We’ve decided to publish four of the very last poems written by Jim Thomas, (1930-2009), as a small but heartfelt memorial to one of the most frequently published poets in Green Hills Literary Lantern, During his many years at Truman State, he taught courses in creative writing and American literature, but, just as importantly, he shared his poetry with his students and colleagues, passing out copies of his most recent poems to anyone who was at hand. Many people had small private collections of his work just from those passed out poems; in fact these four are among the ones our managing editor Adam Davis recently uncovered in his office, a kind of buried treasure. Jim was my great friend, mentor, fishing companion, basketball teammate and both father and younger brother figure (befitting his amazing personality, wisdom and youthful humor) and though he’s been gone fifteen years now, the loss still feels fresh. At least we have his poetry to help us remember him always.
–Joseph Benevento, Poetry Editor, author, My Perfect Wife, Her Perfect Son
St. Paul Evangelishe Kirche, 1867, Little Bay Road
Some say a split over doctrine brought forth
this simple church, 42 by 36
feet, one large room with pews for faithful, two
smaller areas beneath a choir loft.
Three tall pointed, plain glass windows per
side let in light and air; native limestone
forms thick walls. It’s stood amid white oaks
since 1867, housed its flocks
over a century. Now it sits empty.
Couples have rented it for their weddings,
a few heirs have sent their beloved dead
forth from this quiet place. Once each year
our historical society hosts
its Musikfest, This year, a bell choir’s tones
spill out into thick timber, a local
tenor regales us with big band ballads,
a lady taps dulcimer strings for charming
ancient melodies. As usual, we
finish by singing, belt out “Edelweiss,”
“St. Francis’ Prayer.” This is mere stone shell,
those people who were the church long gone,
we who yearly visit, crowd these pews, just ghosts.
View From Room 102, HADH
Nurses are to transfuse two units of
blood slowly, three to four hours
each, so I lie waiting on my inclined bed
in Room 102. They perform their tasks,
checks, tests and soon I am alone, looking
out through Venetian blinds from this newly
re-decorated treatment space. Shady slats
and vertical supports transform my window
into potential music staves. Across
near trees and hills, vultures wind-dance fast air
above Frene Valley. New blood drips soundlessly
into my vein. Not a music reader I
cannot read any notes of the score
created unknowingly by black dancers,
can only remember real sounds of wind- |
shivered feathers from other ancient flyers.
Their kind of flying, ragged pipe of birds,
is sheer play. They find up-thrusting thermals, |
repeat over and over patterns: climbing |
turns, long, slant-wing powerglides to bank
again, anew into air push, rise up.
All their dancing, artless skywriting surrender
to the wind, is spontaneous, free.
I get new blood, watch birds until dark.
Performance done, they vanish into night.
Lucky Tom
Except that we haven’t yet had frost,
this day has bloomed like Indian summer;
sassafras, already turned, glows fire
and midges dance in late afternoon light.
Thanks to record rains our lawn, fields
gleam green- stark contrast to last year’s dust.
I am enjoying, vampire like, someone
else’s blood from yesterday’s transfusion.
I’ve just finished applying a plastic sheet
for a shower I’m making, hope soon
to complete it, at least once sluice my sweat
and sins away, although both cling fast.
This year’s garden is done, except for turnips,
but the rest needs composting or fire,
stakes and trelisses stored, weeds mowed, turned.
T admit it: I didn’t write that novel,
didn’t luck into that lyric I’ve dreamed of,
didn’t win the lottery, but then never
played, think still I’ve won. I’m very lucky.
That Mary
Such questions are beyond me, oh by far,
yet I worry a bit in my small way
about Mary, rewarded with heavnely
bliss- this is incredibly impossible-
I haven’t a clue: sure, she’s far away
from even sweeter than the Mormon
Tabernacle Choir and with no need for
golden slippers. And yet, presumably,
at beck and call of lisped prayers daily
by the billions. For all I know, this murmur
may be sweet reward to her, like a harpist
surrounded by perfect wind strokes, ever
so lightly plucking heaven-pitched strings.
Dawn’s light, brighter than saffron on eastern hills
filters through open door with waking sounds-
camels’ coughing, distance- sweetened donkey’s bray.
Nearby a ring-necked dove mourns in the palms.
Hakim’s sheep and goat herd bleat, tinkle bells.
I hope once in a while she’s given a break
from pomp, finds herself barefoot in a rough robe
in a dark, low-beamed kitchen. A smoking fire
lights up a hearth and she’s making pita
bread for Jesus and Joseph and the Father.
The Spirit airs the room when it’s time to eat.
Maybe she’s broiling fish on the coals, too.
Jim Thomas, 1930-2009