Time Capsule

Time Capsule

Jared Carter

Acknowledgments

“Calco del Cane,” “The Weaving,” and “Lullaby” from Indiana Sesquicentennial Poets (1967).

“The Measuring” from Work, for the Night Is Coming. First published in Sou’wester (1979).

“Exercise No. 6” first published in The Devil’s Millhopper (1982).

“First Snow” from Pincushion’s Strawberry (1984).

“Old Mister Cat” from Blues Project (1991).

“Fluted Glass” first published in The Formalist (1991).

“Cistern” first published in Cincinnati Poetry Review (1993)

“Revenant” first published in Mockingbird (1999)

“Mimosa” first published in Iambs & Trochees (2003)

“Tape in the Wind” first published in Evansville Review (2005).


Copyright © 2007 by Jared Carter


Published by The New Formalist Press


Cover art: Scheduled for Demolition, photograph by Jared Carter
Author photo: At Castelo de Vide, photograph by Diane Carter


XHTML & CSS design by Leo Yankevich

Partly for reasons of convenience, and partly because there is less chance of misapprehending the sense of phenomena that are familiar to all men, the data employed to illustrate the argument have by preference been drawn from everyday life, by direct observation or through common notoriety, rather than from more recondite sources at a farther remove.

It is hoped that no one will find his sense of literary or scientific fitness offended by this recourse to homely facts, or by what may at times appear to be a callous freedom in handling vulgar phenomena or phenomena whose intimate place in men’s life has sometimes shielded them from the impact of economic discussion.

       Thorstein Veblen
       preface to The Theory of the Leisure Class, 1899

Calco del Cane

Exploding still, after two thousand years,
He writhes within his pen of iron and glass
While we observe that fiery moment pass
And marvel at such anguish, without fear.

The mule driver hunched beneath his cloak,
The woman turned face down, the others skulked
To cellars, leaving behind the dog to balk
Against a vanished chain that never broke.

Time passed. Then archeologists came
To pour impartiality into
These hollow testaments to sudden flame.

Toward casual eyes the dog’s pale limbs
Now send a pulse so strong it passes through
Unfelt—as when a white star flares and dims.

The Weaving

Her hands are braiding now her hair
        Behind her back, while I
                Admire such movement there.
 
Unerringly, sans watchful eye
        Or mirror, she guides each strand
                Into that simple ply.
 
Three-quarters finished now, but hands
        In unexpected whim
                Bring forward that soft band
 
And hesitate: her color dims,
        Then blooms along the lifted
                Beauty of her limbs.
 
Some prescience by which she’s gifted
        Suddenly divines,
                Leaving the rest untwisted,
 
For now she weaves her arms to mine,
        Completing with such care
                This soft and ultimate
                        Entwine.

Lullaby

Before I lay thee down to sleep
Come linger on my breast
And hear thy mother’s lullaby
To bring thee to thy rest.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

When thou wert safe within my womb
From cares I sought relief,
Thy birth revealed that in this world
Escape still comes to grief.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

If poppy or if charms could cure
The sickness of this age
Apothecaries might give all
Yet still not check its rage.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

For meadows where all herds do graze
And hives wherein all bees
Store summer’s flowers may soon be waste
And trees may end their leaves.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

Within this world thou need’st have hands
To weave thy husband’s shroud
And arms to hold thy children close
When death descends from clouds.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

The Book speaks of a promised land
That some do journey toward
Where milk and honey flow still pure
And plowshares bloom from swords.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

To guide thee toward that holy place
I have no power but this—
A lotos potion, sweet and warm
As thy last mother’s kiss.
       Receive thy portion unafraid
       With lullaby, my little maid.

Since Jesus came to give his life
For ours, upon the tree,
I’ll risk my own to grant thee sleep
And spare thee misery.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

God made the world in seven days
And rested on the last,
And when thy mother’s song is done
Thy seven days are past.
        Receive thy portion unafraid
        With lullaby, my little maid.

The Measuring

You’re sickly pale—a crooked root.
But one last remedy remains:
Before the dawn we’ll go on foot
Through grass sleeked down by heavy rains
To the sexton’s house. Already he
Takes down his spade, and goes
To walk among the whitened rows.
His wife awaits with lengths of string
Necessary for measuring.

She has no fire alight, nor words
To spare, but bolts the wooden door
And helps you out of clothes that fall
Soundlessly to the floor. Naked,
You mount the table and recline;
She comes, her eight stiff fingers
Trailing bright bits of twine. First,
Crown to nose, then mouth to chin,
Pressing against each crevice, in
And down the length of your cold frame—
Whispering unintelligible names.

