MAY POET OF THE WEEK: SCOTT OWENS

I've known Scott Owens for years. We first met while I was at UNC-Greensboro doing a week-long residency for the MFA Writing Program. Since then he has devoted his time and energy not only to his own poetry but also to that of others in our region. As editor, blogger, and author of a regular column on poets and poetry, he serves as an example of what a poet fully engaged in his community can offer us. Go to Musings to read his blog posts; go to his books to read his poetry.

Author of 7 collections of poetry and over 800 poems published in journals and anthologies, Scott is editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review, Vice President of the Poetry Council of North Carolina, and recipient of awards from the Pushcart Prize Anthology, the Academy of American Poets, the NC Writers' Network, the NC Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC. He holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro and currently teaches at Catawba Valley Community College. He grew up on farms and in mill villages around Greenwood, SC. His new book, Something Knows the Moment, will be published in August by Main Street Rag. I've selected several of my favorites from the manuscript to share with you.

The Dream of St. Francis

It started with the hungry look of stars,

wind a trembling lip, earth

a field of mouths closing on air.

For all I gave I thought that God

would show me the way, give me the means

to make my life a sacrifice.

He gave me nothing but pierced hands,

a dream of the world in need.

All I had left was myself.

I gave my hands to doves, shadow wings

incapable of flight.

I gave my arms to the deep needing

of thorns, feet to blistering sand,

ankles to holes in the ground,

knees to trees crouched in water.

A pair of crows carried my eyes away.

Wrens made nests of my hair.

I gave my tongue to the bleating of sheep,

my ears to bats. A possum wore my scalp

like a helmet. Rats settled in the back

of my skull. I left the skin of my arms

for snakes to inhabit, the rest for deer,

rabbits, raccoons, worms.

The smallest insects drank from the cup of my heart.

Reaching the pond I lay down beside it,

satisfied, unafraid, waiting

for what remained to turn to dust

and ash, for rain to empty this prison

of skin, feed the earth’s menu of roots,

castings, runoff to another day.

Why Angels Are Always Fat

He took all my pretty ones with him

the ones with tight bellies, long

streaming hair, faces thin as blades,

the ones who had fallen in love

with themselves, and had reason to do so.

He left me only these soft and silent

mounds of flesh, these uninspired,

these bodies needing wings twice

the size you’ve imagined.

He took all my hungry ones with him,

the ones who ate meat, drank fire,

howled at the moon. He left me

not with shepherds but sheep

fattening on clouds, their wrinkled bodies

growing chins instead of desire.

When I clapped my hands the pretty ones

came slow, always touching themselves

below the waist, lingering to see how

first one, then another thing felt against them.

He never clapped at all, just made his body

like silver, a mirror they’d follow anywhere.

Of course I had to let him go.

That was no way to run a heaven,

everyone looking at him,

myself no longer the center of thought.

But now when I clap, no one comes

at all, not that I wish they would.

Those he left stuff themselves

on dumplings and cream, their bodies

turning to clouds heavy with rain.

Sometimes when he leaves his lights on

I watch them from my high chair.

I like to see the shapes they make

with each other, see their bodies burn

with forbidden fire, see what they remember,

see my face reflected there.

Now Hiring Holy Angels

Title from a sign on Highway 16 Near Denver, NC

Job Title: Messenger.

Full-time position. No education required.

Duties may include intervention,

retribution, passing through silent rooms,

guarding trees and true believers,

unlocking gates, moving the dead.

Some heavy lifting.

Must have own halo and be willing to relocate,

possess excellent customer service skills,

bedside manner and flair for the dramatic.

Experience with flaming swords a plus.

White robe provided. Prefer blondes

or redheads with long, curly hair.

Fat babies need not apply.

Send name, photo, previous addresses,

age, religion, exact weight,

relevant experience, personal references

and driver’s license number for criminal background

check. All applicants will be tested

for drugs, narcissism, and insatiable lust.

Salary: None. Benefits to die for.

Evolution

It starts with your hand floating on water,

your feet leaving no wet spots on the floor.

She was surprised to find how easily she stayed

on top, feeling weightless even on the thin skin

of lake. When she stood up she had to be careful

not to be seen. It’s not walking on water exactly

but floating just above the surface of everything.

Waking in the middle of the night you walk

to the mirror and find your entire face

dilated. The past has become a single dream,

more than enough to keep you from sleep.

Already her body yearns for earth,

her feet linger over roots, her hands

try to fly away like leaves, her mouth

leans to kiss every flower she sees.

One day you think you see yourself

disappearing in sunlight, your body scattered

like dust. You move quickly towards shadows.

The strange hair in your back begins to feel

like a feather, your feet curl like talons.

Reaching out to the people she loves

she feels nothing but the light around them.

She no longer knows the imperfections of face,

hand, breast. When she tries to speak

she finds her mouth can only make music.

If she could shed this skin, her body

would burst into flight, her wings cut the sky

like sharp limbs tossed erratic in wind.