there is magic in concrete

there is magic in concrete
    if you believe

trenching,
    building forms
at some point it’s inevitable:
    you are on your knees in mud
    your eye to the earth, your butt
         to the air
for meticulous muscle-work

chop rebar in a shower of sparks
    weaving steel rod, suspended
    by wires, twist pliers
learn the names:
    doughboy, waler
         pier cage, stirrup

the mix, the pour
    no second chances now
spread and level
    wading in boots
shake the gray depths, vibrate
    voids not welcome

then you work the surface
    flat, in circles,
with the tool called a ‘float’
    (because that’s what it does)
buoyant on a gray puddle
and here’s the enchantment
    or else I’m just weird but
with fingertips on the handle you can
    sense the wet concrete, the mojo
    like a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
    sort of bouncy
    as you stroke

hold the leading edge
    at a slight upward angle
         avoid plowing
pebbles disappear, embedded
the tool is sucking cement
    a final thin film, a pretty coat
    over guts of gravel and sand
   
for a finish, swipe smooth
    or brush
    or groove,
edging, an art
now hose the mixer, shovels, tools,
    hose your hands and boots
as the water disappears, so shall you
    unless you scratch a name

honor the skilled arms,
    the corded legs and vertebral backs
    the labor that shaped
this odd stone
    sculpted, engineered
    implanted with bolts
forgotten
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives



©copyright 2015 by Joe Cottonwood. All rights reserved.

The Joe and Terry Show: Pas de Deux

I'll be giving a poetry reading this Thursday, October 23, with my good friend Terry Adams at the Peninsula Ballet Theatre in San Mateo (California). Being at the ballet theatre, we'll be the "Pas de deux."

Terry and I have become a rather popular duo. They call us the "Joe and Terry Show." We trade poems, each trying to harmonize or counterpoint or somehow riff on what the other has just read. 

We open with a few stretches and calisthenics because one should always loosen up before a poetry workout. It's fun. 

Terry and I both have spent our lives in the construction trades, so we take a non-academic and somewhat irreverent approach to poetry and if nobody stops me I have a tendency to break into song at some point while Terry might break into bombastic psychedelic preaching (briefly, both of us).  

 The theater (they call it "theatre") apparently is plush and large, which will be a new experience for us as we normally read to small audiences in the backrooms of bookstores and our local pub. We'll be preceded by an art show reception and followed by an open mic. 

Actually we have no idea what sort of audience we'll gather, if any. What works in a small room might seem utterly asinine in a larger venue.  So I'm a little nervous, which is probably a good thing. If anybody can make it to San Mateo on a Thursday night, I'd love your support. The Peninsula Ballet Theatre is at 1880 South Grant Street, San Mateo (just off Highways 101 and 92). The art reception is at 6:30 pm, the reading starts at 7:00. Hey, bring a poem and read at the open mic.

 

The Terry and Joe Show

I'll be the featured reader, along with Terry Adams, at the Not Yet Dead Poets this Wednesday, Sept 11 at 7 pm.  It'll be all poetry all the time. 

The Not Yet Dead Poets are an open meeting at an art gallery in Redwood City: The Main Gallery, 1018 Main Street in Redwood City, near the NW corner of Middlefield and Main Streets.  There's parking in the back.

Terry and I are planning to trade poems, each responding to the other, back and forth, like tennis except we'll be lobbing poems.  Should be lively.

Terry Adams

Joe Cottonwood

365 Jobs: Back Yard, Seven Months

Friday, April, 2013

Back Yard, Seven Months
 
You clutch grass.
Dandelion seeds stick in the slick of your face.
A ladybug, so bright, crosses a leaf, so busy.
From apple blossoms, the buzz of bees.
Little fingers rake tiny green
leaves: baby’s tears, inaptly named.
A geranium enters, somehow, a nostril.
Drool mixes with crumbs of dirt.
A breeze blows your hair,
sun blushes your skin.
To all the world
you smile.



Note:
Sometimes a poem is a way of taking a snapshot.  I snapped this one when I had the job of taking care of my newest grandson for a day. 
He's one happy fellow. 

And why does this poem appear in a blog about jobs?  Because I work with my hands.  These are my trades: plumber, carpenter, electrician, grandfather.  My tools: wrench, hammer, pliers, blanket.

365 Jobs: The Moment After

Monday, November 21, 1994

The Moment After

Numb from the crawl space,
the weight of wrenches, the suck of mud,
the cruel finger-scrape of crusty gas pipe,
I open the cock, dimly aware of
a hoo-oo-ooting sound as wearily, stupidly
to relight the pilot I strike a match and
WHOOSH
a roaring comet of fire shoots across the garage
knocking me back like a high inside fastball.
Fast as flame the body moves
before the mind reacts:
I shut the cock.

