The Daily Journal is often sent copies of and press releases about newly written regional books – maybe a novel, maybe a guide to somewhere or something in the sphere of our familiarity, maybe a biography – or a book of poetry.

Recently I lifted from my desk a copy of “Where One Voice Ends Another Begins” and couldn’t stop turning the pages.

The subtitle of this anthology is: “150 Years of Minnesota Poetry.” Published by the Minnesota Historical Society Press, the book showcases 76 of our state’s premiere poets.

Good poetry is hardly scarce. In America alone, there’s a myriad of brilliant poetry.

But as I thumbed through the One Voice collection, I was struck by how many of the works sat so comfortably before my eyes; by how intimately they spoke to me; and by the caliber of their brilliance.

In the scope of the whole world – from a global view if you will – Minnesotans are my kin. And these tragic, joyful, introspective offerings sing of a collective personal past from a northern state (of mind.)

Midwest America is not considered a poetry mecca as are the coastal areas of this country. But Minnesota has produced a plethora of poems to ponder, including of course: St. Paul-born novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald, who according to the book, is least known for his poetry writing. One Voice editor Robert Hedin of Red Wing, quotes what Fitzgerald wrote regarding poetry:

“It is what it is, because an extraordinary genius paused at that point in history and touched it.”

This writer’s hope is that the next collection will include the extraordinarily rare and raw writing of  International Falls depression-era poet Joseph Kalar. The book is worthy of his work.

What follows, as space has allowed, are some selections from “Where One Voice Ends Another Begins,”  which resonate for me.

AMONG THE PINES

(Written on Lake Bemidji, the day before the poet drowned there)

By Arthur Upson 1877-1908

The earnest pines are of the sober North.

Cold twilights find them sombre as themselves,

And the gold sun that down the red West delves

Like broken-lanced knights doth set them forth.

There is among them only Autumn cheer,

A mournful sweetness-yet they do not change,

And their laced limbs are never bare and strange

Under the swift reprisals of the year.

If constancy brings melancholy joy,

This then is why these forests reach my heart

With their deep changeless tones, why tears do start

To-night when I behold their brave deploy.

Their constancy brings feelings linked to those

The soul brought here, and keeps beyond life’s close.

SUPPOSE

By Katreena Vandenberg 1971-

And what if you could step outside yourself,

could walk the streets of your old life after dark

until you found yourself in the lit window

of the bungalow on the April night you packed

your dead lover’s clothes in a box you weighted

with his shoes, and saw yourself opening your arms

to fold his shirts? And then walked on. What if

we all could be this generous, cleaving ourselves

from the brief gasps of lilacs in our own yards,

from the outgrown rooms with their sticks of incense

dropping their thin threads of ash?

What if we were willing to turn the corner

to walk the street that holds the sum of lives,

the gallery of women taping shut

the boxes of the clothes of the dead, labeling them

with permanent marker? Oh, and if we did not try

to say we knew what was inside

their Glad bags, rustling secrets from the curb,

but spoke of those boxes and bags in such a way

that everyone who listened could open them and find

the shirts and shoes of their own dead brothers,

and discarded hearts, the whispers

of missing sisters across twin beds, old letters,

old dolls, the names for unnamed terrors,

the trinkets they’d forgot – what if you could

make everyone rich with the things they had lost?

Wouldn’t you be that generous, if you knew how?

INTERIOR DECORATION

By Adrien Stoutenburg 1916-1982

I am thinking of doing over my room,

of plastering wings on it,

of letting clouds in through the attic,

of collecting moles

and training them to assemble in an oval

for a rug as bright as black water:

of growing orchids under the couch

for a lavender surprise

against the sleeping dust:

of inviting wind to the closet –

empty shapes will blow and sing like sails –

of planting a quail’s nest in the corner –

eggs in time will hatch out stumbling flowers –

of taking a fox for a companion –

his fur will be my fire on cold days –

of building a great square silo of books:

pale green, blue (moss color, sky color).

deep red, russet, orange (sun and blowing leaf color).

their spines scrawled with loud gold

and chiming silver – ARABIA DESERTA,

LETTERS OF RILKE, WALDEN, HUNGER,

BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL.

These, when the blizzard comes,

will be my soaring walls.

HELEN HART’S SUMMER

WATERCOLORCLASS

By Jill Breckenridge 1938 –

She wore gold earrings

big as Kerr Jar lids

and a purple scarf waving behind

her yellow jeep for blocks

as she picked us up for watercolor class.

She drove faster than our mothers’

voices calling us home.

Instead of aprons, she wore eyelashes

so long and black we couldn’t

take our eyes off them. Her work

was our play, her play, our delight,

and her laugh sailed every pond

in Julie Davis Park, startling

the iridescent mallards

we girls painted, greens flowing

into blues, blues into greens.

Round-eyed, we stared up at gigantic

trees reaching over the still pond,

tried to take them in, couldn’t keep them

on the page, leaves greening off

into blue’s washed sky, trunks

dripping brown onto our bare toes.

It was the summer we wanted

to last beyond the white pages

of our artist pads,

until the next year when we discovered

boys and blooming inside us, the roses

we’d only red-dotted on the page,

and lost our vision, stored our brushes

in metal tins, trees shrunk down to salt

and sugar, measured, then spooned

into nested silver bowls. We baked white

bread and brownies, timed everything,

nearly forgot where we’d hidden our colors-

the murmur of blue, red’s rejoicing,

violet’s tenor enhancing yellow’s aria-

frozen squares of color, waiting for

the brush, a drop of water, background

light enough to let us through.

THE RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN

YOUR LIFE AND A DOG

By Robert Bly 1926-

I never intended to have this life, believe me-

    It just happened. You know how dogs turn up

At a farm, and they wag but don’t explain.

It’s good if you can accept your life – you’ll notice

Your face has become deranged trying to adjust

To it. Your face thought your life would look

Like your bedroom mirror when you were ten.

That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.

Even your parents can’t believe how much you’ve changed.

Sparrows in winter, if you’ve ever held one, all feathers,

Burst out of your hand with fiery glee.

You see them later in hedges. Teachers praise you,

But you can’t quite get back to the winter sparrow.

Your life is a dog. He’s been hungry for miles,

Doesn’t particularly like you, but gives up, and comes in.

MORNING

By Richard Burton 1861-1940

A shaft of gold upon my upturned face

As fleeting and as shy as any fawn;

Sweet odors, stirring winds and forms of grace;

Now tell me, is this heaven, or is it dawn?