Bob Ward – Two Signatures

Bob Ward
Two Signatures

Bob Ward is a contributor of poetry, an essay, and photographs to Amsterdam Quarterly. He discovered this indenture document of Benjamin Gains, a distant but direct relative, folded up and tucked away in the corner of a family Bible. He photographed the document using a Canon 20D SLR fitted with a 50mm macro lens in natural light and no flash to prevent damage. This document is now stored in the West Yorkshire County Archive, which will ensure its preservation.

Bob Ward, Two Signatures, photograph, 2005

Unknown Photographer – The Belding Family Reunion

Unknown Photographer
The Belding Family Reunion

Jennifer Clark writes about the photograph’s origin: ‘The Belding Family Reunion is a family photo that was taken in 1909 in Belding, Michigan by an unknown photographer. A number of people within the photo have been identified by my soon to be 90-year-old father, Joseph Engemann. The photo’s porch setting is the former home of my great-great-grandmother, Theresa Spaeth Martin, who was born in Germany 1835, came to America in 1851, and who died about eight years after this photograph was taken’.

Photographer unknown, The Belding Family Reunion, photograph, circa 1909

Dianne Kellogg – Ghost Pipes

Dianne Kellogg
Ghost Pipes

Dianne Kellogg studied watercolours with Florian K. Lawton (1921 – 2011), an American visual artist and a realist painter who painted Amish rural life near her home in Northeastern Ohio. His influence informs her eye for detail and interest in the natural world. This artwork of ghost pipes, or Monotropa uniflora as they are known by their Latin classification, was discovered in the undergrowth near her Pennsylvania cabin. In June 2017, she added it to her collection of fungi photos only to find that it was actually flora similar to mistletoe. Kellogg has manipulated the photo taken with a Galaxy VI mobile telephone by using halo and dry brush effects in Adobe Photoshop to create the digital image.

Dianne Kellogg, Ghost Pipes, digital image, 2018

Bryan R. Monte – Homecoming

Bryan R. Monte
Homecoming

         On finding my great-great-grandfather’s grave
 
I missed your headstone that first afternoon,
its worn engraving stained by frost roses,
encrusted with yellow-green lichen blooms,
the short, soft, grey marker
wedged into a thin, middle column
of single graves for single men or widowers
who died decades after their wives,
bordered by larger, family and matrimonial plots,
covered with horizontal, polished, pink or gray marble slabs
as big as double beds with round, stone bolsters.
The blazing, blinding sun pounded my head
as daredevil, little grey-green lizards dived
under tombstones or into the cool brush
before my wheels crunching over white gravel aisles.

But now on a cooler, overcast morning,
looking from the side, I recognize your name
below a worn angel etched in the stone,
its bowed head resting in its left hand,
its right on a headstone within your own.
I rub your name, nato and morto, with wax onto paper,
then photograph the shadowy inscription
to obtain a copy of your death certificate
at the town hall down the road
to send to my American cousins.

Outside the cemetery gate, the road north
has a view of the snowy Alps
to the west, the Lago Maggiore laps
lazily at the village’s private beach
where a tanned, thin, middle-aged couple
sunbathe during their two-hour, afternoon riposo.
I sit in a café in the town square
in the shade, drink a hot, frothy coffee,
eat a sweet and tart lemon chicken and avocado sandwich,
feel the cool, glacial-fed, lake breeze caress my face
and finally know where I will rest.

Bryan R. Monte – AQ23 Autumn 2018 Book Reviews

Bryan R. Monte
AQ23 Autumn 2018 Book Reviews

Jennifer Clark, Johnny Appleseed: The Slice and Times of John Chapman, Shabda Press, ISBN 978-81-930523-2-7, 2018, 139 pages.
Jayne Marek, The Tree Surgeon Dreams of Bowling, Finishing Line Press, ISBN 978-1-63534-363-2, 2018, 67 pages.

