In 2006 hotmetalpress.net published our first chapbook prize winner. The winner was Peter Nash and
his Chapbook, Tracks.
his Chapbook, Tracks.
Peter Nash is a semi retired doctor, and perhaps that is why he has a profound view of all life
forms and imbues the natural world with its own sense of wonder which all seem to project
toward an awesome creativity like the one that hovers over Genesis. I think Peter would
prefer to call this 'Love'.
Here are some of the poems from Tracks and some new poems as well.
Pearly Everlasting
When I woke up this morning
I remembered:
her birthday,
I hadn’t bought her anything,
no idea what she wanted.
I felt a little rotten
so I went for a walk
and brushed past a weed
at the side of the path
they call “Pearly Everlasting,”
its chartreuse stalks
crowned by a cap of crisp white flowers,
and if you cut the stalks
and hang them up to dry
the flowers get small and hard
and retain their color
like seed pearls.
.
So I wrote this poem about Judy,
not failing to mention
her youthful spirit
though she just turned sixty one,
I recall when her hair was black,
her breasts stuck straight out in the shower
and I’d pull her
wet and soapy into bed.
Well, that seemed a good present
so I cut a few stalks
and presented her a bouquet
with a courtly flourish,
then hauled out my poem,
I could see she was really touched.
Just when I came
to the part about the shower
she buried her face in the fuzzy white florets
as though smelling a prize rose—
then she sneezed,
and sneezed again,
and walked outside and dumped
it into the trash,
this bright windy May
when all is green
and streams rush
beneath the willows.
Why I Drink in the Early Morning Light
Some days I can make it
all the way from Lee’s Superette
down the path through the blackberries
to the eucalyptus tree
with the muscatel
still in my pocket.
Today was not one of those days. I started here
in the middle of a berry bush
with that first sweet swallow—then another—and then
I rolled a cigarette from the blue pouch of Bugle,
lit up, and sucking in the gray smoke
found myself saying:
Thank you Lord, for showing me how
it’s supposed to be.
My hands are steady, my eyes are clear
and right now
I don’t feel like a piece of shit.
I took another sip
and my veins began to hum,
a hundred birds with purple bills
were leaping from branch to branch
and gobbling berries off the green vines.
Their feathers wet with juice
they climbed the air in reeling squadrons,
flapped clumsy circles and returned
in a torrent of whistles, a delirium.
Joining the chorus of cockeyed sparrows
in a bedlam of uproarious sound
we sang in praise of berries,
muscatel,
green vines,
the early morning light,
the leaf littered ground.
Sitting Under a Green Leaf Maple
I like to think
if I sat in the shade
of a green leaf maple
watching its shadow
move from west to east
while the wind tossed the wild oats
in rippling banners across yellow hills
and the clouds flew through the air
like white galleons surging towards the Philippines
and I remained so still
the chickadees clicking in the branches
cocked their black caps at me
as if I were
the top of an old oak stump
stuffed with acorns—
and if I sat here
watching the bear and the ladle
twirl across the night sky
season after season,
and someone brought me
bacon and eggs for supper,
covered my shoulders with a blanket
from November to April
and kissed me good night, each night—
the grace of the world
would enter me.
Though I’d be
no great green tree
from whose branches white birds sing hosannas,
but an ancient horse
all hide and bone
alone in a dusty pasture feet splayed
bowing to the earth.
Tracks
This morning at the end of the pasture,
I watch a doe trailing a bloody rope
of afterbirth through the blowing grass.
Behind her a fawn stumbles
into the light.
Following the sharp cut hoof prints
into the Douglas firs
I see where they have lain at night
among the dry needles.
I lie down in the hollow of the doe’s body
my back tracing the contour of her spine,
and imagine the curve of my belly
cupping the fawn,
the tug of her mouth,
the gush of milk
and the rasp of my tongue
licking silvery mucus
from her stippled skin.
Above the trees, Orion,
standing with his great bow by the River Eridanus.
Beside him the deerhounds
tense at his sudden whistle,
then rush down the star trails,
plunging between the glittering peaks,
across the black fell and along the path beneath the firs.
___________________________________________________________
The following are new poems and an insight from Peter Nash about his poem, "The Willows"
In The Willows
This morning
I see their hoof prints
on the gravel where they crossed the river
in the darkness,
and trailing them
I hear their long sighing breaths
and the sharp snap of sticks
as they push through the willows.
A woodpecker
taps on a maple
collapsed into its own blue shadow
and from the shadow two cows
slowly emerge, shoulders touching
like the tall brown women of Hiva Oa
that Gauguin paints
talking quietly under the trees.
