Wednesday, Day 39: Iron

Admittedly, I'm cheating and posting a very old poem. But, it seems somehow fitting in a series about resurrection. It is about a much younger me who came to the prairie to heal, and to figure out, through a deep encounter with the prairie's flat emptiness, with prayer-as-emptiness, who I was.

I did that through long walks in the wetlands, and also by being present to the process of other artists--whether they be an old man who tinkered with an old printing press, or hanging out with a bunch of sculptors at the Herman Iron Pour--a spectacular event that no longer exists.

Mostly, during those early years, I did not write. I only listened.

This is the poem that came out of that deep listening.

The next chapter, of course, is that I stayed--and stayed--and stayed. And, I'm glad I did. 

The Herman Iron Pour as Ars Poetica

1.

All weekend long in Herman, Minnesota,

artists camp on the prairie

and dream of iron—

sun-orange, lava-orange—

then wake to a ballet of orange jackets,

hard hats, combat boots.

It's smoke and ash,

genderless and sexy,

this pouring of fire together,

this waiting for fire to cool.

2.

The mold is a tight bud,

chalky-white.

Put the hammer to it,

and it fights back, presses in

on the legs and ass of a headless man,

colorless, sandy, like a corpse

washed to shore.

3.

If there is work for an artist in this world,

isn't it to bear witness to all that's incomplete?

Isn't it to remake the shape of fire?

4.

No, not to remake it.

There are four statues here,

alike but for their imperfections.

The artist throws all four back to the fire.

To unmake.

To dress the undressed

in silver waves, clear smoke.

In nothing.

5.

Once, when my lover said,

poetry is nothing

but ego and language—

you're nothing but…

I wanted to punish her,

to write the perfect poem.

Of course, I didn't do it.

Of course, it can't be done—

or already has been—

who knows for sure?

The truth is, I loved her,

even though she said this.

She was so full of need

she didn't know what she was doing.

I was so full of want

I didn't know who I was.

6.

Unmake me.

I came here

to be unmade.

I don't want.

I don't want.

                                                                                               

7.

The tunnel of fire hardens,

its shape suddenly clear…

Poetry is nothing but…

You're nothing but…

But you see, I can't tell the whole story.

You see, I've told it by untelling it.

8.

The artists strip down to shorts and t-shirts,

breasts and hair and hips,

the way they came,

the way they'll leave,

the way they'll sleep,

taking turns at the wheel,

speeding through Minnesota

in their souped up vans, their tiny green VWs.

9.

There's an empty prairie
where the iron has been

in all its forms—
earth and fire,
liquid and smoke.

10.

Prayer is empty.

Prairie is prayer.

Form is unmade.