Kent Bowker

It’s Boiling Hot

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On Pavillion Beach. © 2014 Jeff Weaver (b. 1953)

On Pavilion Beach.                                                                                            © 2014 Jeff Weaver (b. 1953)

Its boiling hot, they’ve gone to catch the wind 
at high tide when you can sail the tidal river 
above the sandbars, when the scope is wide 
room to tack and reach, as we try to reach to the far 
points in our life where you are the self you wish to be 
away from the effigies others might prefer 
beyond the expectations of correct behavior and pieties 
free of the sand bars in our circumscribed environment 
the enclosing freeways that bind us into pockets 
webs of mercantile definition, malls of distance, 
the all-together loneliness of the social web. 
This is not the place for me. 

Where can one go to be free of this American entrapment 
where black and brown and white can live in harmony 
where all beliefs, intellect and toil are respected, 
was our Cape Ann like that, not entirely but enough 
the classes did mix, brawls were plenty enough 
but the morning light broke bright on sea calm water 
where rancor stills and the gulls cry instead. 
Perfection of a sort sadly doesn’t last 
the tentacles of wealthy desire slowly penetrate 
crawling over the bridge, tourists who end up staying 
and driving up the rents, buying the cheap houses; 
improving them twists the old mix out  working people 
can’t afford to be here any more, to smell the same sea 
air, feel the tidal sweep over the marshes 
swim in the warming creeks. 

Kent Bowker 
July 7, 2016 

Kent BowkerKent Bowker started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

Nightcap Poem from Kent Bowker

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barghazi

The Virgin Spring. © Gabrielle Barzaghi

 

Breakfast at Lobsta Land

 

On the sunlit side away from the marsh another scene

harsh in comparison as an endless stream of cars

impinge the ear and sight at the entrance to the bridge

gateway to Gloucester narrow to impede the hoard stream

but it doesn’t quite work the way it used to do

when everyone worked in the town, or went fishing.

 

The marsh view seems fixed, season and tidal modulation

from year to year comforting knowable and unchanging.

Not so on the highway, a little denser and faster every year.

fishing slowly dying, tourists coming, commuters, in and out.

On one side the beauty, on the other the sign of change

destruction of the unique you don’t see; it’s incremental,

one old building down, one condo built

iconic reminders of the old slower ways replaced.

 

The once upon a time of amiable ways, backyard conversations

the regularity of a walking postman who might be a great poet,

when we all knew each other, the artist could be your plumber.

Few now accompany St Peter on festival days.

Our memories short get used to the erosive growth

hardly notice what it does as the town, marsh and shore

irretrievably change, we don’t see the loss.

 

 

Kent Bowker 10/6/2015

Nightcap poem # 96

 

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

Nightcap Poems by Kent Bowker

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kavanaugh

Rachel’s Song © 2015 ~ Sandra Kavanaugh

Fool

 

The fresh morning dew glistens in a spider’s cell

our first breath of aborning day  sweet ambrosia

lilt of bird song and response far off in the shell

of woods enclosing us opening onto a calm sea

of thoughts unencumbered by a day’s demands.

 

These be the blessings we’ll have to carry us

through thorn and thistled ways, this lightness

of well being,  illusions perhaps but also true.

Like a Tarot Fool blithely walking off a cliff’s edge

a flower in one hand eyes lifted to the stars,

we too can float above our disasters to be

remembering the early light, the lilt of bird songs

and the  freshness in a  morning’s  breath.

 

Kent Bowker 9/16/2015

Nightcap Poem #76

 

 

The Marsh Intense

 

The marsh is intensely green now

flat out to the distant drumlins

the river, tide coming in, barely

covering parts at this moment

at the end of the day.  The sky

beyond is turning yellow

below the darker clouds.

And the half moon will open

through the cloud gaps

late night passages

to the ocean beyond.

We meditate, no wind

even the gulls are silent

at this moment of closure

as sun gives way to the moon

as if all life, ours too

is suspended. The day dies

as we will too in our cycle

our yellow sky the final rest

as it is tonight for the sun,

as we enter the unknown

realm of the moon.

 

Kent Bowker   7/23/2015

Nightcap poem # 22

 

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

 

Poem by Kent Bowker – Gloucester in 2042

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NoTressJM12 (2)

No Trespassing #17 Jeffrey Marshall (c) 2012

 

 

 

2042

 

Acidic sea, the jelly fish swarm, bonanza

declares the Gloucester Daily Times, July 21 2042

‘fishing hasn’t been this good for decades’

and on the sixth and last page

photos of Dog Town then and Now.

