The Mississippi River is a poem.
I slip through city pores
to its west then south then west
bank. It will not be shaped
by coordinates. Will not lay down easy
for measurement.
How to become plum with a poem is
a gritty quest with a solution that won’t be fixed.
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.”
Perfect storm
of sadness perfect sky
perfect color apple perfect collapse
perfect moon
perfect agony perfect love perfect slow
suicide perfect rescue
perfect disease
perfect song perfect hell perfect
emotion—who’s to say when
it’s been reached.
You could play guitar inside
a carved out amphitheater
within a grain silo. The notes
that get trapped inside
honeycomb pockets
would resonate all the truer
a roots sound with the memory
of wheat protecting them.
I would stand
a perpetual ovation
in my red steel balcony—an intervention
that gets results.
From sand dunes to glass
bottles, mushrooms, and gangsters
in three easy steps. Discover
the silica potential, carve
out caves for mining, harvest
the goods
and bad and everything
in between. Dank
and delicious, history is ripe
for the stealing. It’s what I do.
If science is fiction, let no oil
touch her skin under any narrative
current. A miracle
of protection, it remains dry
over a lifetime submerged
in water. She clings
to kelp forests. Air
bubbles are necessary.
“He was BEAT—the root, the soul of Beatific. What was he knowing?”
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
She packs up her traveling self again, seeks
a lightened load for a one night stand
beside the river and its Red Wing rumblings.
Any way to break
the ceramic cast
to her routine deserves a look. This romantic getaway
has room for only one
on the upper deck of the Empire Builder. First stop
and she’s off
tracks on the trail toward bluffs ahead.
The crossing goes by
too fast, the span
and stretch will remain imprinted
on my memory reel as long as
they do. Who’s to say
I will carry this one
with me longer than any other bridge
I’ve committed
to memory. Part of the collection
of true spectaculars, it stands
a chance of rising
often and with force.
Distressed fabric, I
did it the hard way.
These creases are real—I
only wish I had smiled more
when these uncloaked
skies came into view.
Superstition and obsession
get married—will it
last, will it to last.
Three turns east,
the left hand leads.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 