The feet are last to stretch: from heel
To toe each one must be times seven
The other piece. She nods, and knots
The two together, breathes her spell,
Then turns to go. I leave a pair
Of silver dollars there, and take
The string to tie where it will rot
The winter long: on hinge of gate,
Wheelbarrow shaft, or eaves-trough’s fall.

Behind us, where the darkness drains,
A blackbird settles on the roof
And calls back to another that rain
Is coming like an awful proof.
The two denounce the scratching sound
The sexton’s spade makes on the ground—
Measuring off the careful square
Of someone else expected there.

Exercise No. 6

Saw you first one April day
            King, queen, sun, moon
Whistled you outside to play
            Right, left, fork, spoon

Took you down to the river’s edge
            Penny candy, paper doll
Showed you bullheads under the ledge
            Butterfingers, jackstone ball

Say goodbye to your last dime
            Up, down, cat, dog
Gonna rag that tune this time
            Leaf, tree, axe, log

First Snow

To clear the walk before the children start
for school, you rise and dress, and take the broom
beside the door, and go out into darkness
where the snow you sweep from side to side

is followed by the snow that falls behind
your progress down the squares. A dream returns
you half remember having when you woke,
and when you pause to look back toward the porch

it seems you’ve been nowhere—the walk you swept
is whiteness now, and as before. To take
a step from where you stand would be to risk
acknowledging you’ve come this far by losing

track of things. Then someone flicks the porch light
off and on, to say you’re needed there.
You go, leaving a line of prints behind,
and even these are filled by daylight, when

the kids have vanished down the walk to catch
the bus, and everything is bright and still.
So for a second time you take the broom
and go to sweep the snow away. And find,

as though recalling now the other half
of what you dreamed, the pattern of your steps
impressed upon the walk and turned to ice—
the children’s, too, going the other way—

revealed beneath the snow that flies before
your broom, until you reach the end, and stop
to see the footprints clear this time. The dream
comes back entire: a line of stones across

a stream in summer, when you know not where
to step, and yet in choosing merge with what
is swirling all around you. And, still searching,
waken to silence, and a first snow falling.

Old Mister Cat

Old Mister Cat, the stranger-man
    I seen him down the alley ran
He findin’ nothin’ where it be
    he don’t go nowhere you can see

Old Mister Cat, he stop and stare
    beside that pile of re-treads where
I heard them two the other night
    he grab at her, she kick and fight

Old Mister Cat, he help them make
    a fuss till all the neighbors wake
And shout you havin’ so much fun
    we gonna dial nine-one-one

Old Mister cat slip through the dark
    ‘bout when them dogs commence to bark
He gone, before gumball machine
    come down the avenue, he clean

Old Mister Cat, he laugh to find
    his way where everybody blind
Next day he sleepin’ in the sun
    the Man go by him with his gun

Old Mister Cat, he know that line
    they layin’ on us all the time
Remember what the bullfrog said
    you got to stay one jump ahead

Old Mister Cat, he know that frog
    ain’t half as smart as any dog
He jump, and then they clip his legs
    and serve ‘em up with scrambled eggs

Old Mister Cat don’t play no house
    don’t play no doctor, he play mouse
He don’t go nowhere you can see
    he findin’ nothin’ where it be

Fluted Glass

I sought a refuge once, out of the day’s
metallic glare—and found a rustic place
beside the road, where I could pull off,
stop, and rest a spell. A shingled roof
rose up above a pump of blackened iron.
I worked the handle. Water came out
rushing in a cold hard stream, for just
a moment, while I wet my hands and splashed
the sudden cool against my face.
                                                   Nearby,
upon a block of stone beside the pump,
I saw a slender, fluted drinking glass—
not rare or costly, certainly not a thing
that anyone would steal, yet not the kind
that once held jam or jelly on a shelf.
Rather, a lone survivor from a set
of six or eight that graced some farmer’s table
back before the war. A thing left here
anonymously—a rural courtesy,
since children have a hard time learning how
to cup their hands.
                            And when I picked it up,
the better to see its molded lines, I glimpsed,
within, the unexpected blur of something
come from air, flown from the drowsy fields
surrounding, having the accidental grace
or luck to land within a cylinder
of glass that must have seemed a miracle
of light and strange invisibility
to one so clearly caught.
                                       Why it could not
fly up, and out, I do not know. Instead,
it waited there, unmoved, and when I raised
the glass, remarking what a curious thing
it was in such a homely place to find
a fragile, furrowed piece unbroken, handled
carefully by all who came to drink—
and stranger still to find it occupied—
I saw the creature stir and test itself
against the ring of narrow, fluted bars
like darkness growing in a cage of light.

