Turbulence & Fluids

karla k. morton

Description

A new poetry collection by 2010 Texas Poet Laureate, karla k. morton.  

Contents

1  Conversation with Water

3  Fish Multiplication 

4  Iced Tea

5  The Next Generation

6  Amaranthine at the Antique Car Show

8  Chow-Chow

10  The Christmas Grandparents Warned Was Coming

11  Damocles

12  Death and Life

13  Evening Dressing

14  Of Beauty

15  Mountain Doggerel

16  Cricket Eater

17  Sincerity

18  Legends

20  Of Night and Flesh

21  Saudade for the Dance Floor

22  Piñata Heart

23  Power Surge: Ode de Menopause

24  Those Lingering at the Top of the Bridge 

25  Evolution of a Poet

27  What I Really Want to Say
         to the Difficult Person at the Cocktail Party   

29  Perigee

30  Shine Shine Shine

31  What to Ask

33  Le Pont Julien

34  Washita River

36  Rush

37  Ode to a Willow

38  Danuvius, Danu Nazdya

40  River Masons

41  Hatchet

42  Rising Above

43  Dreamer XXX

44  White Anniversary

46  Animism

47  For the Man of War

48  America

50  Louisville Turnaround

52  Of Travel and Snow

54  Contemplating Mortality Among the Serenity of Duck Butts

55  In the Townhouse Near the Tracks

56  Aha Macave

57  Dandelions

58  Key West

61  Sedna

63  Turbulence & Fluids

64  Aging Matrix

66  Plimsoll Line

67  Confessions, Overheard

68  Holy Jesus Miracle Temple Ribs

70  Our Lady of Fatima

72  In his final hours

73  Mars at 38,000 Feet

74  Christmas Comet

76  Echelon Sleeping

78  Words to a Younger Self

80  Nothing Less

81  Bocca di Lupo

82  Smoking Venus

83  About the Author

Sujets

• Women Authors
• América
• General officer
• Poetry
• General
• American
• Nature
• Texas

Informations

• Publié par: Madville Publishing
• Date de parution: 18 avril 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781956440348
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

Also by karla k. morton:
Politics of the Minotaur
The National Parks: A Century of Grace
Where to Go Among the Chaos
Wooden Lions
Accidental Origami
Constant State of Leaping
Hometown, Texas: Young Poets and Artists Celebrate Their Roots
Passion, Art, Community: Denton, Texas, in Word and Image
Names We’ve Never Known
karla k. morton: New and Selected Poems
(Texas Christian University Press — Texas Poet Laureate Series)
No End of Vision
Stirring Goldfish
Becoming Superman
Redefining Beauty
Wee Cowrin’ Timorous Beastie

Copyright © 2023 by karla k. morton
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
Requests for permission to reprint or reuse material from this work should be sent to:
Permissions
Madville Publishing
PO Box 358
Lake Dallas, TX 75065
Acknowledgments
“Amaranthine,” Ford Motor Company Newsletter; “America,” TejasCovido ; “Chow-Chow,” Atlanta Review ; “Christmas Comet,” Grub Street Literary Magazine ; “Conversation with Water,” Texas Poets Podcast ; “Fish Multiplication,” Blue Rock Review ; “Hatchet,” Arkansas Review ; “Holy Jesus Miracle Temple Ribs,” Lascaux Review ; “Le Pont Julien,” Merging Visions Journal ; “Mountain Doggerel,” Politics of the Minotaur (Texas Review Press, 2021); “Nothing Less,” “Of Night and Flesh,” and “Smoking Venus,” Southern Poetry Anthology VIII (Texas Review Press, 2018); “Perigee” and “Ode to a Willow,” Comstock Review ; “Plimsoll Line,” Where to Go Among the Chaos (Texas Woman’s University, 2020); “Rush,” Stirring Goldfish ; “Sedna,” Odes and Elegies: Eco-Poetry from the Gulf Coast (Lamar Press, 2020); “Shine Shine Shine,” Her Texas: Story Image, Poem & Song (Wings Press, 2015); “Washita River,” Viva Texas Rivers! (Texas A&M University Press, 2022).
Cover Photo: karla k. morton
Cover Design: Kimberly Davis
ISBN: 978-1-956440-33-1 paperback
978-1-956440-34-8 ebook
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022944375
To my brother and hero:
General Richard Lee Martin,
who taught me
that sometimes,
the great path to peace
can only be cleared by tooth and sword .
Contents