How comfortable it is
in the willows—
the green dappled light
pouring through the walls,
the rush of river water,
the tick of leaves.
I could lie down
on this rustling floor
safe beneath
their heavy horns.
Next week
men straddling four-wheelers
will hustle along the banks
funneling cows into metal trailers
and trucking them to the slaughter house.
I think of Gauguin
propped in a green hut,
raving with syphilis—
his paintings stacked in a corner,
his dark waiting women
his red mango blossoms—
summoning young girls
to his sweaty smeared bed.
[Dear Peter,
The "Willows" is an interesting and daring, perhaps disturbing poem. It takes us from the
snowflake beauty of a maple "collapsed into its own shadow" into the obscene bed scene....
wow. You do love nature!!! And yet is it in the nature of the of the four wheelers to
slaughter and should we hate them???
Carolina ]
[No, we shouldn't hate them... that is, if we eat meat, if the rancher makes enough money from
his cows to sponsor city kids to come to the country for a week to a camp that the wifes
runs, if the is a close friend who killed civilians in Viet Nam who brings me hay in exchange for
taking care of his 65 year old back ruined by falling off horses and castrating calves. Just as
we can love Gauguin for his paintings that bring us into the heart of the natural world. Its
got to do with balancing between events that are so terrible and so beautiful that come
forth from the same soul. I may not always be able to walk that fine line in real life but
sometimes I can write a poem that expresses this.
Peter]
What I Forget To Say About My Walk
You too little snake—
I see you,
piece of wood,
crooked stick across the path,
Little Hiss,
little parting of the grass,
and as my boot begins its downward thrust
the dark splotches of your back
slide like oiled chains
through a slanted crack
into a mass of rock.
Inside the mountain
you glide down a granite shelf
smoothed by generations of snakes
winding home for winter.
Sleepy copperheads, rattlers,
sinewy kingsnakes,
a litter of metal coils.
And this is what I forget to say
Little Hiss—
I saw you raise your arrow head,
look back through the black seeds
of your eyes
as if nothing were amiss,
and I saw your flickering tongue
that won’t give me the time of day.
Emergency
Corkscrew made to open burgundy,
awl primed to punch leather,
buried blades
to slice the noose.
Lump in the pocket,
life vest below the seat,
accordian wire, air bag, siren,
chest compressions, mouth to mouth,
Heimlich maneuver,
911, ER, and just in case,
the skewered son on the herald cross,
wounds crusted the color
of a Swiss Army Knife.
forms and imbues the natural world with its own sense of wonder which all seem to project
toward an awesome creativity like the one that hovers over Genesis. I think Peter would
prefer to call this 'Love'.
Here are some of the poems from Tracks and some new poems as well.
Pearly Everlasting
When I woke up this morning
I remembered:
her birthday,
I hadn’t bought her anything,
no idea what she wanted.
I felt a little rotten
so I went for a walk
and brushed past a weed
at the side of the path
they call “Pearly Everlasting,”
its chartreuse stalks
crowned by a cap of crisp white flowers,
and if you cut the stalks
and hang them up to dry
the flowers get small and hard
and retain their color
like seed pearls.
.
So I wrote this poem about Judy,
not failing to mention
her youthful spirit
though she just turned sixty one,
I recall when her hair was black,
her breasts stuck straight out in the shower
and I’d pull her
wet and soapy into bed.
Well, that seemed a good present
so I cut a few stalks
and presented her a bouquet
with a courtly flourish,
then hauled out my poem,
I could see she was really touched.
Just when I came
to the part about the shower
she buried her face in the fuzzy white florets
as though smelling a prize rose—
then she sneezed,
and sneezed again,
and walked outside and dumped
it into the trash,
this bright windy May
when all is green
and streams rush
beneath the willows.
Why I Drink in the Early Morning Light
Some days I can make it
all the way from Lee’s Superette
down the path through the blackberries
to the eucalyptus tree
with the muscatel
still in my pocket.
Today was not one of those days. I started here
in the middle of a berry bush
with that first sweet swallow—then another—and then
I rolled a cigarette from the blue pouch of Bugle,
lit up, and sucking in the gray smoke
found myself saying:
Thank you Lord, for showing me how
it’s supposed to be.
My hands are steady, my eyes are clear
and right now
I don’t feel like a piece of shit.
I took another sip
and my veins began to hum,
a hundred birds with purple bills
were leaping from branch to branch
and gobbling berries off the green vines.
Their feathers wet with juice
they climbed the air in reeling squadrons,
flapped clumsy circles and returned
in a torrent of whistles, a delirium.