A moment more, and I had shaken it
into the open air, where it became
a pair of wings, and then a single point,
lost in the dappled trees.
                                        I took the glass
and held it firmly in the stream I pumped,
pouring it out as quickly as it filled—
then paused to wonder what it was I sought
to wash away. Had something stained the glass?
An automatic rite, a daily task—
the way we empty out a glass or cup
we come upon. We seldom stop to think
about such things, or what the simple act
of rinsing shows. We do it in the name
of cleanliness, perhaps, or as a way
of making sure the water’s cold enough.

But still, each time, we give a portion back,
we offer up a sacrifice to something
that cannot be seen. No thought’s involved;
a thousand times before we’ve filled the glass
halfway, and turned it down a time or two.
It’s reassuring, I suppose. A thirst
has come upon us now, the water’s here,
and so are we. It’s always been that way.
And always will?
                            I stopped, to gaze into
the water’s clarity, then slowly poured
it out once more onto the earth, and held
the cylinder aloft. A sudden breeze
across the lip brought forth a hollow sound
and still I held it up, inviting fields
and sky and sun and all that flourished there
to enter in, to congregate, to come
and gather in this lovely, transient thing
and be that ancient emptiness redeemed,
that ghost, that flickering within the fire,
and I would drink, and know the reason why.

The body’s thirst returned, drawing me back.
Once more the handle creaked. This time
I raised it to my lips, and drank. I left
the glass exactly where I found it, on
the stone, for someone else to find and praise.

Cistern

No, it’s simple, you mustn’t worry.
She won’t mind, you’ll see when we get there,
it will be all right. She’s never in a hurry.

It’s the last working cistern anywhere
in the neighborhood, really the only one
I’ve ever seen. She’s washed her hair

in rainwater and dried it in the sun
for fifty years now. Her hair’s still brown
except for a silver streak. She keeps it done

in braids, but when I’m headed for town
sometimes I stop to see if she needs
anything, and I’ll find her, settled down

in a patch of light coming through the trees
surrounding the house, washing her hair
with a galvanized bucket at her knees,

and a gourd dipper. It’s pleasant there,
and sometimes I’ll fetch another pail
and wash my hair, too, and she’ll share

shampoo, and pour the rinse, and I’ll flail
about till she hands me an extra towel.
We laugh a lot. Her skin is soft and pale

like the water, she says, all vowels
and no consonants. Once I stayed there
all afternoon—picking wildflowers,

waiting till the wind had dried our hair.
We looked in the cistern, too, and saw our faces.
I’ll go call her now. I know she won’t care.

Revenant

Was that the cat, scratching to be let in
at the back door? Something doesn’t seem right.
Perhaps it’s only the rain and the wind

raking the shingles, or a bit of shim
worked loose, and the shutter no longer tight.
Was that the cat scratching to be let in?

It seemed so insistent, so near—but then
I might be dreaming, the sound was so slight.
Perhaps it’s only the rain and the wind

that lashed the eaves a moment ago, when
you called out a name, as though in a fright.
Was that the cat? Scratching to be let in

was something she used to do, but it’s been
a year or more since she vanished from sight.
Perhaps it’s only the rain and the wind

sifting through the leaves. There it is again,
much farther away now, lost in the night.
Was that the cat, scratching to be let in?
Perhaps it’s only the rain and the wind.

Mimosa

Not simple presence—rather, a world
Of tangibility arranged in rows,
Each leaf held out, entirely unfurled.
But is there recognition in the way
It draws back from your touch? Perhaps it knows
More than you realize, or it can say.

Chance meeting—like the brief caress
Of someone you once knew, but now remember
Only in dreams, or troubled sleep. The dress,
The face, are achingly familiar, tender
The way you would reach out—but she moves on,
Into some farther room. The dream is gone.

Tape in the Wind

What is the secret? The crinkled red
of the hollyhock flowers? The pods
gone dry, the dusty stalks at the edge
of the picket fence, in the tall grass?

No, it is the slender brown snake
that winds through the vacant lot
in the early light—a ribbon of tape
from a broken cassette, unspooled

by the wind, teased and drawn out,
draped over weeds and vines, lifted
in places, hidden in others, caught
for a moment by Queen Anne’s Lace,

then handed on. It is strangely free—
untracked, but able to find its way.
Gathered once more, from sweet-pea
and thistle, from all that it touches,

what would it be? A fallen-down nest,
a handful of grass. But you have a path
to follow beyond the fence. Let it rest,
let it drift through the hollyhock

and twine with the chicory. Let it wind
and whisper behind you, with the day
still ahead—and other secrets to find,
along your way, that will keep unsaid.

About the author

Jared Carter’s fourth collection of poems, Cross this Bridge at a Walk, was published in 2006 by Wind Publications, and was reviewed in The New Formalist, vol. VI, no. 2.  Poems and stories by Jared Carter, including an e-book, Reading the Tarot: Nine Villanelles, appear in previous issues of the magazine.  Please visit his web site for additional work.