The moment after
in stillness
my right arm is smoking.
The moment after
from my sizzled beard
the scent of singed hair.
The moment after
from my lip
the taste of ash.
The moment after
like a wild river
blood throbs through my heart.
Lungs expand with the rush of air.
Before pain can muster,
in the moment after
I have senses, spirit;
the soul burns,
my love, blessed
to the quick
with life.

365 Jobs: Fuzzies

Adirondack Sketches: September, 2000

Fuzzies

Alone she cleans the cabin, packs her bag,
takes a last dip and shampoo in the lake.
A soapy cloud dissipates in the water.
A week of voluntary solitude is at end,
a week to wash her heart.
Email, voicemail await.

The wind is from the east — bad sign.
In the car a green caterpillar starts crawling up her leg.
At a stop sign, she tries to catch him, to set him free, outside,
but he panics and squirms out of her fingers to drop
to shadowy spots unseen.  Him.  He.
So she drives, reflecting upon, smiling at
her now-conscious assumption:
All caterpillars are male; that's why
they're so stupid and single-minded.
All butterflies are female; that's why
they're so nice.
The solitude healed.  She can almost laugh.

Again he wiggles up her leg, the same leg, to her thigh.
Again she tries to grab him but he leaps —
how does a caterpillar leap?
— to the floor.
Either he will be crushed by her feet,
sucked up a Hertz vacuum cleaner,
or he will starve in this sterile Mazda.
She's rushing to catch a boat.
She cannot save him
if he won't be saved.

A hurricane is coming, dark sky.
The ride across Lake Champlain is wild.
Waves slam the shuddering ferry.
Water sprays the windshield.
Wind whips the puddles on the deck
while she searches the car from within, doors closed
to the weather, contorting like a back-seat lover
to peer under floormats.  He can't be found. 
She reaches Burlington Airport with time, barely,
to escape at the edge of the black storm.

A couple weeks ago, she came upon
a plump brown caterpillar
who was humping across the little lane
in front of her house.
She tried to guide him with the edge of
her flip-flop.  He was stubborn.
A car approached.
Reflexively, obediently, she stepped aside.
He was popped
— splattered —
under the tire of a black Mercedes driven by a callow young man.
Now hunched in flight, middle seat, no leg room,
ignoring some bullshit movie
she clutches her belly.  In her eyes appear
all things fragile, winged, unborn. 
She could have stopped the car.  Both cars:
pulled the Mazda to the side of the road
until she found that little beast, Adirondack refugee,
before the squalls trapped her — and he — inside
that metal cage.  She could have stood
her ground against the black Mercedes
until the hairy worm could shimmy to the other side.

Air turbulence.
Hands clasped on the seat tray,
she prays: Little caterpillars,
please keep creeping.
Some day
you'll reach
whatever you're seeking.

365 Jobs: Brother William

Adirondack Sketches:

Brother William

Between a charcoal grill and a keg on ice
before a half dozen friends who tried to dress nice,
Brother William pronounces: "Husband and wife."
Couples by the hundred he's bonded for life
— or some brief stretch of it — in back yards, grassy
parks, open space under birches.
Never in churches.
These are joyous affairs with a simple touch.
"For people," he says, "who can't afford much."
He does it for free. 
He says: For love.


Note: The man who I call "Brother William" is the man who introduced me to the Plattsburgh Hillbillies.  He's a noble man (in the untitled sense), as you might expect since he's the son of Ken Laundry.  He's also the only man I've ever met who has been turned into a bobblehead doll.  If you would like to buy a genuine William D. Laundry bobblehead for $20, the proceeds go to an endowment at SUNY Plattsburgh.  Call 800-964-1889.

365 Jobs: At the Dock, Among Mountains

Adirondack Sketches

At the Dock

A warm breeze rises
over black water.
A meteorite —
so silent!
Your little finger
seeks my hand.
This, our cabaret.
Entranced we linger
among fireflies
sporting in
the nightlife.
Above hulking mountains
float stars,
the Milky Way
like city lights
of heaven.


Among Mountains

Returning as an old man
maybe now I understand:
The terrible weather of the Adirondacks
makes you treasure the good.
You find the right woman and stop.
You ride out storms.
You stir the glowing coals.
You learn to crave the taste
of wild blueberry
plucked fresh, staining lips,
sweetness so intense
you will climb peaks, gorge yourself,
filling pockets
for deep winter.

365 Jobs: In the Burlington Airport

Adirondack Sketches: Thursday, July 12, 2001

In the Burlington Airport

Two men in T-shirts are sun-roughened,
muscular in that non-bodybuilder way. 
They know physical work.

On the window glass with a smudgy finger
the older man sketches a map from memory. 
They speak of willow trees, a trickling spring.
A rocky field.  Twin graves on a hill.

