Live Encounters Poetry & Writing August 2024
Collecting Specimens, poems by John Grey.
Collecting Specimens
I park the car at the sight of antlers,
a moose up to its knees in a marsh
below the road,
long submerged muzzle
nibbling away at water plants,
shoulders hunched high, dewlap dangling,
the perfect specimen already in my head
now made true to life
by the creature itself.
I’m on a New Hampshire backroad,
having already checked off coyote,
fox and white-tailed deer.
My brain’s black bear I don’t expect to see
but the lumbering hoofed giant
completes a perfect run of impressive mammals.
And that’s not counting the wild turkey flock,
the vultures, cooper’s hawk,
and sundry songbirds.
I imagine them before.
I celebrate them after.
My head is a nature reserve.
So is nature.
For duality, you’ve come to the right place
Men are neither soft tissue nor sandpaper.
Just some combination of the two.
Like how I’m angry in a forgiving way.
Or exceedingly proud
of how meek and unsure of himself
I can be.
The list goes on.
Lusting with the purest of intentions.
Greedily taking what I generously give.
Unambitious at wanting everything.
Saving and spending.
Grieving and laughing.
Mercifully cruel.
Courageously faint-hearted.
Even down and out when I’m out and about.
Without the duality,
I’d be one thing or another.
And I wouldn’t want that.
Or maybe I would.
At least, I agree to disagree.
Behind the talk
When you speak, one word may mean a completely different word.
That’s why I don’t just hear but intuit as well.
Otherwise, I won’t know what in hell you’re talking about.
I‘ll just get sound when what I need is feelings and ideas.
One word may in fact substitute for an entire sentence.
Or a whole paragraph. Or a story that, you figure,
you won’t have to tell me as long as some word, some
innocuous quietly spoken word, can make the rounds of our conversation.
It’s more than just subterfuge when I’m talking to you.
You wipe your tracks with some low-hanging fruit of the English language.
I’m sure you don’t think of it as lie.
More a way of offering sanctuary to the truth.
I must admit that you’re quite good at the deceit.
It takes all of my wits to penetrate your tongue.
But who you are is in hiding. What you’ve done keeps its silence.
That’s why, when you’re done speaking, my listening takes over.
© John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.