by Dan Stryk

The reversed flow rumbles, swelling,
up the river . . .

The north wind pushes south, now,
down its banks . . .

The fish, bewildered, hang in darkness
under thrashed

reeds, beating fins.  Clouds thud east,
on past the

blackened sunrise.  Leaves spin circles
through the

whirling pools.  While ducks bunched,
anxious, under

creaking bridge-slats, bounce their harsh
cries off the

foam-slapped piles . . .
There’s a great

noise past our own clamped windows,
also.  Water

rising swiftly through our uncaulked cellar
floor.  The

rain falls harder, harder.  Mists against
the glass

obscure.  And now pure silence as the power
fades . . .  As never

felt before.  But still no Word, no Word
from High or

down below, on why things “known” might
End this way,

                            or ever were at all?

by Dan Stryk

The sky, on this late afternoon, spreads milky rose,
then fades, above low hills,
to chalky cloud — pale whisper of hydrangea
in late summer.  We’re driving under
metal girders of the bridge over the deep-flowing Ohio
on our yearly visit to aged
parents in the North.  And wordlessly lift eyes
to that dark steel against the sky —
                     its massive poles
and finer crossbars.
Protean
shapes, as we drive on, like those we’ve — oh so often —
tried to clasp before fleet visions, that might
hold us, disappear!
Only to be left
with dimming colors on the canvas or flat words
upon the page, lingering like mists
of a fled dream,
the keen forms of first vision
now obscured . . .

There is great pain, we’ve come to know,
in failing to see movingly, yet yearning
for such ardor to return — to glow
like a lone comet
before eyes which remain lifted to the skies
through barren years.
And so we learn to live
for that which moves us momentarily
in winter,
even the smeared memory
of what we hoped to seal in vital line, but once more
failed to will into completeness —
once more

rendered vaguely

on the canvas stretched before us,
or the white page that, alone,

will never fade.

by Dan Stryk

What need of philosophy, or abstract talk
            that droops and withers
once again, at each year’s
end, like the cluster of blond yarrow
turned to brittle ochre
stalks — still tied to its wooden
stake with rope, yet doomed to crumble
at the touch?
What need, then,
of notions I replant each year
that wither, anyway, back into
jabberwock, or else
are nibbled by unthinking
groundhogs or small troops
of glittering beetles into shabby
leaves which droop

like rags?
Why not, then, be livened
by that season’s watchful
humorist, who waits on a dead walnut
limb I’ve failed to trim, wings
spread, from time to time,
like a black kite above
the bitter nutfall squirrels
chomp.
But knowing
                not to hurriedly
hop down to cluck his wrath
or fluster them, and thus himself.  Or set
them straight on what a wise
bird eats.

My throat might well,
      in the coming year, belong
to the ever-chuckling crow

who’ll sail down then
       to once more
waddle   pecking   pecking
   round the greening
lawn.

by Dan Stryk

Strolling through our neighborhood this languid afternoon— after reading essays by a man who’d left his Brooklyn youth, citybred young wife in tow, to settle like a foreigner into slow hours of an Appalachian farmlife on a hilly rise in southernmost Ohio / rough land he’d scrounged for years to buy, hoping past all odds to learn to plant and herd . . . then, finally, to write there  — I think once more of my poet-father’s probing line I’ve dwelt upon for years.  But, as time flows, in a changed way, encompassing my chosen life of teaching college in the Blue-Ridge South & settling into late years here — no longer just amused by that droll question posed in his poem set by a distant London “Duckpond” (which

then observes): . . . “that Japanese lantern by the bridge, / or from across the pond . . . / a drift of voices cultured and remote . . . . / The lantern maker, the couple chatting there, / would be amazed to find themselves [the subject of ] a poem.”

I gaze now at the mountaintops surrounding me (familiar distance of another type), & feel so oddly transient, at this moment, & yet happy to have tried to write a little & to teach some bold ideas in a slow but thoughtful life beside my artist wife Suzanne . . . after severing Midwestern roots & heading South so many years ago.   BUT never severing the legacy of Lucien’s probing cast of mind (undaunted even now by a blind right eye, hands too frail to type, & a tricky ailing heart at 85).  Yet, unswervingly, still questioning the WORLD at 85 — in poems strongly felt, but “gently strong”

& hauntingly restrained.

And as will become readily apparent in the following lyric, yet soberly political, group of poems he’s allowed me to share with kindred spirits at The Café Review (at this most fitting juncture of your own small liberally imaginative journal’s 20^th Anniversary issue’s celebration of endangered survival — that true to the humane practice of those bodhisattvas so revered over his half-century span of translating Far Eastern thought for Western readers, Lucien’s ripened worldview has become more con-cerned than ever      beyond what an individual artist might strive to “make or do,” or refine alone      with his fear for our common WORLD’s survival, in this bellicose time of Iraqi Wars, homeland “terror,” nuclear proliferations, African genocides, opportunistic failure to protect the New Orleans “vulnerable” from “climatic devastation,” and, not least, our (“drill, baby, drill”) environmental insensitivity to all those endangered “ten thousand [living] things” which must share what we have sullied: the birds, the insects, earmarked trees — all that vulnerable array beyond sheer humankind.

And from such notions spring the poems which I type for him, after he recites them to me ardently (if, at times, with a slight tremor in his voice), across those distant airwaves, every weekend, when I make my ritual UK call to him & Mom (his trusted life-companion, Helen, a skilled wordsmith herself & matchless “verbal critic” for us both) . . . . And we’ve always quipped, to “dim our radiance,” that it’s really she who “has the knack.”

And such are the values, in these poems, which Suzanne & I will store forever in the satchel’s of our spirits . . . as, each year, we sink more deeply into our own place & ripening age, within this Appalachian hinterland from where we choose to view the greater WORLD from the brushy top of our backyard hill, that “dual awareness” of so many of my poems & her paintings — so much a part of what we’ve tried to “make & do” for over 20 years since leaving home . . . &, caretakers of his probing & his wisdom, have become.