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ is certainly a worthy adage to keep one for being deceived by surface appearances that cover underlying flaws. However, sometimes a good book does have an equally good, appealing cover. This is certainly true of Jennifer’s Clark’s Johnny Appleseed: The Slice and Times of John Chapman, a poetic history of John Chapman and Jayne Marek’s The Tree Surgeon Dreams of Bowling. Both books’ covers feature trees, but these are depicted in ways perhaps not seen before. Clark’s book’s front cover illustration, ‘Colony Farm Orchard Script’ by Ladislav Hanka, is a ‘drawing over hand-tinted paper’ of tree branches reaching upward on a tan, almost light, leather-coloured background. Marek’s front cover (see her photos in the summer 2018 AQ22 issue) includes darker, dense almost thin, vertical brown blocks on a green and blue background reaching up towards a yellow, pink and white speckled light. Both covers include organic growth reaching upwards. And this is what the poems in their books do. They are poetic journeys toward light and growth.

Clark’s book is an exploration of Chapman’s ancestry, his own history, including his travels through the Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana wilderness to plant apples trees for future settlers and even some details about arboreal husbandry. It begins with a ‘Prologue: come with me into the forest,’ in which describes Clark’s motivation and inspiration for writing her book which began with Clark’s then third-grade son asking her: ‘Was he real?’ Clark’s uncertainty about the answer leads her on her own journey of discovery. Her son’s question was further piqued by Clark’s chance find of a book about American folklore, which she later purchased at her local library. She then sifted through this ‘treasure of both truth and historical inaccuracies.’ After reading it, Clark remarked: ‘Even during Chapman’s lifetime, he was already turning into a walking myth’.

For example, Clark found evidence that contradicts the myth that Chapman was a teetotaller and vegetarian. And while she didn’t find direct evidence that Chapman was an abolitionist, his personality, Swedenborgian beliefs, habit of frequenting pioneer homes (including some, which were Quaker), and the conversations she had with Denver Norman, (descendant of the former slave, Mr “Cajoe” Phillips), all lead her to conclude Chapman was, at the very least, an abolitionist at heart. She ends her prologue hoping her poems will help ‘part the forest of time’ to enter a world that is ‘young and old, terrible and beautiful, bountiful and dying, all at once.’

The uplift of Clark’s poems begins with the first phrase of the first line of her first poem, ‘John Chapman (1774-1845)’ with a poem that could be a prologue for the entire collection. ‘To sow hope,’ and his simplicity of his mythic attire and purpose: ‘slip into a burlap sack….With a tin pot/ on head for hat, set bare feet to soil and go forth/ into the wild frontier.’ The poem further describes Chapman’s travel method, ‘following the rivers’ West in his ‘Search for a clearing in the woods’ and ‘Stoop, then furrow soil with a finger, …pull seeds…and one by one press down. Cover lightly with loam.’ The poem also describes Chapman’s diet of ‘cornmeal mush and coffee’ and how he slept ‘on the forest floor.’ It also mentions how he …‘Return(ed) each year to tend the saplings,’ and continued along the Maumee River, ‘leaving a trail or thirsty pioneers, drunk now/on the sweet juice of sermon.’

The following poem ‘Grafting has always been in fashion’ emphasizes Chapman’s preferred mode of planting apple trees from seed instead of the traditional method of ‘grafted shoots/dragging with them the seeds/of old Empire.’ Clark writes how Chapman’s mother delivered him whilst his father fought in the Revolutionary War and then died a year later delivering her third child, which also died.

Further poems discuss Chapman’s “marriage” ‘John meets a woman’, his abolitionism, the Underground Railroad, including one of its conductors, ‘Micajah “Cajoe” Phillips 1736?-1861’, and the voice of one of its enemies, ‘Ten dollars for my woman Siby’. Chapman’s mistake of planting Stinking Chamomile to ‘keep malaria at bay’ is mentioned in ‘Anathemus cotula aka Stinking Chamomile’, as is the extinction of native birds during his lifetime for food and fashion in ‘Wings, The Breast, The Bird’, and ‘Common Tern, 21. Scarlet Tanger, 2.’ respectively. In her poem ‘Ledgers from dry goods stores’ Clark offers a brief glimpse of the real Chapman found preserved in one of his grocery lists: ‘three pairs of “mockasins,”/brandy, whiskey, chocolate,/ sugar, gunpowder, tobacco,/ and pork.’. Through her research, Clark separates the myth from the man, but she also gives readers a good glimpse of both.

