No mapping
exercise, no
diapason, geometric
shape speaking to me
while I sleep
will bring him back. No
longer in medias res, he
took the wrong detour
and never recovered
his footing.
Day Poems
On this Day in 1995: A Prose Poem?
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.”
Feigner
My own private alley
is not for parking
ideas unless they’re going
in reverse. New words
to my ears tumble
from your mouth
to tempt me to pretend
to fall from an open window.
You who won’t trespass
against me—will you
catch me on the way
down?
Will the ivy on brick
tie us together
for a moment? I close
all blinds on the east side.
Day 2,822
Take off
the wheels,
hang the amputated
boards on a café wall.
If you don’t want
opinions, don’t go
on display. Rent the piano
in the public library
for an hour so you can play
inside a sealed chamber. Or,
collect yourself
into a scream
that will skate outside.
Haunting (Day 2,757)
Incidental instrumentation
is a snare drum dance
on a low stage. The frequency gentle
and occasional, the result
a steady and uninhibited linger. Blueprints
to buildings sometimes reveal their windows
upside down, sometimes superimposed
lines pull a stillness over the implied glass.
Merce Cunningham paused on film
in three movements, the music plays
without instrumentation—Cage composed
and decomposing. The lyricism of the moment
collides with an unrecoverable
past. Staggered evidence of feet once buried
in sand, and I’m six and not concerned
with the inevitability
of high tide.
From the Ground Up (Day 2,744)
Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit
into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits
of breath easing close.
Urban Element (Day 2,727)
You make my hair curl
around a yearning
for a straighter path. Deep beneath
the streets you go
to rescue these roots
from those utilities. The rinse is never
final. Four men in suits cross over
without looking
in both our directions. They don’t
believe in rain. You aren’t to be believed—
weather becomes an emotion
under your care.
Exposure Closure
To cash in
a past, pick
a year—1992,
better yet 1991—
would be too easy.
I’m done being
easy. Narratives
wrap around words
compressed. A loose loop
of letters with clear beginning,
middle,
end would be a legible expose
yourself delivery
method. But
it’s what gets packed in
so tightly—one lover’s lip
smashed against another’s ear.
Turns out, boys tell secrets too.
Day 2,703
Some days she’s not willing
to dig deep
below a scratched surface
truth. Some days she just wants
to see her
reflection crack
and walk on. Some
other days that become nights
she would rather go
blind than acknowledge
the visions trapping
her heart inside an under river
tunnel. This could be
one of those.
Poetry Reading at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe, Sat., April 3
Amy Nash will be reading her poetry at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis on Saturday, April 3rd, at 7 pm. The address and website are:
Fireroast Mountain Cafe
3800 37th Avenue South
Minneapolis, MN 55406
www.fireroastmountaincafe.com
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 