Jim Harrison The essential poems

Jim Harrison poet, novelist, essayist, and culinary bon vivant died at 78 in 2016, leaving behind 18 books of poetry and a monumental task for any editor tasked with selecting the truly essential works from Harrison's prodigious output of more than 50 years. Fortunately, Bednarik has succeeded wonderfully; his choices of poems from each of Harrison's books are passionate and sharp. From the first, Plain Song (1965), to his last poetic masterpiece, Dead Man's Float (2016), published just before his death, Harrison's poems remind us just how close to ground he was. Emulating the Buddha's hand touching earth, this poet, a lifelong practitioner of Zazen meditation, intricately braided the natural world into his writings. Of special note is a section from Letters to Yesenin (1973), a book-length poem, and the title poem from The Theory & Practice of Rivers (1986), which contains these echoing lines, I forgot where I heard that poems / are designed to waken sleeping gods. Reading this essential volume, one might imagine that the gods are, indeed, staying up late, reading lights on, turning the pages.--Raúl Niño Copyright 2019 Booklist

3I wanted to feel exalted so I picked upDr. Zhivago again. But the newspaper was therewith the horrors of the Olympics, those dead andperpetually martyred sons of David. I want to presentall Israelis with .357 magnums so that they arenever to be martyred again. I wanted to be exaltedso I picked up Dr. Zhivago again but the tv was onwith a movie about the sufferings of convicts inthe early history of Australia. But then the moviewas over and the level of the bourbon bottle was droppingand I still wanted to be exalted lying there withthe book on my chest. I recalled Moscow but I couldnot place dear Yuri, only you Yesenin, seeing the Kremlinglitter and ripple like Asia. And when drunk you appearedas some Bakst stage drawing, a slain Tartar. But that isall ballet.And what a dance you had kicking your legs fromthe rope - We all change our minds, Berryman said in Minnesotahalfway down the river.Villon said of the rope that my neckwill feel the weight of my ass. But I wanted to feel exaltedagain and read the poems at the end of Dr. Zhivago andjust barely made it. Suicide. Beauty takes my courageaway this cold autumn evening. My year-old daughter's redrobe hangs from the doorknob shouting Stop.BridgeMost of my life was spentbuilding a bridge out over the seathough the sea was too wide.I'm proud of the bridgehanging in the pure sea air. Machadocame for a visit and we sat on theend of the bridge, which was his idea.Now that I'm old the work goes slowly.Ever nearer death, I like it out herehigh above the sea bundledup for the arctic storms of late fall,the resounding crash and moan of the sea,the hundred-foot depth of the green troughs.Sometimes the sea roars and howls likethe animal it is, a continent wide and alive.What beauty in this the darkest musicover which you can hear the lightest music of humanbehavior, the tender connection between men and galaxies.So I sit on the edge, wagging my feet abovethe abyss. Tonight the moon will be in my lap.This is my job, to study the universefrom my bridge. I have the sky, the sea, the faintgreen streak of Canadian forest on the far shore.BroomTo remember that you're alivevisit the cemetery of your fatherat noon after you've made loveand are still wrapped in a mammalianodor that you are forced to cherish.Under each stone is someone's inevitablesurprise, the unexpected deathof their biology that struggled hard as it must.Now go home without looking backat the fading cemetery, enough is enough, but stop on the way to buy the best wineyou can afford and a dozen stiff brooms.Have a few swallows then throw the furnitureout the window and then begin sweeping.Sweep until you've swept the wallsbare of paint and at your feet sweepthe floor until it disappears. Finish the winein this field of air, go back to the cemeteryin the dark and weave through the stonesa slow dance of your name visible only to birds. Excerpted from The Essential Jim Harrison by Jim Harrison All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.