"Amethyst and Agate"
Amethyst and Agate: Poems of Lake Superior
When asked to think of a poem about Lake Superior, the Hiawatha saga of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow generally comes to mind.
But did the 19th-century poet, who set his “Song of Hiawatha” at Pictured Rocks but mingled (or mangled some say) stories of various East Coast tribes in the epic piece, even came to the Big Lake himself? It seems not.
Now a poetry project born of true Lake lovers may give you the chance to exchange Longfellow as the go-to Lake Superior ode. “Lake Superior has been such a major force in my life, physically and for my work,” says Holy Cow! Press Publisher Jim Perlman, who joined regional writers Deborah Cooper, Mara Hart and Pamela Mittlefehldt in editing the project.
Jim put out a call for poems in a national poetry journal, local regional newspapers and with area writers’ groups. About 300 poems from 140 different writers came in, mainly in the three states and province surrounding the Big Lake. He and his co-editors chose 70 pieces to include in an anthology called Amethyst and Agate: Poems of Lake Superior. The book will be released in August, celebrated by signings and readings around the Lake and in the Twin Cities.
The range of styles and sentiments is as varied as the many moods of Lake Superior. Lyrical, reflective, witty and stormy – the poems speak to it all. “This anthology has joy and sorrow and celebration and awe,” Jim says.
Each poet brings a unique experience, of course. In the two examples shared here, Heid Erdrich of Minneapolis, already a published poet, taps her Ojibwe heritage in her honoring of the Spirit Little Cedar Tree, while avid sailor Gary Boelhower of Duluth reflects on how the Inland Sea affects his perceptions of himself and the world.
The $18.95 anthology will be available at local book stores and online in August, with pre-orders in July.
After Sailing
by Gary Boelhower
After sailing all day through the diamonds and silk of Superior, the rhythm of the waves still in my body, I dream the wind sings in my bones, hollow flutes for a symphony of luster and I am nothing solid, stationary, past, but permeable and empty of everything but breath pulled in and out by the moon. The soul of the world shines everywhere and even the green hills on the shore are wave after wave of sibilant light. I am easily confused about things of importance now. I count my deepest obligations to gardens, trails, silence. I follow the wind’s paws on the blue water to catch a final puff of breeze before turning the bow toward the harbor. I am nothing but skin and bits of grape, the dregs of intoxication.
Manidoo Giizhikens: Spirit Little Cedar Tree
by Heid E. Erdrich
Who makes a shawl of her own arms Who wraps herself up holding the last warmth of someone she loved once one hundred or two hundred or seven hundred years since We lift our faces to her many faces Whose hair frights and stands into the wind terrified or terrifying we only know when close how to take her pose which changes as women change day by day by day We lift our faces to her many faces We hold our bodies to her many bodies
Hazel Belvo
Spirit Little Cedar Tree
“Survivor: Spirit Little Cedar Tree,” by Hazel Belvo, courtesy of the artist.
Whose way with wind makes a call we must answer must slip on tilting rocks pass between a boulder portal to her side her knees her waist We lift our faces to her many faces We hold our bodies to her many bodies We give our voices to her many voices We fall to her in our need to breathe her astringency her cleansing medicine We lift our faces to her many faces We hold our bodies to her many bodies We give our voices to her many voices We gift sweetgrass asema stones tokens We take away no sureness of her aware only that time whirls waves makes bone-bleached sculptures of us all We do not believe that she is small she who brinks the greatness of creation, the greatness of the lake while tied to rock grown small in spirit maybe but no she holds stone to stone she composes the cliff We know her then we do not know her We hold our bodies to her many bodies We give our voices to her many voices Whose tortured form twists away at once and ever back her pain an emblem of release she gives over to the waves waves that change as she changes one day gray the next vivid as prism We give our voices to her many voices We gift sweetgrass asema stones tokens Whose torso blown with holes suffers no loss but fills her crevices sensual as pleasure etched with florescence of lichen She hides and shows at once She chooses all and gives all away We hold our bodies to her many bodies We lift our faces to her many faces And this is why the painter addresses her for fifty years sees her new in every light Every hour on every day a year can make We lift our faces to her many faces she returns a thousand forms and we have been every one of them We lift our faces to her many faces and she remains