A century apart both treeless but cultivated now

burned off a while ago, been fixed up since then.

The office of Enviromental Crisis told us today, page 3,

‘the sea level rise seems to be leveling off now at  10 feet

ending the period of rapid change’, that’s a relief.

 

The wide Annisquam roars across what used to be the Cut

sloshing back and forth eroding the old drawbridge

and sea wall, covered now, except at low tide.

Mayor declares region hazardous, forbids walking on the wall.

 

The Times tells us the railroad bridge, close to the water

needs fixing again to keep Gloucester’s rocky island cluster

connected to the scattered  islands going to the mainland.

Bridge repairs necessary, ‘recent storms have damaged

the bridges to East Gloucester Island, and Eastern Pt. Isl.’

‘Lighthouse status precarious’ declares Coast Guard.

 

A memorial is planned for the tragic death of Mae Porter

died in a fire on Brier Neck Island.

The fire boat couldn’t reach the Isle

high seas in the Good Harbor inlet blamed.

 

Well, that’s today’s news,

not too bad, considering….

 

Kent Bowker 2015

 

 

Kent Bowker

 

 

 

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

 

 

 

In Memory of Linda Crane

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linda opera 2 (2)

Linda Crane performing her opera. Photo courtesy of Kent Bowker

CROSSING

LINDA, THE SHAMAN PASSING

We are watching Linda flicker

between living and dying

frail, morphine fogged she reclines

in her hospital bed at the head of the stairs

planning her new kitchen cabinets.

Her smile is for us to see

to say she accepts our love.

She’s the shaman sometimes, or not

the force is dimmed the light remains

clear sometimes, her poetry seems

to have been written.

 

Do we grieve, or celebrate

the planned on positive future.

We will celebrate today for tomorrow

none can see longer than this

she is thinning each week

her smile broadens across her thin cheeks

wider each week it seems

as her faith belays our fearful

expectation, her strength flickering

each day toward tomorrow.

 

 

The poet has become bird

light, translucent reaching up

the presence of invisible wings

golden, radiant in the faith in nature

there is no betrayal, no flinching

no crying, the bear stalks about

the spirit cave containing her

We can’t see these as we sulk

about in the shadow of our fears.

 

The Crane dances with the snake

overland to rippling waters

of the mother’s fecund ocean

we travel in the lower world to

seed the ending start beginning

her drum beat leads the passage

of the teacher, of her living

power animal, to come to

the lady of grace, Mary.

 

“Barnard’s windows open into life

a hard cold thing inside me melts.

I can see all the beauty within

the violet iridescence of light

sliding past the dread night sweat

I call for help as the stream

is strong at the crossing. Weak in fear

stroke with me together

at this crossing I am afraid.

 

“I can see the crossing, that is my job

come help me stroke, share these berries

the spring sweetness, the taste of life.”

 

Kent Bowker 6/18/2000

 

 

Ceremony

ashes to sea

Friends watch Linda Crane’s ashes scattered from Halibut Point.  Photo courtesy of Kent Bowker

On casting Linda’s ashes into the sea

at Halibut Point,

 

Linger the sound of our hearts,

beating, sad, deep and slow.

Remember the circle of hands

the touch rippling one to another.

Remember the sea wind shine

illuminating our emotion,

gulls overhead cawing,

hard lucent shore rocks.

 

Linger the sound of the sea,

linger the tears and sorrow,

as the slow drum beats.

All of us will eventually come

to this hard chiseled space,

a quarry for pavers and headstones

the place where her soul’s ashes reside,

floating, leaving and returning on the tide.

 

Kent Bowker 6/1/2015 (from 7/9/2000)

 

 

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

The Last One, a new poem by Kent Bowker

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25195l

Gloucester Harbor. 2011 Ned Mueller (b. 1940)

The Last One

Coming from P-town to Gloucester
motor sailing in a calm, lightly ruffled ocean
in the empty bowl of the horizon
we came upon a rusting hulk
brown streaked blackened red side,
slowly turning on the flat black sea.

