Poem 3, June 3
The Wisdom of Jim Wayne Miller
Good poetry will deal with ordinary things…
and still manage to evoke a sense of wonder,
of the miraculous.
To disagree, I would be blasphemous
to Jim, to clear pools wherein tourists blunder,
to poetry from which the reader comes up shivering.
These spring days I carry images of mountains,
of Old Seventy Creek, cold & clear,
of packsaddle stings in corn rows.
I have an image of Jim, walking behind cows
around a hillside path cut deep, a near
way, a crow’s flight, unfettered by mountains.
I hear Jim’s voice from the past:
I travel everywhere on native ground.
I have been so often blessed.
I want to throw a shadow into life, to go wild in the best
of Appalachian ways, to sit on common ground
without having to be asked.
I want to idle on the bank of Hay Creek & write
where thoughts swarm like shoaling redhorse
& become a poem, its dorsal fin splitting water.