{"id":253,"date":"2003-08-17T00:28:49","date_gmt":"2003-08-17T08:28:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/chriscorrigan.com\/blogs\/?p=253"},"modified":"2003-08-17T00:28:49","modified_gmt":"2003-08-17T08:28:49","slug":"106110532901476208","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/106110532901476208\/","title":{"rendered":"106110532901476208"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

Every Year the Salmon Come Back by Robert Davidson<\/a><\/p>\n

Salmon<\/strong>
\nby Jorie Graham<\/p>\n

I watched them once, at dusk, on television, run,
\nin our motel room half-way through
\nNebraska, quick, glittering, past beauty, past
\nthe importance of beauty.,
\narchaic,
\nnot even hungry, not even endangered, driving deeper and deeper
\ninto less. They leapt up falls, ladders,
\nand rock, tearing and leaping, a gold river,
\nand a blue river traveling
\nin opposite directions.
\nThey would not stop, resolution of will
\nand helplessness, as the eye
\nis helpless
\nwhen the image forms itself, upside-down, backward,
\ndriving up into
\nthe mind, and the world
\nunfastens itself
\nfrom the deep ocean of the given. . .Justice, aspen
\nleaves, mother attempting
\nsuicide, the white night-flying moth
\nthe ants dismantled bit by bit and carried in
\nright through the crack
\nin my wall. . . .How helpless
\nthe still pool is,
\nupstream,
\nawaiting the gold blade
\nof their hurry. Once, indoors, a child,
\nI watched, at noon, through slatted wooden blinds,
\na man and woman, naked, eyes closed,
\nclimb onto each other,
\non the terrace floor,
\nand ride–two gold currents
\nwrapping round and round each other, fastening,
\nunfastening. I hardly knew
\nwhat I saw. Whatever shadow there was in that world
\nit was the one each cast
\nonto the other,
\nthe thin black seam
\nthey seemed to be trying to work away
\nbetween them. I held my breath.
\nas far as I could tell, the work they did
\nwith sweat and light
\nwas good. I’d say
\nthey traveled far in opposite
\ndirections. What is the light
\nat the end of the day, deep, reddish-gold, bathing the walls,
\nthe corridors, light that is no longer light, no longer clarifies,
\nilluminates, antique, freed from the body of
\nthat air that carries it. What is it
\nfor the space of time
\nwhere it is useless, merely
\nbeautiful? When they were done, they made a distance
\none from the other
\nand slept, outstretched,
\non the warm tile
\nof the terrace floor,
\nsmiling, faces pressed against the stone.<\/p><\/div>\n

I have added another collection of selected poems<\/a> to the sidebar on the left. This one consists of 18 poems by Pulitzer Prize winner Jorie Graham. These poems, like the poems in the other three collections, were all gleaned from the web.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Every Year the Salmon Come Back by Robert Davidson Salmon by Jorie Graham I watched them once, at dusk, on television, run, in our motel room half-way through Nebraska, quick, glittering, past beauty, past the importance of beauty., archaic, not even hungry, not even endangered, driving deeper and deeper into less. They leapt up falls, ladders, and rock, tearing and leaping, a gold river, and a blue river traveling in opposite directions. They would not stop, resolution of will and helplessness, as the eye is helpless when the image forms itself, upside-down, backward, driving up into the mind, and the …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-253","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/piBp1-45","jetpack-related-posts":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/253","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=253"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/253\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=253"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=253"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.chriscorrigan.com\/parkinglot\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=253"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}