Remember when I said, a few weeks ago, that I’d be sharing odes all week? Well, life happens. Sorry to keep you hanging.
This will be the last batch of running-inspired odes. I have many, many more that didn’t make the cut. If you want the b-sides, I’d be happy to share. Thanks for indulging me on something different.
For those who may not be quite as immersed in the poetry world, in the final poem here, “Ode of My White Maleness,” you’ll notice an “after” under the title. An after poem is a poem in conversation with another poem, one that perhaps responds to, is inspired by, or pays homage to said poem. The form is a sneaky way to copy or emulate the form of another poem without having to spell it out in the poem itself. I wish story writers or novelists did this, too, because so much art lies in conversation with other art, only not so explicitly as after poems. But I say, why not just come out with your intention? Anyway, my poem here is “after” Sharon Olds’ wonderful “Ode to My Whiteness,” which itself is an after poem—after Evie Shockley’s “ode to my blackness.” Both poems are beautiful, and I’ve linked them here. Please note, I am not saying my silly poem should stand next to these wonderful poems, but rather, my silly poem is very much inspired by the conversation these poets are having and reminds me of the one I’ve had in my head since I first learned I was white—or rather, not black, as you’ll read in the poem. Also, I’m banishing the “speaker of the poem” not being the “author” of poem here. The speaker is totally me, and the author is me also. (You won’t hear that every day in MFA workshops, and I wouldn’t necessarily advise you to project the author’s identity onto the speaker identity when you read other poetry. There’s lots of great persona poetry out there. I’m simply saying, in this case, the speaker and the author are one in the same.)
One of the great pleasures of running, I think, is the full immersion daily baptism in the ever-changing elements. Just a few weeks ago, the river was lit up with rich colors from the lush line of trees, and, viewed from any bridge, you’d be delighted with a riot of amber, chartreuse, and speckled auburn. Now, though, the tree lines have turned gray, with all but a few stubborn hangers-on—mostly the yellow, spotted leaves of paper birches—and the skies are mostly overcast. Winter has tightened her grip. Daily I’m reminded that everything changes all the time, that what was once beautiful is now dead and vice versa. That whatever judgment I might assign to a dried creek bed or trickling falls will only be upturned and challenged next week after a heavy rain. Whatever I might conjecture or forecast will be upended. Best not to judge. The looking is the rewarding part. Thanks, as always, for reading.
Ode to Lake Nokomis in October blue jay in my face dried creek beds skeletons leaning on skeletons dogs off leash moms hand-in-hand with tattooed mommas kids smacking canoes with cattails whipping willows apricot sunrise plump little junco sitting ever so still as I hurdle over him Ode to Lake Nokomis in November dry leaves dragged across asphalt and the big orange moon waxes poetic about how to make friends with your own mind how to laugh just because Ode to Minnehaha Creek On the bridge, a new tag, “BRO,” and a turkey leg. “Sassafras,” a mushroom. Dachshund, collie, cattle dog, pug. Sneering man with a muzzled Golden. Placid woman with coke bottle glasses. May you be healthy, may you be like that happy baby — may you forgive yourself. I wonder if I will ever? Lassie dog, power walkers, bluetoothed boomer on a scooter. Gray-haired lady dipping her toes in the murky water. I sense she knows something I don’t, something about wakefulness, about beauty, about Tolstoy’s admonition to cease, so I stop and I watch as she curls her toes into the mud for just a moment. Nut Butter Ode Peanut, almond, sunflower, cashew, hazelnut, walnut, pistachio—I don’t discriminate. I’ll even take NuttZo, superstore cornucopia. Recovery protein, fat packed away for the long haul, marathon morning staple, midnight sin on a spoon dotted with chocolate. Unctuous oily sticky wonder, I devour you in all your glory, packed into a pretzel bite, smeared on toast, spread on a bagel and topped with banana, slapped on a pancake, schlupped along the grids of waffles, folded in a smoothie, mixed into cookies, tucked under my covers, for 3AM sweet nothings. I am sorry so many are allergic to you, or simply don’t like you. But in that way, you belong more to me, I to you. I will never abandon you, O legume-in-disguise, O seed in secret, O treasure crunched and squeezed, dripped and dipped, dolloped and rolled with oats and honey. Honey, come hither. Fill my refrigerator. Stock my pantry. Slide into my DMs, take up ad space in my favorite magazines, hike up my omega-3s, threaten my safe levels of saturated fat, shoot my Vitamin E to the moon, crank that calcium, baby. Make it quick because someday some dimwit doctor will tell me to put some distance between us. But who ever needed boundaries anyway? Ode of My White Maleness after Sharon Olds I never knew you were difference worth noting till J’s Uncle D bumped my chest and bellowed, “You live in the black neighborhood, boy?” You were second, subject, unfortunate reality I wanted so badly to disown. You were not MJ’s jump shot, Pippin’s no-look passes, Griffey, Jr.’s effortless pull. You were love-handled burdened with pudge, German-thighed klutz on the court. My dreams held rose petals in the center, sunlit veins a palimpsest on dusty trophies and mom’s cracked vases. Expression I wanted but didn’t have language for. There were no books on our shelves. Only Bibles, only a few sad children’s stories I never read. I thought you were special, but you were not special. You were hiding, blind to yourself. And now, at dawn, alone and out for a jog, you are my headlamp. You my mace. You my ripcord siren. You my reflective vest. My pass at pissing in bushes, trespassing, hopping fences, traipsing yards, jaywalking, claiming corners for myself like I have an inborn right to take and take. Not once have I felt fear like Ahmed must’ve felt that day. Not once have I felt fear like Eliza must’ve felt that day. Not once. You mine? I yours? Stick in the eye, inspiration of oblivious acts, you my blissful knownothingness. Ahmed’s blackness, Eliza’s femaleness, and you—something else entirely, the three of us moving together and yet so separately under the same stars.