Mark Thalman

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Attending Church, Age 3

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       Poems from Catching the Limit


 
            "Some poets explore environment to better expose an internal landscape.
            Thalman is such a poet, exposing Oregon and our heritage."

                                                                                                                        
Kirsten Rian
                                                                                                                        Poetry Editor, The Oregonian

 

                                      CATCHING THE LIMIT
                                     
                                        
                                       
                                      I troll along the south shore,
                                      where other fisherman say
                                      the angling is no good: too shallow,
                                      too many weeds.  With their fish finders,
                                      they cluster off Princess Creek,
                                      but I don't see them catching anything.

                                      The lake lies flat mirroring sky.
                                      An osprey rides the currents,
                                      until he spies a trout,
                                      folds his wings and drops
                                      like a swift mountain stream
                                      falling over the edge of a cliff,
                                      plunging talons first
                                      into his own reflection . . .

                                      Emerging in a fury of spray,
                                      wings widespread, using them as oars,
                                      the bird strokes against the surface,
                                      flapping steadily to reach the air again,
                                      nosing his wriggling prey into the wind.

                                      I point the bow at the spot
                                      where the osprey caught the rainbow.
                                      More times than not, that is the place
                                      my pole starts to bend. 



                                     "Catching the Limit" first appeared in Calusa Review, 
                                     republished in From Here We Speak:
Oregon  Anthology
                                     and Your Daily Poem. com.                       



 
            “In twelve lines of beautifully weighted imagery, “Inheritance” offers an understated, 
            moving portrait of the speaker’s grandfather—a portrait conveyed through old work gloves
            as rigid and expressive as sculpture. The poem’s last gesture is a fine, subtle evocation
            of the connection between this grandchild and grandfather.”
 
                                                                                                                       Paulann Peterson
                                                                                                                       Poet Laureate of Oregon
 
 
 

 


                               
                                       INHERITANCE
                             
                 
                                        
                                       In Grandfather's shop, I search for a pair of gloves,
                                       but none seem to match.  Either the right or left
                                       has been lost in an act of forgetfulness.
                                           
                                       I find a few that could be sculptures Rodin would have admired:
                                       a hand gripping an invisible hammer, another resting as in a lap,
                                       one pointing like it knew the correct direction.

                                       His daily sweat soaked into the leather
                                       making the palms shiny as calluses, fingers ridged
                                       until stretched like skin, worn again.

                                       I try them on and my fingerprints embed
                                       on top of his.  My hands ready to rake twigs and cones
                                       blown down around the cabin all winter.
               
                                
                                        
                                       First place: 2006 Marylhurst Review contest. 
                                       Republished in Your Daily Poem.com.


Media
Click to hear "Inheritance".
 



                                       HIGHWAY TO THE COAST
                         
            
                                               
                                       Thick and green, the hills rise
                                       on each other's shoulders.

                                       High ridges disappear in fog
                                       make me wish I was born of water.

                                       At the divide, I taste the cool ocean air,
                                       the way a deer finds a salt lick,

                                       and roller coaster down a narrow road
                                       that does not believe in a straight line.

                                       Blackberry vines
                                       crawl through barbed wire fences.

                                       Small towns occur like a whim.
                                       As if in a coma, they merely survive.

                                       I tune in the only station
                                       and listen to country western.

                                       Static gradually drowns the singer out.
                                       Rounding a corner, he pops to the surface

                                       for another breath,
                                       simply to sink back still singing.

                                       Fir shadows lace the road.
                                       Bracken cascades embankments.

                                       At the next curve, a farmhouse is half finished--
                                       boards weathered raw.  Chickens roost in a gutted Chevy.

                                       Scattered among these hills, families
                                       rely on small private lumber mills,

                                       the disability or unemployment check,
                                       the killing of an out of season elk.
 
                                         
                                       
                                       
                                       "Highway to the Coast" first appeared in Caffeine Destiny,
                                       republished by Deer Drink the Moon by Ooligan Press -
                                       Portland State University Press, davejarecki.com, and 
                                       
Your Daily Poem.com
    
Media
Click to hear "Highway to the Coast".
  
  
   
                                       IN THE DESCHUTES
         
                         
                                            
                                       I walk this mountain trail
                                       with black powder on my back,
                                       blasting caps in both hands,

                                       a killer
                                       of stumps,

                                       a maker
                                       of pits.

                                       Shovel dirt,
                                       plant the charge,
                                       string wire behind a tree,
                                       yell,

                                           
Fire in the hole!

                                       A chipmunk takes shelter.

                                            Fire in the hole!
        
                                       A blue jay mocks.

                                            Fire in the hole! 

                                       I touch it off,

                                       and where the stump used to be,

                                       the sun
                                       as through a high church window
                                       suspends dust.
 
     


                                       "In the Deschutes" first appeared in the Wisconsin Review.
 
 
Media
Click to hear "In the Deschutes".

  


Painting by Mark Thalman
Chickadee and Rhododendron by Mark Thalman

              Email mark@markthalman.com