Poetry

Nobody Dies in Spring in Duluth

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Marsh_marigolds_near_a_stream,_Lydiard_Park_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1249758

Marsh marigolds. Credit: Brian Robert Marshall [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons.

April is National Poetry Month in the U.S. I couldn’t let it pass without posting a poem. This is one I just finished, inspired by a poetry class taught by Duluth Minnesota’s Poet Laureate Jim Johnson, based on Philip Appleman’s poem, “Nobody Dies in Spring.” Try your own version! It’s a fun exercise. I hope this Spring finds you well.

Nobody Dies in Spring in Duluth

Nobody dies in Spring in Duluth.
That’s when we hold gloved hands
with total strangers on the Lakewalk.
We sing sweet nothings to our dogs,
who have been lying by the fireplace
all winter, gazing up at us
with walk-hopeful eyes.
Kids yell and splash bikes through street potholes.
High school students don shorts
when the mercury hits forty-five.
Fathers take a year’s worth of family refuse
in pickup trucks to the dump.
Pussy willows sprout gray fuzzy nubbins
for mothers to cut and bring inside.
Shy yellow marigolds beckon in marshes.
White gulls cry and fly over melting snowdrifts.
The sun reaches down with tentative warm caresses.
Nobody dies in Spring in Duluth.

©2016 Marie Zhuikov

 

Please Vote for my Poem on Goodreads!

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640px-2scones

By Jonathunder – Own work, GFDL 1.2, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27488865

I swear this is no April Fool’s joke. I entered a poem in the Goodreads Newsletter contest and it’s one of six finalists up for vote. The winning poem will be featured in this month’s newsletter, which Goodreads says is read by 20 million people.

My poem, “Inevitable Scones,” is currently in second place by ten votes. If you are active in Goodreads, please join the Poetry Group, read my poem and vote for it if you like it.

This is the first time I ever entered a poem in this contest, and I am amazed it was picked as a finalist. I’m also excited that it has the chance to be read by so many people. For those of you already a member of the Goodreads poetry group, here’s a direct link to the voting.

Voting ends at 11:59 p.m. (Pacific Time) on April 2. Every vote counts!

* * *

UPDATE, 4/3/16:

Well, my scones poem didn’t win the Goodreads contest. Even though, as my brother would say, it makes me the first loser, I am at peace with my poem’s strong second-place finish. I’m excited by it! This is the first time I’ve entered a poem in a national competition and it’s validating to see my little book-inspired nostalgic ditty place well. Thank you for the pains you took to vote, and for your encouragement.

Bobcat Fog

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Fog

Buddy and I went for a walk along the lake in the fog this evening. I love fog. It’s so . . . atmospheric. Makes you feel enveloped, safe in a wall of mist, moving mysterious through the world. Of course, Lake Superior was gray, too – water and sky indistinguishable, quiet.

As a fog-lover, I live in the right place. The dynamics of the lake and the hillside in Duluth make for a larger than usual number of foggy days.

During my walk, I was reminded of the Carl Sandburg poem about fog – how it comes in on little cat feet. He wrote that about Chicago – seeing fog in the harbor. But cat feet just don’t cut it for Duluth. Our far north fog is less domesticated, a bit more dangerous. If I were to write a haiku about fog in Duluth, I would describe the fog as coming in on bobcat feet.

Two Poets in the Cereal Aisle

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Image from Pulpconnection.

Image from Pulpconnection.

I attended a reading last night by Duluth’s Poet Laureate Jim Johnson. (Yes, Duluth sports its own official poet.) Superior writer Tony Bukoski also read from his essays. It was hosted by Holy Cow Press – a local publisher that’s been in business for 37 years. Both Jim and Tony write from their ethnic roots (Finnish and Polish, respectively), providing for many laughs and some sighs. Topics included accordions, cows, gravel roads, railroads, and tractors. No saunas, though. Maybe next time.

The reading inspired me to uncover a poem that’s been incubating within me for several years. The reading must have made me think about local poets. Hot off the brain press – enjoy!

Two Poets in the Cereal Aisle

He stands, head bowed toward boxes
on the Captain Crunch shelf.
Bearded and barrel-chested,
if Hemingway had been a poet,
this is him.
The local Old Man and the Sea
is in my grocery store.

I slide over
pushing my cart softly, carefully.
Not wanting to disturb.
Will I see in his next book
a poem about golden wheat?
About waves and ships?
Short men in blue uniforms with
shiny gold buttons, and wearing
large hats?

Eyes still closed,
he reaches out his hand,
steadies himself against the shelf —
inspiration rocking and
pulling him
away from shore.

©2014 Marie Zhuikov

Chinese Scooter Instructions — A “Found” Poem

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The moon as seen from my writing studio this past June. (The Strawberry Moon.)

The moon as seen from my writing studio this past June. (The Strawberry Moon.)

We bought a scooter from China a few years back. These are the actual words that were in the instructions (so they are not mine), but the formatting is mine. The recent Harvest Moon reminded me of it.

Chinese Scooter Instructions

When driving
please you keep the relaxing moon
and wear comfortable clothes,
obey the traffic rule
and prohibit
making the moon
impatient.

The Planet Where They Don’t Give Christmas Presents

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"Mars Hubble" by NASA and The Hubble Heritage Team. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

“Mars Hubble” by NASA and The Hubble Heritage Team. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.

