#151: Five Poems by Eric Nelson

I LOVE CHICKENS

~This poem first appeared in Cincinnati Review (2012).

Because they spend the day paying attention—

One eye looking for what they can eat,

One for what can eat them. Because they hang

With me in the yard, their clucks and coos a comfort

While I plant and they dig. Because for them

Roaches are a rare and challenging treat.

Because an egg tucked amid pine shavings in the dark

Coop is a brightness and a marvel.  Every day.

Because their eggs are not only white but also brown,

And blue, and dappled, and fit perfectly into my palm.

Because they walk like wind-up toys and run

Akilter, careening like roller-coaster cars.

Because everything we haven’t eaten tastes like them.

Because they are delicious. And their eggs are delicious.

Because they are a world of recipes: Cordon Bleu,

Kiev, Curry, Florentine, Parmigiana, Pot-pie.

Because each of the one-hundred folds in a chef’s hat

Represents a different way to cook an egg.

Because sometimes they think I am a rooster

And squat down to be mounted.

Because they are not mascots for sports teams

Even though they are fierce with their hypodermic

Beaks and their scaly feet’s claws.

Because they like to have their scaly feet rubbed.

  

Because after eating they use the grass like a napkin

To wipe their beaks. Because they are flappable.

Because every night they return to their coop

And every morning they walk the plank into their day.

Because like us they brood, follow a pecking order, desire

A nest egg. Because even their shit is useful.

*****

 

A SMALL HOLE 

~This poem first appeared in Lake Effect (2012)

First was the whispering above us in our sleep.

Not every night. Intermittently. Unpredictably

It woke us and we listened, trying to understand.

When we touched the ceiling, it stopped—listened

To us listening—waited. We vowed to know it

But by daylight we thought better to live

And let live, get to work, soon enough it will end.

Then the ragged hole appeared above our bed.

We bandaged it like an ear with packing tape.

The whispering continued, widened the hole.

I climbed with poison into the attic’s beams

And struts and gently set the tray. In days

The rank rot began seeping down into the house.

We burned candles and incense but it wouldn’t be hidden.

We bathed in it. Ate in it. Made love. Imagined its mouth

Moving over us. Then the flies arrived, climbing the walls,

Washing their feet in the folds of the curtains, dimming the lights

Where they gathered, humming their one-note hymn.

*****

OUR WARS 

~This poem first appeared in The McNeese Review (2014)

He was a nerd before there were nerds

But one thing you had to say for Mark—

The guy knew how to die. In our wars

He was the first to scream I’m hit, tumble,

Sprawl, pitch forward face first, call

Mama and go still, not flinching

The gnats from his eyes

Because this was death and he knew

The physics—body in motion, opposite

And equal—wherever it takes you.

We envied him, we who were afraid to risk

A rash, a tear, our mothers’ wrath.

He perfected the staggering collapse,

The high-speed-tree-collide-and-ricochet,

The twirl-into-prickly-vines.

D-Day at the beach, knee-deep in surf, we’d barely

Begun when Mark screamed, clasped his head

And fell into the dead man’s float. The rest of us

Zig-zagged through sound effects—burping guns,

Whistling missiles—until we made it up the beach

To the picnic table, bellowed triumph, took slugs

From canteens and ran toward the smoking grill.  

When Mark staggered up dripping, he wanted

To know why we hadn’t waited for him, if we knew

How long he’d held his breath. We didn’t look at him—

Nobody told him to die. We planned another assault.

*****

  

PROFESSOR COOK

~This poem first appeared in The Southern Poetry Review (2014).

1.

He was football player big, wore a suit

Every class and carried a black satchel

Thick with notebooks written in braille.

His eyes fixed in a permanent squint,

He stared at the back wall and called roll,

Fingering each figure of our names

As if he knew us like no one else,

Not even us, as if he could feel

The possibility within us—unheard

Music rippling outward until we sang it

When we answered Here and Here and Here.

When he finished calling us he started

Lecturing, by rote, monotone, his hands

Still, inscrutable eyes aimed above our heads.

2.

He liked to shake us up by looking out

The window and making a comment—

Looks like rain he might say, or I love the wind.

He didn’t expect us to speak, but once,

Striding into the classroom he smashed hard

Into an out-of-place desk, yelped shrilly

And dropped his satchel.  For the first time

He looked blind, uncertain, jerky, groping

The desk until he pulled himself upright

And spoke in controlled but unconcealed rage,

Why didn’t you move that desk? What the hell

Is wrong with you? Nobody spoke. Nobody

Looked when he called the roll, but we felt him

Pressing every letter of our stupid names.

*****

THE SYSTEM 

~This poem first appeared in The Southern Poetry Review (2014).

My son, age four, appears

Beside the bed, middle of the night

Whispering in my ear

That the neighbor’s system is on.

Though he can’t tell time, he says

They’re watering the yard

At one in the morning.

I’m still surfacing from sleep

But remember this week, seeing

The lawn backhoed, leveled, networked

With pipes, timers, pressure monitors,

Then completely re-sodded, the entire

System an extravagant waste

As far as I was concerned.

I walk Ben back to his room and we stand

At his window hypnotized

By a watery chapel all silver and mist

Created by dozens of arching, overlapping

Sprays, the only sound in the star-still night

The shh-shh-shh of the sprinklers.

*****

THE STORY BEHIND THE POEMS

I always have a hard time talking about how or why my poems come into being, but here goes. Almost all of my poems are brief narratives of events from my own experience.  This is especially true of “A Small Hole,” “Our Wars,” “Professor Cook,” and “The System,” all of which began as prose notes in one of the notebooks/journals/daybooks that I’ve been keeping for a million years.

            Periodically I browse my notebooks looking for passages that seem to be good raw material for a poem—something that seems to say more than it says, i.e., the literal event suggesting a complex idea/metaphor/concept. Then I start sculpting—paying attention to word choice, rhythm, sonic effects, imagery, figurative language, and so on.

            The process of writing “I Love Chickens,” was similar but a little different in that the poem is more lyrical than narrative. The story behind the poem is that several years ago my wife decided that we should have backyard chickens. Sustainability and all that. I was dead set against it. Nevertheless, we got the chickens (three initially, five now). It wasn’t long before I was completely fascinated by chickens. What amazing things they are! Writing the poem became a matter of listing (in an engaging, musical way I hope) the reasons why I love them.

*****

ABOUT ERIC NELSON

Eric Nelson has published five collections of poetry, including The Twins (2009), winner of the Split Oak Press chapbook contest; Terrestrials, winner of the X.J. Kennedy Poetry Award (2004); and The Interpretation of Waking Life, winner of the Arkansas Poetry Award (1991). He teaches creative writing at Georgia Southern University.