Let us enjoy the little joes of poets while we can; if our souls are unbelieved, they will be gone soon enough
Joe Dunthorne
New York Review of Books
“O Positive” Angela Mlinko
“A Walk through Someone Else”
The above epigram seems appropriate today, or any day for that matter, and it has nothing to do with today’s guest poet, Jim Johnson, a fellow Minnesotan, who has published seven books of poetry, including The First Day of Spring in Northern Minnesota, and A Field Guide to Blueberries. The poem below is from his 2015 collection, Yoik, from Red Dragonfly Press. He has taught in the Duluth public schools and at the College of St. Scholastica. He was the 2008-2010 Duluth Poet Laureate and was named to a second term in 2015.
In the introduction to Yoik, from which the poems below have been chosen, Johnson echoes the epigram above when he states, “Had [scientists] only listened to the poets so much times spent in tedious experiments in hot laboratories, not to mention grant money spent, could have been avoided. Yet many prestigious awards have been given to the discovery of what ancient people already knew. . . . It now follows that what we poets have always believed has finally proven true.”
In the introduction to Yoik, from which the poems below have been chosen, Johnson echoes the epigram above when he states, “Had [scientists] only listened to the poets so much times spent in tedious experiments in hot laboratories, not to mention grant money spent, could have been avoided. Yet many prestigious awards have been given to the discovery of what ancient people already knew. . . . It now follows that what we poets have always believed has finally proven true.”
Abandoned Farmhouse, Askel, Michigan
The wide-open windows of the abandoned
farmhouse watch you, like overly protective
neighbors, walk across the field even though
it is no longer mowed for hay. The leafless
popple trees at the edge of the field watch
you too. Though they would never speak
to strangers, they watch you walk across
the fields, over the curled leaves, through
the apple trees wishing they could say
something bright as that last yellow apple
hanging from one of the limbs. And just
when you have given up on October, juncos
fly up to wave good goodbye as you drive away.
Trees Are Remembered Again
He comes in from the corral made of rough-sawn logs.
His denim shirt, levis faded.
His beard red, fertile as the land it hides,
so scarred and rocky you wouldn’t want to mow it
with new machinery.
So hot and humid this Minnesota where in July
the flies are small.
His eyes thin from squinting at the sun welding through the haze
as if it needed a hitch
on the pickup truck. When he brought
the reindeer from Alberta
they broke out of the trailer at 60 m.p.h. somewhere
in eastern Montana. Local cowboys said for sure
they could round up three reindeer in no time at all.
It was some time. In fact, it was noon of the next day
when the three reindeer were back in the trailer, their
antlers broken off
two hundred thousand years after
trees outgrew the prairie.
Wild Strawberries
It seems there will always be more deer flies than
wild strawberries.
Look for them in late June after the wild roses have bloomed.
Like ruffed grouse
they prefer the gravel edges of roads.
Look for the young tall plants to have the bigger berries.
If you sold them, I doubt anyone would, they would have to be
sold only
by the carat. There never seems to be enough.
Even among the older plants grown too thick, it is almost worth
stooping over to pick a small solitary
strawberry
you know will close your eyes
and taste like the far-away stars.
What you stoop for may just be a leaf stained red
as your own fingers. But look:
two more berries under the very leaf.
Background
I picked up this book of poetry first because of the title, Yoik, and second because the poet is a Minnesota. The title has a foreign and funny sound to it. Yoik is a word that needs translation, or at least a definition. As I scanned the book, I found Johnson’s poetic voice to be earthy, informative, and often light-hearted. But back to “yoik.” From the back cover of the book: “Among the Saami/reindeer people, a yoik is sung to calm a reindeer or a baby. It is sung to build community. Cooperation. To travel to the other world. Restore health. Express feelings. A yoik is not so much a song as it is the voice.”
Exploration 1: What do you think of the title of the book from which these poems come?
Exploration 2: Does it matter to you that Johnson is a Minnesotan?
Exploration 3: How do you imagine being a Minnesotan influences his work. Further, do you think the state, province, or region that a writer is from is important to his/her work?
I picked up this book of poetry first because of the title, Yoik, and second because the poet is a Minnesota. The title has a foreign and funny sound to it. Yoik is a word that needs translation, or at least a definition. As I scanned the book, I found Johnson’s poetic voice to be earthy, informative, and often light-hearted. But back to “yoik.” From the back cover of the book: “Among the Saami/reindeer people, a yoik is sung to calm a reindeer or a baby. It is sung to build community. Cooperation. To travel to the other world. Restore health. Express feelings. A yoik is not so much a song as it is the voice.”
Exploration 1: What do you think of the title of the book from which these poems come?
Exploration 2: Does it matter to you that Johnson is a Minnesotan?
Exploration 3: How do you imagine being a Minnesotan influences his work. Further, do you think the state, province, or region that a writer is from is important to his/her work?
Greatly enjoyed these poems, especially the second one as it got me misty eyed envisioning finding two more little strawberries I hadn't seen. I enjoyed Johnson's descriptive prose. It took me places where I've been and places I find here at home in Palmville, right out our doors.
ReplyDeleteAs you've explained the word/title 'Yoik', I googled the poem's reference to the release of three reindeer in Alberta and so found the Alberta Reindeer Association site, finding the content amusing, leaving me to think reindeer are just what we need in lieu of noisy gas-powered snow machines.
Just think getting together with the neighbors for a trail ride. The scrunch scrunch sound of snow under their wide hooves as they trot along, their hot breath frosting the edge of their noses. Maybe we would hear them make an assuring 'yoik' noise once in a while, or hear a sleigh bell or two and the saw and wheeze of the sleigh as it moves over a hard place then settles back to near silence, and whomever with us on the sleigh all snuggled under heavy warm bison blankets. Yah shure.
Judging from his work examples here, Johnson being a Minnesotan seems obvious, but could be anywhere if he's close to the land and intimate with its habitat. One's environment may enter into one's writing should the writer let it be known, but I don't think it necessarily impacts his/her work.
WW, so great that you took time to write and to give us a near-real excursion aboard our reindeer with Rudolph in the lead perhaps. So glad you enjoyed Mr. Johnson's work. I feel lucky that I came across it. I think I enjoyed your comments at least as much as you say you enjoyed the post. Yoik! JP Savage
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