Joining the chorus of cockeyed sparrows
in a bedlam of uproarious sound
we sang in praise of berries,
muscatel,
green vines,
the early morning light,
the leaf littered ground.
Sitting Under a Green Leaf Maple
I like to think
if I sat in the shade
of a green leaf maple
watching its shadow
move from west to east
while the wind tossed the wild oats
in rippling banners across yellow hills
and the clouds flew through the air
like white galleons surging towards the Philippines
and I remained so still
the chickadees clicking in the branches
cocked their black caps at me
as if I were
the top of an old oak stump
stuffed with acorns—
and if I sat here
watching the bear and the ladle
twirl across the night sky
season after season,
and someone brought me
bacon and eggs for supper,
covered my shoulders with a blanket
from November to April
and kissed me good night, each night—
the grace of the world
would enter me.
Though I’d be
no great green tree
from whose branches white birds sing hosannas,
but an ancient horse
all hide and bone
alone in a dusty pasture feet splayed
bowing to the earth.
Tracks
This morning at the end of the pasture,
I watch a doe trailing a bloody rope
of afterbirth through the blowing grass.
Behind her a fawn stumbles
into the light.
Following the sharp cut hoof prints
into the Douglas firs
I see where they have lain at night
among the dry needles.
I lie down in the hollow of the doe’s body
my back tracing the contour of her spine,
and imagine the curve of my belly
cupping the fawn,
the tug of her mouth,
the gush of milk
and the rasp of my tongue
licking silvery mucus
from her stippled skin.
Above the trees, Orion,
standing with his great bow by the River Eridanus.
Beside him the deerhounds
tense at his sudden whistle,
then rush down the star trails,
plunging between the glittering peaks,
across the black fell and along the path beneath the firs.
___________________________________________________________
The following are new poems and an insight from Peter Nash about his poem, "The Willows"
In The Willows
This morning
I see their hoof prints
on the gravel where they crossed the river
in the darkness,
and trailing them
I hear their long sighing breaths
and the sharp snap of sticks
as they push through the willows.
A woodpecker
taps on a maple
collapsed into its own blue shadow
and from the shadow two cows
slowly emerge, shoulders touching
like the tall brown women of Hiva Oa
that Gauguin paints
talking quietly under the trees.
How comfortable it is
in the willows—
the green dappled light
pouring through the walls,
the rush of river water,
the tick of leaves.
I could lie down
on this rustling floor
safe beneath
their heavy horns.
Next week
men straddling four-wheelers
will hustle along the banks
funneling cows into metal trailers
and trucking them to the slaughter house.
I think of Gauguin
propped in a green hut,
raving with syphilis—
his paintings stacked in a corner,
his dark waiting women
his red mango blossoms—
summoning young girls
to his sweaty smeared bed.
[Dear Peter,
The "Willows" is an interesting and daring, perhaps disturbing poem. It takes us from the
snowflake beauty of a maple "collapsed into its own shadow" into the obscene bed scene....
wow. You do love nature!!! And yet is it in the nature of the of the four wheelers to
slaughter and should we hate them???
Carolina ]
[No, we shouldn't hate them... that is, if we eat meat, if the rancher makes enough money from
his cows to sponsor city kids to come to the country for a week to a camp that the wifes
runs, if the is a close friend who killed civilians in Viet Nam who brings me hay in exchange for
taking care of his 65 year old back ruined by falling off horses and castrating calves. Just as
we can love Gauguin for his paintings that bring us into the heart of the natural world. Its
got to do with balancing between events that are so terrible and so beautiful that come
forth from the same soul. I may not always be able to walk that fine line in real life but
sometimes I can write a poem that expresses this.
Peter]
What I Forget To Say About My Walk
You too little snake—
I see you,
piece of wood,
crooked stick across the path,
Little Hiss,
little parting of the grass,
and as my boot begins its downward thrust
the dark splotches of your back
slide like oiled chains
through a slanted crack
into a mass of rock.
Inside the mountain
you glide down a granite shelf
smoothed by generations of snakes
winding home for winter.
Sleepy copperheads, rattlers,
sinewy kingsnakes,
a litter of metal coils.
And this is what I forget to say
Little Hiss—
I saw you raise your arrow head,
look back through the black seeds
of your eyes
as if nothing were amiss,
and I saw your flickering tongue
that won’t give me the time of day.
Emergency
Corkscrew made to open burgundy,
awl primed to punch leather,
buried blades
to slice the noose.
Lump in the pocket,
life vest below the seat,
accordian wire, air bag, siren,
chest compressions, mouth to mouth,
Heimlich maneuver,
911, ER, and just in case,
the skewered son on the herald cross,
wounds crusted the color
of a Swiss Army Knife.
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