener breathes back. Song implies.
chorus, chorus being a sharing of the common air.

This thesis itself is a long breath. I'm ready to breath in now. A path lies
ahead that will take me to the next field of expression; at this stage in my
long walk I've reached a watershed. Poetry has come to be work, and I'm
going to let it find its way to me for a change. Let the playfulness return. In
the meantime, the saturation job continues, as I explore deeper and farther.

And the leaves come out into a new spring.

"Ilililllllllllli“