Joe Garrison (July 24, 1934 to May 9, 2010) sent the following poems to a former student in the 1970s. I have transcribed them from photos of the typewritten pages he sent her. "Gravity" (bottom of page) is from 2010 and was printed in his funeral bulletin.
To Find a Ring You will never find it, darling, that hasty way. These broad grasses cannot be pulled. Go to the spring, where you found and drank clear water. Sit down and consider things. When you can feel your own blood, hold your breath until your fingers throb. Reach back, just as you did before. Now warm, your ring is there, beneath your hand. [handwritten: For Debbie, on her graduation. Joe Garrison, Jr.]
In Eden
I am having to live with a new consciousness, on a pinnacle, really, from which I can see more than I should. It is like setting a steel eye-screw into a brick wall easily, without moving any of the mortar. It is not strength in the familiar sense of lifting weights or opening a jar; it is not moral vigor either. It is reading a long book by touching its cover, hearing what was said and knowing what was meant, shaping clouds into various formations and making them change by wishing a little. Lately, I have not been hungry for food; and I am too awake to sleep. Please pray for me and for the life that I must try to live, for a while at least, standing on this height. Legends The last Indian raid in the county took the lives of a man's family. Going by the State's historical marker, tourists cannot find the place where the troubles ended. Not much is left of the house now. According to the annals, the father had gone to salt the horses and to plow when savages, like a spring frost, came down. Shawnees or Delawares, they did not know that in Wyoming Plains Indians gathered stones an built a good Medicine Wheel, recording a time that still aligns on Midsummer Day, the hub of the wheel with two small cairns-- one at sunrise and one at sunset-- and that still lies beneath stars, at midnight, open and secure. From the Other Side We shared the work, eye to eye For hours. The windowpanes are clear, And light comes through the foyer Doors again. Someone else's privacy Is gone, scraped away; and you Are down to elemental glass, Your house breathes now, like woods. I have the image of your face, Your eyes so hard upon the pane, And me, that it could break Between us, coming clean On its own, finding the touch Of your hands too much to stand, Yielding utterly in the solvent air. Reddish Knob: From the Firetower It was dark, except for the moonshine, And I thought of Hawthorne's diorama man In "Ethan Brand" as the headlights just Missed the curve and flooded the top Of the mountain. Lovers, I thought. I was glad they couldn't see se Sitting there on my bed, surrounded By the blackening windows, watching them With habitual intent. What took me most at first is that they didn't Plunder with their bodies whatever love they may Have had. I watched them tumble from the car And gasp for air. I expected him to take her hand at least, But he didn't and kept his frozen distance As if he mistook her for a deer and couldn't Bring himself to startle up the creature. They came to the dark tower and, Slowly ascending, reached the open deck. I felt the structure shudder And saw the tight fist of his right hand spark As his other arm encircled her. But then he broke away, turned, And looked toward me, And I looked at him not seeing me And wondered if the Knob could feel its bloodstone burn. Knocking at a Door I picture a man sleepless in the midst of is life, knocking at a door, calling a name, waiting. It could be, for him, any door or name. Knocking again, but now as if testing the tone of a kettledrum, he listens. Another long night will pass as he stands there like bark. He wants to hear a soft and easy radio, children asking for water, food being shared, a woman turning gracefully, a man beside her. These things exist, he was told years ago, and he set out to find them. Still looking, he stands at the door, knowing he cannot open it, taking his chances of having it opened. [ms. note below: 8 June 78 Dear Debbie -- Here's a fresh one. All best, Joe]
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Gravity (2010) When we take time to make our place in a place, a thought takes hold, rooted deeper than honeysuckle or pines and more secure than hinges. We no longer move in straight lines, going from door to door, hand to hand. There is no need to be anywhere where we are. We learn to grow like grass or timothy, seeding in season. We take off our skins, tell time by heart, learn to bear down over the solid center of the place that finds us.