THE DAY CY RIEF WROTE THE CREATIVITY UNIT
IN THE TEACHER’S LUNCHROOM
he was confronted by his female colleague
for not writing behavioral objectives for students.
I’ll do it, he said, grabbing a handful
of blank xerox paper on the counter
and binding the empty pages with his fork.
Jim Bodeen
15 March 2023
LETTER POEM TO THE POET LUCILLE CLIFTON
ON THE DAY WE BID FAREWELL TO PASTOR KATHLEEN IN YAKIMA
Dear Mss. Clifton:
You are one of the gifts we send with Pastor Kathleen.
Partly because of poets we’re learning to get real.
And you were born with 12 fingers and 12 toes.
They were removed, and you had to live
your life, Holy Sister Priestess, without them.
You grew into yourself, but how,
Reverend One, Ms. Clifton,
did you balance without those toes?
And now we say goodbye to Pastor Kathleen.
Pastor Kathleen came to our house
to bless Rex’s1 painting of Rosalie Tompkins
and I gave her your poems.
Ms. Tomkins, a quilter from Gould, Arkansas,
African American patchwork threader,
discovered while sewing pillow cases, listening
as God whispered in her ear
as she sewed God’s colors into squares.
God let me see it, she said. The pool is giving birth
to itself all the time. Ms. Tompkins became part
of our family that day, as did, Pastor Kathleen.
Your Big Book, the collected poems,
brand new, Ms. Clifton, open on the coffee table,
when Pastor Kathleen came by.
A quilter yourself, Lucille Clifton,
asking in a poem,
do the daughters’ daughters quilt?
do the worlds continue spinning
away from each other forever?
A few words about Pastor Kathleen.
Karen and I gave her your poems for blessing Ms. Tompkins.
Sister Kathleen can pray, Ms. Clifton.
She brings the word and asks us to receive what she sends.
She’s got the same discipline you have.
Words like seeds. We’d never say Yes
to God if it wasn’t for faith.
When she frees the pulpit from fear,
she frees the pew. Standing against
intimidation, she said, Repentance
is more important than worship.
I wrote it down on the church bulletin.
Pastor Kathleen blessed us all,
and as she leaves, she’ll be carrying
your poems, the two of you, God’s carriers.
Blessing us, we turn around by blessing others.
This is the fabric of repentance.
Pulling back the covers of formality,
I smile, remembering
B. B. King’s guitar, also named Lucille,
and my Mom, Lucille, too.
Pastor Kathleen, I can tell you, Lucille Clifton,
shares a weakness for ice cream.
You two, you go on now.
Both of you, you’re making us right.
Jim Bodeen
12 March 2023
1Rex Deloney, African American artist, friend, teacher, prophet, from Little Rock, Arkansas.
The painting, Mixed Media., by Rex was commissioned for Karen Bodeen.
LINES FOR THE CHILDREN OF CY RIEF
25 October 1934--1 March 2023
Some are named
and some are not.
I racked my brain
to remember Caín
running through the Kiva.
So much of Cy
belongs to Children’s Theatre.
I have a list of memories
written in my notebook,
and then, dream fragments
that pop in my head
while at the grocery store.
These children of Cy’s,
some named, some not,
these children bring me
closer to Jesus,
where Cy comes closest to me.
The day before he died
I sat on the floor by his bed
and read poems to him
from my notebook. This one
stays with me
to my dying day.
Karen has her own.
She was sitting out front
on the bulkhead
and Cy came over
and put his arms around her,
making Karen and Jim
two of Cy’s children, too.
Here are four.
Jennifer, Joe, Ana, Rachel,
family names taking us
to Rosemary and home.
There’s another list,
the list Cy kept.
He never saw any need
to write these names down
as if he were taking attendance.
Jim Bodeen
11 March 2023
CROSSING THE COLUMBIA BY FERRY
“Tiny planned to drink hot chocolate and eat cookies.”
Raymond Carver, Where I’m Calling From
We approach the ferry stop turning off
Lower Columbia River Highway 30
past Gnat Hatchery Road to Clatskanie--
Westport Slough to the Columbia.
This is the Wahkiakum Ferry, and
Oscar B is the name of the boat,
and we’re in Clatsom County, Oregon.
Wahkiakum means Tall Timber in Chinoook
and this ferry runs on the hour 365 days a year,
the last regularly scheduled car ferry
on the Columbia River between two states.
A 4-mile stretch taking 10-12 minutes
with capacity for carrying 23 cars.
The Oscar B carries you to Puget Island
and a drive of about ten miles
to a bridge taking you to the mainland,
on the Washington side. Lewis and Clark stopped here.
We’re the first car to line up
and we’re soon joined by others,
people stepping out of their cars
and rolling down the windows,
a woman asking, Are you here
for the adventure, too? Raymond Carver’s
family lived here in Clatskanie, I say
to the woman. For me, it’s a big deal.
There is a library and a park beside it
where we had lunch once. This
is where I’m coming from. Yes,
this is for all of us. Carver might have
fished here as a boy. His father
worked at the sawmill.
No, I never knew him. Only
in his stories and poems. Later
his family moved to Yakima
where we’re from. This is my brother
and my wife. We’re coming from Seaside.
We were at the beach. And now we’re here.
Today we’ll see yellow and blue flags
of Ukraine flying as we cross the island
before arriving at Cathlamat, which means
stone in Chinook, and we’ll stop at Patty’s
for coffee and pannini sandwiches while
looking at the sign where the Hudson’s Bay Company
operated from. We’ll learn later
that the mother of a friend of ours
came from Cathlamat. I’ll re-read that story
of Carver’s, Where I’m Calling From
after we get home. A boy in the story
falls into an empty well, but nothing fell
on him and nothing closed off that circle of blue.
My friend is a shield maker and I remind him
of that shield of Achilleus he took into battle
with those pastoral images confronting
his enemies before they met his sword,
their last image of this life. The blue ocean
circled that shield of Achilleus.
We walked some miles on the beach
we say at lunch. Off the highway,
going slow. An old friend has died,
and his memorial is Saturday.
Carver puts us in the small world, like Chekhov.
Now things are out of our hands, too.
Tiny, God bless him would still have
things on his plate, whereever he is.
This ferry runs 365 days a year, on the hour.
Jim Bodeen
5-9 March 2023
FOUND POEM
Self-portrait of a poet
washed up on the beach
in a light bulb
Jim Bodeen
3 March 2023
Photographing the Sand
This is one way to walk out of the world:
find your way to children, dogs.
Name the animals found in driftwood.
Look. This is about walking out.
When you stop at the rest stop
walk out back to the historical marker.
If there's not one there,
write it yourself in the notebook.
Rain and wind will guide you
once the others have disappeared.
The fact that Karen remains
testifies to her character
and the repetition of the needle and thread,
needles and pins is a song from the past.
The lens guiding you belongs to the blues.
Your job walking is to walk.
You will find that the noble white man
who wanted to be buried with the Indians
on Memaloose Island, and was,
was also a racist. Look it up.
You're a walker. It's an old vocation.
Vows are simple, but if you hang in there,
the light bulb will wash up on the beach.
You will find yourself along with your brother
inside the glass bulb.
This discovery along with found
light in sand will be your treasure.
Jim Bodeen
3 March 2023
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