Issue 14
Spring 2003
James R Whitley
James R. Whitley currently lives in Boston, Massachusetts. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and published in several journals including Coal City Review, HEArt, The Paumanok Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Xavier Review. His first poetry book, Immersion (Lotus Press, 2002), was selected by Lucille Clifton as the winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award. He is also the author of the poetry chapbook Pietà (Pudding House Publications, 2001). His second chapbook,The Golden Web, is forthcoming from Wind River Press.
The Image of the Manatee
When I open my eyes, I see light.
Brilliance, radiance, something
to rival a mermaid's pulchritude.
Something to wow a crowd.
Sure when I surface I hear
the shocked gasps of onlookers-
unfounded dismay snatched into
narrow critical lungs-but
I swim on and, in the water's clear
mirrored surface, I see light.
And I realize that to the dolphin
I must seem strange, but
this is a mutual exoticism-
my noble whiskers and buoyant brown,
his streaks of cadet gray, stark white, and
the agitated way he insists on moving water.
These variations on the theme allow me
glimpses of the world outside these
still waters, the larger world full
of nature's innovation, everything there
cherished, everything bathed in
sweet colorful light.
I am not the dolphin.
I am the manatee.
And I love the beautiful unedited truth
this reflection tells.
The Captive Mink
(after a news report that 8,000 mink were free to escape when protesters cut open a gate at a farm near Copenhagen, yet only 2,000 took the opportunity)
This can't be wrong.
And why wouldn't the young ones be content
with the history of snared ancestors taken,
or perhaps saved, from their quondam pagan home,
shipped to these blessed shores of civility and grace,
this lush place teeming with opportunity,
protected, surrounded by obstinate
wire mesh and wooden posts?
And where's the genius in fleeing
when the gut gets so well-stuffed here,
the fur made all the more beautiful,
cultivated into the craved object-
fashionable bolero cuff, treated stole?
And how could it be wrong to die
in the all-powerful name of Beauty,
to be shocked and stunned before
the major vessels are severed?
And then some delicate flame stuttering out,
its fragile luminescence snuffed
like the bravado of a baffled wave,
the final falling note of a glorious aria
shimmering away.
And then the ultimate immolation:
the pelt pulled back with the gentlest touch
to reveal the raw discardable flesh-matter,
slowly, so as not to muss a single precious hair,
so as to leave behind the most pristine memento
that will certainly show that you were loved,
properly handled by clean righteous hands that
rescued you from that wretched hell,
the gracious ones that gave you heaven
and made you holy.
On Utility
I.
In the Provence countryside,
in a sprawling garden
redolent with tea roses and
star lilies, brilliant jonquil and
lush creeping phlox-verdant,
glamorous even-the imported
pet peacock begins to strut
arrogantly for the chic demoiselle
staring from the verandah.
A true coquette, he stretches a bit
before letting the anticipated
drama unfold: each jeweled eye
slowly multiplying as he proudly
spreads his fan, his haughty
chest chatoyant in the glorious
mid-morning sun, his plumage
afire with a rich mélange
of turquoise and violet.
The peacock understands this
is why his owner coddles him so.
This is what his wings are good for.
II.
Near the swan boats
on the Boston Commons,
the parks filled with new lovers
and tumbling children, the warm
spring air filled with pollen and
potential, the solitary raven alights
from the top of a white birch
to drink from the still cool water.
Tourists clamoring to snap
photos of the precious cygnets
repeatedly attempt to shoo
the raven away, to discourage her
from screwing up the shots.
The raven turns her glossy head
directly toward the crowd
and caws, unapologetically,
frightening them back.
A short sip later and the raven's
mysterious splendor is gone, likely
headed back up in some old tree.
The raven understands
fear and flight can protect her.
This is what her wings are good for.
III.
In a shamelessly neglected
apartment in a Chicago ghetto,
a brown sparrow flits about the
filthy hallways anxiously, stench
of confusion and urine filling his
tiny lungs as he tries desperately
to locate the cracked window
he slipped in through. As fate
would have it, his frenetic flying
has attracted the attention of
a cat below, a cat who
means him harm, who waits
impatiently for the bird to tire
and come to rest on the floor.
The sparrow chirps frantically-
his urgent notes mistaken for
mere song by the cat's unwitting
owner in the next room,
his persistence echoing like
a chant, a prayer, something to keep
him aloft even as his energy wanes.
The sparrow understands
faith can return him home.
This is what his wings are good for.
Clarification for a Pet Killer
Sure we mourn for little Jon Benet,
unavenged, fashioned into a tender starlet
before she could endure the searing spotlight,
rubies and diamonds hanging
from her tiny fingers and ears like
precious drops of blood and tears.
And of course we weep for the senseless
victims of Manson and Gacey, Bundy
and Dahmer-the multiple anguished
spirits still not comfortable in their
intangible forms, still haunting our minds.
And it's understandable why we are enraged
over Amadou Diallo, his dark innocent face
like a history lesson yet unlearned,
his riddled body and the bright red seeds of
potential spilling from it, collecting
in an unacceptable pool on the cold hard floor.
But I bet you never expected such an outcry
from this: your crazed careless toss that
surely got your point across to the dog's
shocked owner. But the ensuing manhunt?
The lottery-sized rewards?
It makes sense you see because no sacrifice
goes unnoticed among those lower animals--
they feel their empty lumens filling and show
real gratitude to the source, and loyalty that
remains even when the food bowl is empty,
even after the jubilant romp in the park.
I know you don't understand this, but
my grandmother with her pride of cats sharing
her home does, as does that grieving motorist,
tears surely blurring her vision whenever she
flashes back to that moment you made your point.
With simple creatures, there's no need
to worry about costumes and masks.
But lofty evolved humans: you make a sharp
left turn to free up some road, you share
your best wafer with them, your finest vintage,
and you still never know.
NOTE: On February 11, 2000, on a busy highway in San Jose, California, Andrew Burnett exited his vehicle in a fit of road rage after being bumped from behind by another driver Sara McBurnett. As McBurnett apologized for the accident, Burnett approached her vehicle, grabbed her small dog Leo from the front seat, hurled the pet into oncoming traffic, and drove away. Leo, a 10 year-old bichon frise, was immediately run over and killed. At one point, more than $120,000 was being offered as a reward for Burnett's capture.