WHIDBY ISLAND

The bloodless limit of the red tide reaches me, in the mountains.

I'm waiting for sickness to come after eating oysters and clams. 

The seaweed bobs like the heads of otters  in the inlet. 

Dizzy, the next day my fingers grown numb. 

Such a clear day. Hurricane Ridge in perfect sunlight. 

Not such a good day to die after all.

Mountain goat fur caught on some brush 

and hillside so steep you could step out one foot 

and land a hundred feet below. I nearly did.

The mountain goats and the two kids lying down 

are white on white snowfields

The kids, white against a white sky 

white T-shirts of young boys 

the bleached bones of logs in sand. 

The mast of the sailboat pierces the gray sky. 

Whidby Island cliffs, like the sides of beached whales. 

Whidby Island. The odor of salt tang in the air 

the almost overbearing odor.
A seagull cruises overhead
Red light/white light revolves 

on a red roof and white lighthouse.
Red of firebird rocks
Another seagull tackles the kelp

while I wait for symptoms of red tide.
The Cascades and the Coast Mountains 

meet head-on and collided into islands.
Kitsat Peninsula and the Gitsat Indians.

Once I hitch-hiked to K'san with totem carver, Vernon Stevens.
Old Terrace, Middle Terrace, Terrace and Kasan are all the same place. Gitsat Indians are becoming carvers of tolem polls once again. Argellite frogs with discrete price tags bark out place names: Puyallup, Dosewallops, Sequim Squim.
A diver walked down to the water throwing back the days catch. Segulls surround him like old men.

Kathleene West, a tired poet friend 

says to me three times 

I am just a fisherman's wife living in Port Townsend
I am a fisherman's wife.
I am the wife of a fisherman, 

waiting at home. 

I am tired of waiting.

I am tired of writing.

A slight breeze stirs the water in the cove, 

rippling water like watered silk. 

My neck hurts from an old whiplash.

For your body, I need Mr. Badger, the skeleton maker, to help me.
Thank you Leslie Silko, thank you Mr. Badger.
I'm a writer's ghost writing nothing because I'm not writing poetry.

The wings push mostly downward when the blackbird flies across the sky.

I met a man whose real name was Don John or John Don. Either way he writes a patch of blue opening up like an eye.

The sky imitates the blue of glaciers and blue hidden eyes of the north snow people.

The sea is quiet. No tongues lapping at the shore. These are the Straits of Juan de Fuca. If I sleep on the beach, will the water know the coast is but a thin line?

Argillite frogs with discrete price tags 

bark out place names: Puyallop,

Dosewallops, Squim, Sequim.

Bill Stafford's hat is soft like the slack corners of his mouth. From the brim a feather trembles, loosened from a bird years ago. The eyes reflect the talons still. Like me, Bill worked with kids in schools. PITS. Says there's more material for kids to write with in poetry than structured prose he said.

Waves of horses butcher your dreams. Marina Albert says. 

Language there's a secret language hidden within the language, the effect of syllables upon us.

The tribal influence would be the door
Among those who know. Not a chance to change is evident.

july? Aug 1981

10/15/2015

I can't make out most of the craft notes, and they're scattered in amid the prose. It reads like nonsense. Can't even read most of it. Maybe I'll revise it, whip it into shape. Or not.