Appropriately for this issue on genealogy, Clark’s poems focus not only on John Chapman, but also his relatives. ‘Summer of 1776’ mentions his mother, Elizabeth, near death and his father, Nathaniel, away fighting in the Revolutionary War. Nathaniel is also mentioned later as a tenant farmer in ‘One Tree Orchard’ and he later moves with the rest of the family from Longmeadow, Massachusetts to Marietta, Ohio. Chapman’s visit to his youngest sister, Sally and her husband, John Whitney to their Washington County, Ohio farm is mentioned in ‘Every Strike We are Hewn’. But it is Chapman’s sister Persis and her husband William Broome mentioned in ‘Persis Waiting’, who provided the most support for Chapman’s apple planting. According to Clark, in her well-researched reader’s notes, the Broome’s ‘probably served as an ever-moving base for her brother’s seed operation’. Clark quotes that ‘Robert Morgan notes…(Chapman) employed his brother-in-law to help with the nurseries…the couple moved to Perrysville and Mansfield, Ohio’ … (and that) When around 1834, John expanded into Indiana, Persis and William Broome followed’.

As mentioned above, I found Clark’s historical notes and the illustrations she includes just as interesting as her poems. Her book’s illustrations include sketches of John Chapman from 19th century magazines. There are also maps of the US indicating how far one could travel in a day, of the Underground railroad, of Mount Vernon, Ohio near which Chapman owned land and planted trees, and of the spread of the invasive stink week mentioned above. In addition are illustrations on grafting, a women’s hat decorated with with stuffed birds, the Blennerhassett Mansion, as well as historical photos of Deborah and Enoch Harris, Rosella Rice and the 5 cent US first class Johnny Appleseed commemorative stamp issued in 1966 (a treasure in my own boyscout stamp collection). Johnny Appleseed: The Slice and Times of John Chapman is surely a treasure-trove of information for poets, teachers, historians, etc., and could be used in primary to tertiary schools to teach how history is transformed into folklore and then into art.

Jayne Marek’s The Tree Surgeon Dreams of Bowling, is another outstanding book worthy of mention in these pages. Marek, both a writer and a graphic artist, whose photographic work was featured in the AQ22 this past summer, brings these skills together to create a memorable poetry book. Its fifty-four poems are divided into three sections: ‘Just Out of Reach’, ‘Pacific Rim’, and ‘Of Grace’.

The first section is devoted to grief, loss and regret. The first poem entitled ‘Prognosis’ sets the tone for the rest of the book: ‘Raking and raking/ But the long tines cannot gather up grief/ That waits beyond the fence.’ This physical intervention is not enough to keep the natural world and death at bay. In the next stanza, Marek remarks: ‘Grief is like fear/Seen from another direction. The two hunch over,/ stare like stone monsters guarding a stoop.’ In the next poem, ‘Mistakes’, we see how hard the narrator is on herself regarding loss: ‘I’m unable to do over and find shelter.’ In the prose poem, ‘Drowned Mole’, she describes the discovery and removal of a dead mole from her garden. It is with regret that she moves and discards something so beautiful: ‘your fur sleek as a rich matron’s coat on opening night,…Forgive this stick that lifts at your ribs and hips.’ She meditates further on the meaning of life when she describes a jellyfish in a tank,

as if drifting meant nothing indecision
a turn in darkness toward an inaccessible shape
the purpose of lives mine