A long dark rusty gilnetter, lines out,
like a hopeless memory circling in the flat sea
What is beneath this surface for the families?
For the layers of families waiting
for the missing fish money.
The boat’s steel flakes fall off
in the long search for the last fish,
no money in it for paint,
in seeking it rusts away

Dark cavities behind the streaked plates
we see no seaman, maybe a hint of a face
the ship rusts, circling in the flat sea
inside the sharp edge of horizon
the songs of the sea were still
the wind slow

reaching down
for the last fish
long searching, circling
nets winding, futile,
paint chips flaking, gone.
A face appears in the recesses
of the large net wheels
fades back into the indigo
shadows in the turning boat
as if depression driving
the hunter who must hide, –
a recluse of the sea
seining for the last fish.

In its own vortex
scorpion of the mind
repetition, the laying of nets
a slow dervish dance
arms raised like railroad semaphores
for the end of the line, a train coming,
in the desolation of this lifeless desert,
the slow turning over flat water
the dervish spinning ecstasy
is a ritual to invoke
the fish providing spirits.
the slow turning over flat water
slightly scratching the surface
inscribe the tracks of the dance
over depths of the sea
seeking the last fish –

so long out- rusting away
becoming pointless
lost, seeking, –
as the families
are fading
away.

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker

 

 

 

Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.

Crossing the Bar by Kent Bowker

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254c0-ianfactor

Last Catch of the Day – 2012 by Ian Factor (b. 1969)

Crossing the Bar

Crossing the bar again
In the slosh and tumble of waves, around ledges,
at the favored lobster spots close to shore, the white working boat
maneuvers about rocks, gear shift growling,
runs down on pots, the men scooping them up,
hauling traps aboard, pulling the writhing bugs out, checking length
sometimes tossing most of them back in
thinking it's time to shift the pots further offshore.
It seems the hold is never quite full,
when they turn the helm to home.

It’s not all work, for there is a time
for awe and wonder in going
to and fro, in foggy uncertainty, or clear air
when the horizon is crisp and stark,
or when clouds boil, flowering in blue sky,
or when the black of a coming storm menaces,
or in the calm of sunrise, waters flat as can be,
never the same from day to day,

but same never-the-less.
You’re on your own out there.

They do not visit this place
as the yachtsmen do, to pleasure the day,
they live this world, all of it, its peace and hell alike.

Then back home again and out on the town
into dazzling lights, dark bars, a drink
having fun with women
punk rock songs and randy jokes.

Saint Joseph certainly must be there,
with faith’s wafer and wine certainty and protection
warding off threat of wave and rock
in the heave and thrust of swells
uneven footing, a dangerous winch cable
screaming on its spool.

There is a muscle taut energy
in this small 35 foot lobster boat

     heir to the fast Grand Bank fishing schooners, 
     proud large trawlers, the great hauls.

These rock crawling scavengers 
are all that’s left to harvest now,

     bend the muscles to.

It’s traps now, was nets then, always the haul, 
the heft of the prey on the deck 
in the heave and rolling wave of the sea 
The big thing to think about 
what many of us do not 
is who and where we are in this world. 
So few know, but those whose working rhythm 
is embedded in it, do. 

A Saint Joseph medallion dangles from the rear view mirror 
of their pickup loaded with traps and pots 
and its ‘screw you’ bumper stickers. But when some ignorant asshole on autopilot 
with cutters on his flashy yachts’ prop tears through a line of pots 
all the days moneys gone

     What’s Saint Joseph to do then 
     you have to keep asking.'

          Oh, they’re not paying what they used to, 3 buck a pound, 
          not worth it sometimes when they’re 10 bucks afterward.

Everyday, passing by the Dog Bar, offloading the stuff, 
tired, returning to the slip, tie up, disembark 
and, bone hope weary, might take to drink again. 

In the coherence of this life,
     (the faith and ceremonies, a cardinal’s blessing
          once a year doesn’t do much)
     no matter how small it seems
          faith punctuates the daily chores

but it’s the rhythm of the lobsterman’s life 
out and back again, bait and reap 
that sustains as it does for all working men, 
the doing of it.

Kent Bowker

Kent Bowker

 

 

 


Kent Bowker  started with poetry at Berkeley in the Fifties, then became a physicist working mainly in optics.  His new book of poems is Katharsis: Sifting Through a Mormon Past.  He lives in Essex, next to the Great Marshes and is treasurer of the Charles Olson Society.