The younger man says, "That land was like home to me.
Every time I set foot on it, I felt like I was being hugged."
Embarrassed, perhaps, they each look away
through the glass.  On the runway, jets are rolling. 
Newark. Chicago. Some goddamn city. Now boarding.

365 Jobs: Catching a Cab in Burlington, Vermont

Adirondack Sketches

Catching a Cab in Burlington, Vermont

The sun has set, the dusk is deep.
You wipe your fingers of hamburger grease
while the counter girl cleans up, humming,
closing.  Stepping out, you catch a taxi
for the five minute ride to the Ho Hum Motel.
The driver, Amanda, looks college age.
She says her father owns the cab.
Chatty, she says she's lived here
her whole life.  It's a safe town:
"I mean, look at me, I'm driving a taxi at night."
A pleasant trip.
You overtip.

Morning, you head for the lake where
sailboats flutter like delicate moths.
Your cabbie, Albert, blares the horn: "This is what
I hate about this town.  People
don't get out of the way.  People walkin'!
Y'know what I'm sayin'?"
Albert's a whiner, a short guy.
"I can't wait to go back south in a couple
months when my service ends."
Oh, service.  Meaning: Albert's on parole,
a work-release.  What crime? 
Probably no danger, but strange.
You count your change.

365 Jobs: While Buying Groceries in Burlington, Vermont

Adirondack Sketches: Saturday, June 30, 2001

While Buying Groceries in Burlington, Vermont

Something, I forget what, reveals I'm from San Fran,
so the bread stocker, a big white guy, tells me
he lived in California for six months,
college in Long Beach,
had a "brown-skin girlfriend,"
but he had to leave because he's "earthquake sensitive."
He woke up one morning with the certain knowledge
that there would be a killer quake within three days.
He warned everybody.
"Was there a quake?" I ask.
"Yes.  In Mexico City."
"So you were off by a few thousand miles."
"No.  The way I see it, I prevented it from happening locally
by calling it.  Then I got the hell out."
"The girlfriend?"
"No."
So now he's married with kids and drives
a bread truck in Burlington, Vermont.
He smiles.  "It's a good town."
I agree.



Note: I usually come to the Adirondacks by flying into Burlington, Vermont, followed by a ferry ride across Lake Champlain.

365 Jobs: Au Naturel

Adirondack Sketches: 
Au Naturel
 
Postseason

After Labor Day, speedboats gone,
the weather turns gorgeous.
Teacher Jim, age eighty-two,
and nurse Edith, a mere seventy-eight,
at the dock nonchalantly strip.
In the cold water they soap themselves,
bare butts etched like driftwood.
The air is warm, breeze gentle.
World, carry on.


 
Midseason

Free like an otter I swim
without suit nor jock,
then spy a mom and (uh oh) young girl
at the neighboring dock. 
They wave, (whew),
smiles on their lips.
There's something so wholesome
about a skinny dip.

365 Jobs: Alone, Moose Mountain

Adirondack Sketches: Sunday, Sept 14, 2003

Alone, Moose Mountain

The man climbs foolishly alone
into clouds.  Breaking spider webs,
he's first to follow this abandoned path
in a long while.  A final, steep scramble
up rocks and he's atop
Moose Mountain.
Clouds lift.  Brilliant view, shared:
Perched on a near spar, an alert falcon.

Tired, descending a different
faint trail, he hasn't seen
another human all day.
Crossing a creek, he hops to
a slick rock and falls so fast
there is no time to raise his arms.
His jaw slams against a boulder.
Is the bone fractured?

He's in the cold creek,
getting soaked, seeing stars,
mad as hell.  He was always good at bearing
pain but this is amazing.
He gets up swearing,
screaming at nobody, the gods,
everything.  Where's the hat?
Shit!  He stumbles down the creek searching
and slips again.  Fuck! 

He's too tired, too wet,
too banged up and crazy.
Farewell, beloved Tilley hat.
Socks squishing,
he continues along a trail so little used
the duff bounces under his boots.
Moss, fungus, throb.
Birch, pine, stab.
Squirrel, jay, pang.

Two weeks later — two weeks in which it was impossible
to swing a hammer — a doctor purses her lips and says,
"You're crazy, hiking solo where nobody would find you.
You almost broke your jaw.
And didn't it occur to you," she asks
shaking her head, "you dislocated your shoulder?"
She pops it into place.

Above Moose Mountain
alone,
a falcon soars.



Note: Yeah, I confess, I was that man. 