In ‘Fable’ Marek declares that her poems are not for those ‘who pine for a story that says life is simple/as this scalped green yard’. This poem describes how she sees two birds attacking a third bird as she drives by and wonders if she should intervene. ‘Clay’ is about a potter who dunks her fired pots in the same creek from which Walter, whom she identifies from a silver burn scar on his neck, … ‘is pulled… in the spring.’ ‘Deepest Snow’ is divided into two sections which takes its title from a line by Naomi Shihab Nye: ‘That was the deepest I ever went into the snow.’ Its first section is about the narrator being unexpectedly buried in snow up to her neck after losing her balance from a Norwegian ski path. The second uses ‘Flying snow’ to describe dementia ‘everything slippery and grayish white—’. There are many poems with malevolent winter scenes in this section in which glass shatters from the cold, ‘Cut Glass’ and snow hides tracks and seeds in ‘Winter Ruins’. In ‘So Late Winter’ it finally relents ‘two weeks into spring’ when a child lies in a closed casket. In ‘Elegiac Unsonnet for My Cat’ the poet writes of her cat “lost in the cold of winter, at the foot of a renewed/ Year, in a collapse of snow”. In ‘Would the Good People Please Stop Dying’ she describes the dangerous drive down a barely-visible, ice-and-mist covered road just before dawn.

The second section, ‘Pacific Rim’, is about the poet’s spiritual journey and observations in Asia, especially in Japan, India and China. The first poem, ‘Hands in Temple Smoke’ begins with a sort of purification ritual in an old wooden temple right ‘tucked between concrete walls’ where urban school children and uniforms and gray bicycle riders pass by. She observes how a woman in the temple: ‘reaches into the bitter wisps / of silver and white, waves them / toward her face, her heart’. In ‘Buddha Touch’, the poet enters seeks spiritural contact in the temple. ‘Panda Mania’ describes the ‘sweet smell’ of panda pancakes at the zoo (and all the surrounding merchandising of panda shoes, bags, etc.), which intrudes into the temple. In ‘The Woodturner’s Shop, Itsukushima’, the poet buys a small bowl from a traditional craftsperson. It is the first in a series of craftsperson poems others being ‘Nishijin Textile Center’ about the making of kimonos, ‘Grass Writing’ about traditional, carved Japanese script and landscapes, and ‘The Art of Teeth’ about traditional masks on display in a Tokyo museum.

With the poem, ‘Postcard from Assam’ the poet continues on her Asian travels in India’s Northeast. Here the poet comments on the ‘heat…in the morning dust,’ the ‘orange clouds in endless scarves/ too long to wrap up.’ She describes herself and her fellow travellers as “pale foreigners’ and as plants ‘who need water’ and who need to be ‘Lift(ed)…over the plains, over the spice plants for which the airliners of our escape are named—’. In ‘Lotus Eaters’ she’s in the Punjab; in ‘Her Feet’ at Mother Theresa’s tomb in India. The last four poems in this section, describe her experience and observations of a Ming section of the Great Wall, a ‘Carp Mobile’, ‘Kite-Flyers’, ‘A Coal Spill, Yunnan’, and looking at the flora and fauna in ‘Blue on Cang Shan’. The poet’s attention to detail helps the reader zoom into unforgettable details in each location. The last poem in this section about the mountain is especially poignant due to its description of details both small and large: the shadows created by butterfly wings and ‘a cable car ride / that swung over green/ windy-pine fingers’ and the ineffable: ‘thin air/ scraped by clouds.’

The last section of Marek’s book, ‘Of Grace’ details her removal to the West Coast after a teaching career in the Midwest. She writes about the island ferry, ocean waves, the emptying out of her former home. In ‘Woods Path’ in the Northwest, far from her former life, the poet asks: ‘what is best, what is death, what matters?’ Then by a ‘fallen trunk,’ the poet sees ‘the hollow under its feet filled with mud.’ — perhaps a meditation on ‘from dust to dust’.

