Poems by David Dodd Lee
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by David Dodd Lee
David lives on Baugo Bay, a series of canals surrounded by wetlands, where the St. Joseph River and Baugo Creek meet close to the Indiana and Michigan border.
Did you hear the
shocking news? Did
"You," if you can
still stand yourself,
find yourself taking
a stand? It's just. Well . . .
It makes me
so mad! Beyond the
fading lights
of this city
there is a certain
nightglow. Whales bask
(or die) in it.
Everyone fails
to win always. You
pass an hour in
your car, your face
a thing imagined,
large billboard, blue
showers, steam escaping
through those registered
teeth. You'd like to
kill them all. Get real.
Your walk near the
reeds is shockingly
of no significance
to each member of
your local wildlife
association—a Canada
goose, for example.
© David Dodd Lee
Third World Arcadia (2019)
by David Dodd Lee
From Canary Summer 2020
1.
Guilt, by association, everywhere—scorched patches on the lawns
due to too little moisture.
I cough dry pollen. A TV swings
its oblong dream. No. Just no. Road closed.
“Black and gold fish
are mixed in with the usual gray ones,” he mutters, holding a spear
and gathering an aspect of the green water with his gaze . . .
2.
In one direction the drip of
rainwater off formerly
rain-dusted plastic piping along the highway, in the other
African sand moiling the blue
to a haze overhead.
The earth won’t stay put on the other side of the planet.
3.
107° in Evansville in June, a Thursday . . .
A sunset expresses itself, the usual bending of light—
gas molecules—an expanse of blue now ribboned to maroon
over I-69 . . . Our days are numbered. They spiral back at us
out of huge greenhouse ventilators.
Red sky at night,
she notes, caustic . . .
Wavelengths come swimming across the algae-scuttled water . . .
4.
We stand on the shoreline
kicking away spilled diatomaceous earth.
Mud puppies are gorging on fish eggs in the shallow water
underneath the railroad trestle.
5.
There wasn’t anything left but chaos, a uniform unraveling.
Predictable unpredictability a vanishing romance . . .
Data points smoldering under the bark of the birch trees.
The eight-spotted forester moth dragging its burning wings home
(“hopeless”) . . .
Blood spreading, a swarm, across the highway centerline
attended by a turkey vulture, maybe a black crowned night heron . . .
Everything, from the tops of cellphone towers on down, begins popping like heated-up tin.
Each child’s finger printed, then dropped into an orange juice can.
© David Dodd Lee
Unrepentant Moon
by David Dodd Lee
From Canary Fall 2019
Because I live in some underbelly beyond the usual scrutiny
and in the morning the treadmill of my legs stands immobile
my mind spins drags with it the interminable flora and fauna
of my days the mating of snapping turtles the cormorant who
could never be a duck she hangs so low in the river she’s no
snake bird the anhinga but looks like the loch ness monster
at a meeting of concerned fisherpersons the vote is 23 to 16
to shoot bottle rockets at the cormorant consumer of sport fish
this submarine serpentWhat comes next unfortunately but an
important part of the record is I gotta pee but me not saying it
out loud O the persistence of perception the thing is I sing some
of the time coming out of the shower I smile as well at YouTube
I opine about my cat who caught and ate a fly just now ever sit
inside a quiet room prepared for the day wearing a fine button-
down shirt when a knock comes and you sigh and then open
the door Hello! my head’s still in the clouds I keep dreaming
I’m floating downriver when I should be updating my CV
the committee for killing fish-consuming birds tilts their brows
leeward as the commissioner of overreach bends his brow
windward says Devilish Bird! I say soto voce there are enough
fish to go around What was that? Who just spoke up against me?
and the most birdlike in the group gaze out the newly installed
clerestory windows God knows I drift in the raft of my bed
sometimes until afternoon my fingers dancing over keys
I slide from under the covers wondering about the day’s
marriage to form until an emerging narration is squelched good
riddance so I find a canvas tacked to the wall draw a large circle
with a Conté crayon this is the portal through which I enter
the tunnel of absolute time the non-thinking pulse of electrical
containment the beauty that’s not reasonable the diastolic
release from the evening (I’m still typing) sometimes unto
the wind which roars like an unrepentant moon through the
river valley words that crumble or topple into the river where
the cormorant shrugs says in an unplaceable accent Could y’all
just leave me in peace, please does a deep dive underwater
pops up a hundred feet downriver the size now of an insect lost
in distance my face still protected by a metaphysical awning
love of all bird life love of the mystery of steadfastness without
aim or contrivance followed by a whew or a long pleasing sigh
I may now make my way out to the drinking place the eating
place where I’ll order the Brussels sprouts and wax rhapsodic
for some hours with friends who agree Let the goddamn birds be!
© David Dodd Lee