365 Jobs: Ken Says

Adirondack Sketches: 2001

Ken Says

The first time my father took me to the Forks
— the town, Ausable Forks —
those fifteen miles took all day by wagon.
On Blueberry Hill you had to stop and chock
the wheels so the team could rest.
Later I'd ride our old mare
and later still — this would be, oh, 1929 —
me and some boys shared a Ford Model A. 
A mounted patrol stopped us.
Our driver was fourteen, no license of course.
The trooper consulted his gelding, I swear,
turned his back to us and muttered,
adjusted the saddle for five minutes
while we stewed, scared.
Well, the man let us go
'cuz we needed a way to get to school.
That's how things was done.
It was horse sense.



Evenings after a glass of scotch, Ken would tell a story with a straight face so you never knew exactly when the truth was left behind, if ever.  I heard this one several times.
Here's another:
'32 Ford, '80 Calendar, '64 Story

365 Jobs: How Often?

Adirondack Sketches: Thursday, June 24, 1999

How Often?

How often will a weary cashier see
long after midnight, shopping in a
Plattsburgh Price Chopper grocery
cheerful mature men, all three
giddy as kids going to summer camp? 
Which we are.

Arriving near dawn,
directly to the lake we're drawn.
No need for flashlights on
this trail learned by heart
a lifetime ago.

We strip and dive
— WAHOO! —
startling the loons.
Purple water
split by the moon
so calm,
ice-cold on flesh
like balm.


First as campers, later as counselors, now as owners (and I, friend-of-owners), we gather in late June for a long weekend to open the cabins.  There's water to turn on, pipes to repair, docks to install, weeds to hack.  In 1999 we met in the Montreal airport baggage area, each from separate flights, near midnight and drove across the border.  Customarily we buy groceries in Plattsburgh, then drive along the Saranac River through sleeping villages until at last we arrive at Silver Lake.  Door-to-door for me it's a 15 hour journey.

365 Jobs: Hairy Brown Spiders

 Adirondack Sketches: Sunday, Sept 3, 2000

Hairy Brown Spiders

Hairy brown spiders cling
trembling to the underside
of boards, then drop
to dark water
as we dismantle a dock.

My brawny son,
goofy-haired, so tall,
is distressed,
refusing to rip nails
until he observes:
these spiders can swim!

Good boy.



Note: I don't normally feel a need to fact-check a poem, but in this case I did and here's what I learned:  They're called Dock Spiders, genus Dolomedes.  They are nocturnal.  They walk on water.  They eat insects and even small fish.  They can go underwater, breathing air captured as bubbles on their hairy bodies.  Cool critters.
Here's a photo from Wikipedia:

365 Jobs: Or They Will Destroy

Adirondack Sketches

Or They Will Destroy

You must learn the appetite of insects,
the temper of trees,
the sex life of local fungus.
Or they will destroy.
Know the weight of snow,
the force of frost,
the humor of stone, the habits of soil,
even the chemistry of the local air.
Or they will destroy.
Talk to people.
Customs are the accumulated wisdom of a place.
Respect the very soul of these folk, this land.
Or they will destroy you
as they should.


I learned this lesson in the Adirondacks, but it's true everywhere.  Construction is local.

365 Jobs: Helping Ken

Adirondack Sketches: Tuesday, June 27, 1999

Helping Ken

"Need a hand?"
"Nope."
"Can I help anyway?"
"Doubt it."
(Which means yes.)

Old Ken couldn't lift this dock alone,
but he would manage
with the wile of eighty-odd years
to winch, drag, set it in place.
His movements, stiff.
His knees, weathered.
His grip, when we shake hands,
like the clamp of death.

Job done,
he climbs aboard his
skeletal tractor,
a relic, 'Fifty-One Ford,
for the uphill journey home.
Maintained where it counts,
the naked motor
purrs.



I've written extensively about Ken Laundry, starting here:
Ken Laundry: The Ice Saw, The Double-Bladed Ax
and ending here:
Another Death in the Family.

365 Jobs: Overhaul

Adirondack Sketches: Friday, June 25, 1999

Overhaul
 
Being men, we can't just talk
so we eviscerate a
vacuum cleaner
as a social vehicle
while the radio
plays oldies,
our music.

We sort screws, test wires,
gathered around a table
with hand tools to
mend and maintain
a well-worn friendship,
aware that the Hoover
will never run.

365 Jobs: At the Hardware Store

Adirondack Sketches: Saturday, August 23, 1997
 
At the Hardware Store
   
Two rock-jawed old men: 
“You don’t want a gallon of that.” 
“Why not?” 
“Bad for you.” 
“Bad?” 
“Yes.  It causes work.”



Most summers, I return to the Adirondacks.  I go as a working guest.  For pay, for play, I have a hard time telling the difference.  You don't get to choose what you love.  Somehow, the Adirondacks chose me.
Over the years, I've jotted sketches.  I'll publish a few of them here over the next few days…