Further poems in this section of special interest to this reviewer include ‘Sweet Spots for Owls’ with its syllabic count which captures the bird’s pauses and bursts of energy and which imitate the flow of the poet’s thoughts. ‘Of Grace’, the third section’s title poem describes the regeneration the poet feels as the natural world reaches out to her. In ‘I Miss My Life in Another Dimension’ the poet is transported back in her imagination to a house and a neighbourhood in the Midwest where she’d lived and taught for years. Here, the speaker talks about the house’s familiar ‘scuff marks at the doorway’, its ‘old oak trees in the yard…Deep-rooted in the black farmland earth.’ It was a house with ‘frequent gatherings…Of artists, friends, professors, students…who read my books, have my art photos mounted.’ ‘Of Grace’s’ intimate details show poet’s painful separation from what’s left behind as she moves forward in a new place, ‘six hundred miles from here.’

The title and final poem of the entire collection brings the book’s themes together. The tree surgeon as the poet, has feet planted: ‘one on a limb’. The natural world has its own character and power with a ‘tree-hand…(and) twigs with five leaf fingers…(that)slap…when I lift / the cutting tool and let it bite.’ These branches force the tree surgeon to hold his chainsaw back as if he were ‘standing / at the line, one arm cocked and heavy/gripping my favorite bowling ball.’ His swaying movement in the tree personifying the poet’s thoughts perhaps about the sometimes dangerous reductive art of poetry ‘going nowhere but cutting away/things I wish I didn’t need.’

I highly recommend both of these books due to their artistry, both poetic and visual, and due to their regenerative themes. I’m sure they will keep your lamp of inspiration burning during the shorter days and longer autumn and winter nights ahead. AQ

Charles Joseph Albert – Endgame

Charles Joseph Albert
Endgame

I still haven’t decided whether the mythical Inuit custom was more barbaric than we are now, or less — leaving their elders on an ice floe with one final day’s supply of food — and the ancients may have gone willingly, given that in such a harsh climate, the burden to their children and grandchildren of maintaining their existence may have been so uncomfortable that the cruelty of freezing to death was in fact a kind of beautiful mercy, whereas here in the US we haven’t even legalized physician-assisted suicide, indeed when I asked my own parents “which do you prefer, adult in continents, or youth in Asia?” they did not laugh in a very convinced manner … not sure, I think, how much of a joke the question really was, because the truth is that their upkeep is a burden in this country of barbarously cold capitalism; Mom and Dad didn’t think to provide for their retirement, so now we children take care of them, which is why I can’t afford to pay for college for my own children – at this rate I won’t even be able to afford my own retirement — as the guilt of ungrateful thoughts washes out some of the pleasure of seeing them again as they hobble in, my father settling into a corner chair to re-read the same three pages of his dime-store Western novel, my mother complaining without irony about shiftless immigrants who expect the government to do everything for them, though I am not deluding myself, I do know they have only a short time left, that once they are gone the door will be forever closed and I will never again be have the only bridge to my genealogy, my childhood, my personal history, and the two largest heroes of my childhood.

Shawn Aveningo-Sanders – From Those Who Came Before

Shawn Aveningo-Sanders
From Those Who Came Before

             I am
                           Nanny’s
                           illegal gator ankle-straps
                           matching handbag
                           parading down Columbia Street
                           in the boot-heel of Missouri.

                           Popo’s
                           straw fedora, clip-on bow tie,
                           puffing on a pipe
                           filled with cherry tobacco,
                           smoke tickling the blackbirds.

             I am
                           Chipped piano keys
                           on Grandma’s upright Wurlitzer,
                           middle-C clicking
                           like her Ball jar of gallstones.

                           The grandfather
                           I never met,
                           standing tall, stoic
                           his secrets kept safe behind
                           an ailing heart that quit too soon.

             I am
                           Aunt Nadine’s
                           shoebox of poems tied with ribbon;
                           Aunt Helen’s
                           full bosom in a starched white blouse;

                           Uncle Denny’s
                           wanderlust, guilt for leaving.
                           Aunt Carol’s
                           doll hidden in a dresser drawer.

             I am
                           Dad’s
                           sarcasm and smarts,
                           his spreadsheet balancing
                           indiscretions and sensibility.

