Two poems by Anne Babson
Norse Explorers Reach the Mississippi
I.
Whorled—like the son who becomes
The dragon— the spine dips
Like a Side- Winding stream,
Beowulf’s Gaets (by Lief
Eriksson of other ships)
Arrive at last at the river’s lips.
After the Vineland which they vanquished,
They trek inland looking for gold.
They see it snaking darkly
Like the tail of the lovely she-
Demon who bargained death
Against glory for go-getters.
They, too, have thorn-lettered
Their names to the contract
Their laird signed. They, too,
Could own an open landscape
Peppered by people to vanquish
In werldschmerz and walled-up regret.
They stand on the steep bluff
And overlook the oval arc
Of the current. They crave more.
Without leaving Wattled huts,
They go home to glaciers again.
II.
The path of this Mississippi
Changes every year. Floods crop up
In new places where no one
Thought to put paved levees.
After those Vikings, Mark Twain wrote
That steamboat pilots struck envy
In every schoolboy’s book bag, and now
I stand here. all explorers
Have gone. Map topographers
Use satellite. Unclear curves
Get clarified electronically.
III.
I crave more. Call the she-demon –
I think she’s slot-machining
With nickel slugs at the casino—
I’m almost ready to write it off,
Beowolf- style, battle-wearily.
Maybe I want sons so badly
I’ll sleep in the snakepit.
Call her. Pour mead on the carpet –
Then she comes. When cheap booze
Flows, when wrestlers watch football screens,
When oldies blare out speakers,
She comes. Call her carefully;
She’s dressed to kill. Call her for me
To strike the pact again for stately
Favor in exchange for chasing the
Mystery Mississippi,
Amphibian skin in fog,
That I might manifest
Some heroic inclination,
Vanquishing Viking thugs in
The unlit woods of Warren County.
Call her. I’ll Cock the hammer –
Think of Thor. Call her thither.
I’ll thorn the Parchment through.
Pastor Annie's Directions for How to Get There
The praises go up. The blessings come down.
When you get to the dead end
Where they forgot to build a bridge,
Don’t shift into reverse. They’re right behind you, anyway.
Grab the stick,
Tap the water,
And watch, just watch.
Don’t worry about who’s back there.
They tailgated me down there, too,
But look at me waving to you
From the other shore!
The praises go up. The blessings come down.
At the cleft of the cliff on the Hudson
Hide yourself from incoming traffic.
Let Him pass, but get a glimpse
Of His tail lights. Your face
Will shine more than after a trip
To Elizabeth Arden.
The praises go up. The blessings come down.
At the Jericho Turnpike,
Turn right, then right, then right, then right.
Do this for a week. Fasten your seat belt.
On the last day, honk, lean your head out the window,
And shout over the rush of the cars.
The walls come down, I guarantee.
The praises go up. The blessings come down.
Out past Lindenhurst at the West Babylon rest stop,
When they offer you pork rinds, ask for vegetables instead.
You won’t get a ticket that way. But then, when the sheriff sees
Your out-of-state plates in the parking lot,
When he points to the Big Boy on the roof
And bull horns, Bow down, or I’ll tow you,
Call me. That cul de sac they’ve got, the fiery furnace?
I got impounded there once, too. But
Trust me. It goes around and around, and then
You end up back on the Montauk Highway again.
Take a whiff of this car. Do you smell smoke? Me neither.
About the author
Anne's work has travelled all over the world, but more recently to Barrow Street, Cider Press Review, Iota, Iowa Review and Poetry Salzburg, among…
Read the full bioIssue 23 · November 2015
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Two Poems by F. J. Williams
- Imaginary Oceans
- Thessaloniki, Four AM
- Koinonia Farms
- Night Flight
- Two Poems by Sarah J. Sloat
- The Lounge Lizard
- Fear in Kenya
- Holland
- Cretan Love Letter
- Two Poems by David Havird
- Yukon River Aurora
- Night Becomes Day Over the West
- Vignette, Townhouse, 9 a.m.
- Two poems by Anne Babson
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes