THE RIVER

by Raphael Kosek
2004 National Poetry Contest - Second Place

I am not inclined to write of places.
A river, say, for if you don't know it,
you will right away be bored,
tired to hear of some strange water,
how it flows and where it glitters.
Not interested to learn how the trees bend
over the river at such and such a spot,
or how deer drink there, tentative,
in early amber light.

If I begin to tell you how
she loved and lost, you will say,
I've heard that one before. How
she is crippled and mends herself
at the place where the trees bend
over the river in just such a way.
She has seen the deer, watched
their mincing progress, loved them
for their fear.

I could send a train along the river,
but then I'd have to tell you
what kind and how many cars.
And even I wouldn't care, but she might
hear its whistle and take it as an omen.

I could write about myself, how my pen
flickers over paper making green pictures.
But, by God, you've had enough
of Emily Dickinson with thousands of poems
under the bed, her hair pinned tightly,
the pale round face
peering into your soul.

So it's best, I think,
if you see this river for yourself.
The woman might be there sitting
on a stone, expecting the deer.
Or you might find yourself waving
from a green boat
heading north in amber light.