                           Mom’s
                           smudged lipstick on her teeth
                           and the strength to carry on with a smile.

Peter Neil Carroll – Mr Smith

Peter Neil Carroll
Mr Smith

The blacksmith bellows his flame, iron glowing,
turns the antique railroad spike into a swirled
handle, pounding the blade flat. Something
backward has triumphed before my eyes,
stories of my grandmother’s father, Myron,
notorious for choosing soot over soap.

My uncles spoke of his powerful arms, how
the old man could break fingers with a handshake,
but my mother only described his awful stench
and matted beard. She saw him as a throwback,
misplaced country immigrant in the big city,
a lesson for dirty-faced boys like her son.

Mr Smith mangles the language but knows
the art of horseshoes, scissors, railroad track,
density of carbon molecules in his wrought knife,
the satisfaction of hard and durable and sharp,
accomplishment you can put your finger on
only if you’re careful and know how to touch.

Jennifer Clark – Upon showing a long-lost photograph to my father…

Jennifer Clark
Upon showing a long-lost photograph to my father,
an invertebrate zoologist

We come from the deep and the slow. A colony of bottom dwellers,
we got our start in the abyssal dregs, below the groans of whales,
just above the quaking earth, living long lives in the cold sea,
bearing immense pressure, raising children in the dark.

We lived in the ocean until some of us came out.

Clearly, by the 1900s we’ve made it to land.
Sober and dry, our kin stare into the camera, its eye
too small to take in the mossy woods and Great Lakes.
I point to my grandfather wearing a bowler hat and my father’s face.

Look, I say, you even have the same willowy hands.
My father studies the photo, then says, We have never been alone;
we held hands with flora and fauna as soon as we ventured
out of the primordial soup.

This is your grandmother, Magdelina, right? Her husband
isn’t in this photo because he died long before, left her to raise
eight children on her own, right? I search her eyes that squint into sun
or sadness, feel fragments of old grief lodged in my bones.

My son wanders by on two legs.
‘I’m bored. There’s nothing to do’.
‘Good’, I tell him. ‘You’ll figure something out.
We come from a line that always does’.

I squeeze my father for more information and learn this: We spin
on a world dripping with cousins and cousins many times removed.
Our cousin Sponge, an animal of simple cells, can hold hope and water.
Even the most remote relations leave watermarks on our genetic code.

Over time, we grew guts and mouths.
In Belding, Michigan, children with dusty boots
grow hints of smiles.

Ah, yes, this is your great-grandmother, Magdelina, he says, pointing
to the woman I’ve been wondering about. I almost didn’t recognize
her with that dark hair. I knew her when she was old, her hair white.
She’d keep it coiled on top, held up with pins. She stayed with us kids
when our folks went to the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair.
At night, I’d watch her release the pins and comb her long hair.

It has taken a long time to get to these waters.
Perhaps it should come as no surprise; it’s taken billions of years
to get to this grainy light of day – all the greats gathered on a wooden porch,
great-uncle Frank leaning against a pillar, great aunt Lucy, the pearls
of her eyes glinting, and what looks to be a starfish in her hair.

Photographer unknown, The Belding Family Reunion, photograph, circa 1909

Joe Cottonwood – Redhead

Joe Cottonwood
Redhead

Your great-great grandmother
with posture like steel
steamed to America at age fourteen,
married the coal-haired sailor who asked:
Who set your head on fire?
Who froze the flame?

Her inky-haired daughter, your great grandmother
with steely drive in the Great Depression
worked her way through university
studying ornithology
while raising crow-haired children.

Her youngest son wandered to California,
your grandfather bearded in sable
paired up with a steamy woman of Afro top
back to the land raising crops of illegal vintage,
then to legal vines, stable life.

Their daughter, your brunette mother
of dusky skin and choir voice
home-schooled, then PhD in feminist history
wed to a Jewish song-writing organic farmer
who looks like a smiling porcupine.

But you, dear girl
dear sweet amazing pumpkin
with eyes of steel,
Who set your head on fire?
Who froze the flame?