Conversation with Water
Fish Multiplication
Iced Tea
The Next Generation
Amaranthine at the Antique Car Show
Chow-Chow
The Christmas Grandparents Warned Was Coming
Damocles
Death and Life
Evening Dressing
Of Beauty
Mountain Doggerel
Cricket Eater
Sincerity
Legends
Of Night and Flesh
Saudade for the Dance Floor
Piñata Heart
Power Surge: Ode de Menopause
Those Lingering at the Top of the Bridge
Evolution of a Poet
What I Really Want to Say to the Difficult Person at the Cocktail Party
Perigee
Shine Shine Shine
What to Ask
Le Pont Julien
Washita River
Rush
Ode to a Willow
Danuvius, Danu Nazdya
River Masons
Hatchet
Rising Above
Dreamer XXX
White Anniversary
Animism
For the Man of War
America
Louisville Turnaround
Of Travel and Snow
Contemplating Mortality Among the Serenity of Duck Butts
In the Townhouse Near the Tracks
Aha Macave
Dandelions
Key West
Sedna
Turbulence & Fluids
Aging Matrix
Plimsoll Line
Confessions, Overheard
Holy Jesus Miracle Temple Ribs
Our Lady of Fatima
In his final hours
Mars at 38,000 Feet
Christmas Comet
Echelon Sleeping
Words to a Younger Self
Nothing Less
Bocca di Lupo
Smoking Venus
About the Author
Conversation with Water

We come to you gently enough,
our clever mathematicians
sizing up
the circumference of a baby’s head,
the depth of a keel,
the heft of a truck—
with only six inches, we can lift steel
like a barbell.
We don’t like Styrofoam or plastics;
we have no taste for wood.
But humans intrigue us:
finless, gill-less,
taunting our power in submarines,
casting chemicals into our great open mouths.
Yes, we are angry,
fists of current holding your ankles
like jealous mermaids,
hissing in waterspouts,
open-handed slaps of waves
against your boat.
But in rain, we are terrified—
abandoned, separated,
rushing, taking everything with us
in our panic down to sea level;
we must always find our own .
Draw a bucket up from the river—
it’s all about the escape, the spill,
but captured in a cup, we’re calm,
knowing the human is 60% water,
holding the light till we are swallowed.
But enter you humans:
you curious, unpredictable, fitful creatures
who try to tame us
with chlorine and cement.
We know all your secrets.
Each word you’ve uttered is still held
in our liquid space;
your screams never stop vibrating
and make the minnows nervous.
When you step in the ocean,
we come licking, calculating, watching.
You may have your way with us
up to your chin,
but we wield all the power
in that one tiny inch
above your nose.
Fish Multiplication

Then he took the five loaves and the two fish in his hands, and, looking up to Heaven, he thanked God, broke the loaves and passed them to his disciples who handed them to the crowd. Everybody ate and was satisfied.
—Matthew 14:13-21
He drove in, early morning,
unassuming in his white pickup,
stopping at the river,
raising that holding tank lid,
then pulling out a smaller tank
to open in the water.
Curious, I crept up
to witness this stocking of trout,
surprised that the fish didn’t scatter—
but turned together, heads first,
as though stunned at the feel
of currents
stroking their speckled bodies
for the very first time,
moments later, disappearing.
Hundreds of fishermen
wade this river every day,
their catch, limp on a string
like thin, silver bananas,
so many hungers sated.
I hope when they pull their chairs
up to the table, they taste
the prayer of thanks
that flowed through those gills,
God, smiling in his white baseball cap,
driving quietly out of town.
Iced Tea

We always knew this day would come,
just not this afternoon,
on his birthday.
You cannot lift him anymore.
It’s time to move him to a place
with cold floors,
and industrial cleansers,
and faces stranger than ours
counting his pills,
wheeling him to breakfast.
How many years have we sat around
this same wooden table,
iced teas in hand
to reckon these difficult decisions?
Always in the same chairs,
grim words clamping our throats
as you get up to fetch the coasters—
one under each glass
to catch the weeping.
The Next Generation

Not knowing the spring of 1980
would be the worst drought
in the history of Texas,
my father sod an entire acre.
It was my job to water.
Every day, hose in hand,
I stood in those young sprouts
barefoot,
69 days over 100 degrees
browning my skin through my shirt.
I put the hose on my head,
letting water coil down my body—
a human rain-chain
into each little square tuft.
Four hours a day I watered,
our well, deep and new.
I remember that summer now,
the record waiting to be broken,
the only green things left:
sweet potato vine,
aloe vera, and mint—
little pockets of earth still giving back,
remembering
a girl who labored
for the common grass—
the way she praised each running root,
her toes embracing
those tiny shoots of green.