I wrote this poem about two years ago after a break up with a manfriend. I performed it at a public reading earlier this year. I didn’t know it going in, but the reading was judged. I was just performing the poem for practice. Although I didn’t win, if there had been an applause-o-meter on the premises, I would have won the popular vote based on that.

Caution: this entry contains mild profanity. Read at your own risk. It’s really best not to make me angry. I get my revenge in the most dangerous way: through poetry.

The Planet Where They Don’t Give Christmas Presents

This planet is mainly populated by men
who think it’s OK to date a woman for ten months
and NOT give her a Christmas present.

What is the name of this planet?
Planet Idiot.
Planet Asshole.
Planet I don’t want to live on this planet.

The inhabitants of this planet often
don’t want to spend New Year’s Eve
with their ladyfriend.
Or introduce them to their families.
Or sleep over at her house.
Or play with her dog.

I don’t want to live on this planet.

©2012 Marie Zhuikov

Dinner on Lake Michigan

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My boss commissioned me to write a poem about Lake Michigan for our biennial report. I hesitated a moment before saying yes, not because I have any qualms about getting paid to write poetry (grin), but because I have mixed feelings about Lake Michigan. I know Lake Superior much better — having lived there most of my life. Lake Michigan I’ve only visited about a dozen times. I am sad to say that the pollution and development around that lake depress me.

I agreed to write the poem. I tried to let my feelings come through but have some fun, too. It’s much easier to accept sorrowful topics if there’s humor mixed in. But enough explaining!

Dinner on Lake Michigan

Sitting at a table at the end of the world,
or the end of Door County,
whichever comes first,
I bite into the tender white flesh of the lake.

Before the net,
this fish swam in the shallows
over Petosky stones,
through waving green hair of algae,
above sharp striped shells of zebra mussels;
eating its fill of midges, minnows, shiners, snails,
fingernail clams.

Perhaps it fought rip currents,
avoided dead zones,
dodged ore boats,
resisted shiny lures,
mouthed and spat out cherry pits from across the lake
where you sit
at the end of the world,
or the end of the Old Mission Peninsula,
whichever comes first.

In the sunset, you watch gulls,
the souls of lost sailors, or sky rats — take your pick —
as they skim over lawns cropped like emerald felt to the shore’s edge
where wetlands used to grow in spiky abundance.

You listen to the whistle of the lighthouse,
cutting through the sooty tangerine sky,
across the lake,
over the ferries,
above the lakers,
past the power plant chimneys,
through the dunes,
into the restaurant,
to the table
where I sit
alone
at the end of the world.

©2014 Marie Zhuikov and the University of Wisconsin Sea Grant Institute

Two Sisters

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Fishing Field Trip 2012 017

I used to have a sister. She died years ago under unfortunate circumstances, and Lake Superior holds her ashes. If you’ve read my novel “Eye of the Wolf,” what happened to the main character’s sister (Melora’s sister) is similar to what happened to my sister.

People often ask me if parts of the novel are autobiographical. Of course, the story is drawn from my experiences, and I combined the traits of several friends to make up a character or two. (They know who they are!) But I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s autobiographical, especially not the werewolf parts. (Grin) It’s the same with the poem below. It’s not about my sister but it contains her essence. I remember feeling like the ugly duckling compared to her more classical beauty.

Although I know that poems are supposed to speak for themselves, I would like to explain this one. The poem is about two things I love: Lake Superior and the St. Louis River Estuary. (The river in Minnesota, not Missouri.)

My love for the estuary came second and was harder won than my love for the lake. Lake Superior is what the tourists come to see. It’s picturesque and impressive; easy to love. The estuary is part of the less glamorous, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-let’s-work Duluth-Superior Harbor. It’s where taconite, coal and grain are unloaded from trains onto ships, where salt and cement dust sit in stockpiles, where polluted Superfund sites were left for us by our forebearers. But farther upstream, the river gets as wild as any federally designated wilderness. You just have to get out there and experience it to know.

I came to appreciate the estuary when I worked for Minnesota Sea Grant and the St. Louis River Alliance, both water-related organizations. Lake Superior is so huge, it’s hard to feel like you’re having an impact, whether one is a polluter or a restorer. The estuary is more manageable, and impacts can be seen more easily. I liked feeling that the work I did made a difference to the local environment.

The appreciation took a few years to grow, but it’s in me now and doesn’t diminish the respect I have for the lake. It’s like the parental cliché about adding another child to one’s home. Your capacity to love simply widens to encompass two instead of one.

Or it’s like having a sister. I hope you enjoy the poem.

Two Sisters

I am the quiet, hard-working one.
My sister gets all the attention.
She is larger than life, loud, showy.
I am slender, forgotten, kind to animals.
Her eyes are icy blue.
Mine are a warm brown.

My sister has a temper.
You know when she’s angry.
She’ll slap you and swallow you whole.
I am calmer, still dangerous, but
my hands are gentler.

These days, people are taking notice of me.
A team is giving me a make-over.
I may never be as popular as my sister, but
I have a lot to offer. It’s all a matter of
making the most of my assets,
repairing the neglect and over use,
restoring the smooth skin of my youth.

My sister, she might get jealous, but what can she do?
I’m protected by my friends who stand in a line between us.
Besides, what does she have to be mad about?
My life flows into hers.
What helps me, helps her.

©2013 Marie Zhuikov