For Steve
Taken from the vault,
it gets warbled, deeper, slurred
when the batteries inside begin to rot
and seep. Recorded
on the west bank
of the Saint Croix River before I knew
what that meant, our conversation
was my monologue—became yours—then
it just stopped.
in a god, but the soul, yes. I don’t want
to write about urns
or the contents of any vessel I can’t
submerge in a tank
of amnesia. Whom
I envy is a matter
up for a discussion
I’m not prepared to have. What seemed
too soon becomes too late—the interruption
of beliefs is complete.
She prefers student
over teacher, says
inspiration is
elusive. No one
would settle without
water nearby. It will all shift—
the more she learns
the less she knows
why
call this—or this—
home. On these days,
she prefers
to board a train
to let go.
Riding the rails through
an afternoon comes
easier than staying
put face
to face with imminent
death. Or not. To those
gone but not
gone, she says
these tracks are her prayer.
* From Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur
Warning: Sentimentality Ahead
In honor of the 15th anniversary of Trace’s official release today, I decided to listen to the entire album while walking along the West Bank of the Mississippi River. I walked from downtown Minneapolis to the river and along the pedestrian path—which hovers between the river and the Great River Road (Highway 61)—to the Broadway Bridge in the time it takes to listen to all the songs through “Too Early.” “Mystifies Me” played as I turned back and started heading south. I did make a brief detour on a trail that loops to the water’s edge for “Out of the Picture.” With the band members residing all along the Mississippi River at the time the album was recorded, from the Minneapolis area to the Saint Louis area to (temporarily) New Orleans, I have always associated the album with the river.
Trace may have been released 15 years ago today, but I’ll never forget hearing the songs for the first time on a leaked tape cassette that was circulating in early 1995 and the first time I saw the band play at the 7th Street Entry on a warm June night. I stood in the front row and have done my best to maintain that position ever since. When I listen to those songs, I feel as if they’ve been around my whole life. “Sounds like 1963” indeed. Isn’t that the definition of classic?
No collection of songs has had such a presence in my life. I believe that generations down the road, or up the river, will listen to Trace (on whatever contraption is prevalent at the time) and become just as enchanted with the songs’ beauty, sadness, grit, and wisdom. Trace is a best friend, a classic, a poem, a prayer. And “the rhythm of the river will remain.”
Don’t draw a line through
this day yet—late
afternoon and still sleeves
are optional, blinding light
from the sun’s reflection
on a fender, her footsteps
reflect nothing but promise
of a moon sighting tonight.
Did I choose this narrow
path, or did it choose me? No
matter, here I am climbing
up and around
a bluff to reach a peak
or some plateau
with the better view
ascending. Clusters
of visitors come tumbling
down—I can open my mouth
to greet them, can make room
for their passage without spilling
over
the ledge.
Or not.
Summer heat has reduced the surface
to sand dust. I imagine mud
and dank air
on another day. This panic when looking
down is my descent into anxiety
of loneliness or my anxiety
of influence. I can’t tell
the difference. Will it tell
on me?
The clank of faux
pearl snaps on sleeve cuffs
against table top formica,
a message seeps
through wine patches
in the shirt plaid—
not long now, this leg
is coming
to an end. Time
to leave lipstick on another
mug and pull a black velvet coat
over shoulders before breezes
become extinct
for eight more, gusts
take over the glorious
hurl forward.
She stands beside the wooden no wake
sign to calm those rumblings
inside, steps on a bed of soft,
overripe crabapples
by accident. Laughter
in the slippage. She’s been to the island no state
wishes to claim across the channel—prefers
it from this side. Terror is
a walk across the High Bridge that ties
Minnesota and Wisconsin together
along Highway 63. A club soda to gulp
in the Harbor Bar outside wooded campgrounds.
Yes, vista rather than destination.
Abandoned and crowded, you
are my calm in a steady roar
on a warm Sunday afternoon.
Hidden but no secret, you
remind me to cease
my underestimation
of the middle. Oceans
are my soul edges—today
here lies my heart. Just for today.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 