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Pre-order is coming soon for my 2021 C.M. Rivers Poetry Calendar, small wall size (8.5 x 6.5 inch).
Excerpt from The Good News, a poem from my collection How To Carry Soup (Homebound Publications, 2020).
Net Man originally appeared in the spring of 2020 in poem form, in Crosswinds Poetry Journal in Rhode Island. The piece also called out to me to be written in a form that is part Personal Essay and part Prose Poem, which is what appears here.
“The point is that he had – as we all do in given measures – an unknowable wildness.”
My grandpa was a net man. Never mind how well I knew him, never mind how much I loved him, the point is that he used rope, wove nets with his hands, hands I loved so much I never knew how to say it.
My grandpa was a net man, he was a talker and he was a storyteller. His life was woven with stories as much as it was with rope and he told those stories in a rich gravy voice. He talked about picking rows of cotton as a farm boy in Georgia during the Great Depression.
“I think everyone should have to pick a row of cotton sometime in their life, just to know what it feels like.”
He talked about going down to the Palace Saloon as a boy and easing his mother off of a bar stool, slinging her over his shoulder and carrying her home, talked about being given a choice when he was just a little kid – a choice that would shape the rest of his life: “You wanna go to school, or you wanna go fishin’?”
He talked about World War 2. I listened closely when he talked about the bomb that came down the ship’s smokestack, how he was sent down into the belly of the ship with a burlap sack. I shouldn’t have listened so well, my grandpa was a net man.
He talked about his shrimp boat and the Gulf of Mexico in the 1950’s, when he was known as Captain Buddy. Talked about Veracruz Havana Brownsville Key West South America, having his ear pierced by a prostitute in Campeche, discovering abandoned boats with blood-spattered decks out on the Gulf, my grandpa was a net man. Sometimes the nets were full of shrimp, he said, sometimes the nets were full of shrimp bound up with seaweed and trash, sometimes the nets contained nothing but pieces of junk, he said, sometimes the nets didn’t have a damn thing in ’em.
My grandpa was a net man, never mind his T-bone steaks. Never mind his nine machetes and his earring and how the gators slithered up into his yard from the Withalacoochee River, the canoe my dad and I would paddle upriver to a crystal spring hidden away among cypress trees, their roots dipping into the water’s edge like fingers on an old witch’s hand.
Never mind how the short fuse of his youth alchemized into the easy way he had about him later in life, never mind that his childhood nickname was Junebug, that his wife made the best red velvet cake you’d ever set a fork upon, that when I was twelve years old he talked me into eating a Scotch bonnet off his pepper bush and then laughed and laughed.
The point is that he had – as we all do in given measures – an unknowable wildness. The point is that for 92 years he touched people’s lives without ever once trying to, the point is that now he really has crossed the Gulf, the point is that in the still of the night he left the world and by left I mean he’s gone and by world I mean all of this, I mean the crescendo of his life swept back down in a broad arc and mass overtook energy.
But before the crosswinds took him, he was a net man. I knew it to be true, because he was often out in his workshop making nets. I knew it to be true, because I had lingered on every page of his old photo albums, and it said so right there on the license plate of his old jeep: NET MAN.
He had been a shrimper himself and worked with the nets for years. So when he opened a net shop in 1960, down in Key West, he knew what to do. The shape and size and type of net he made depended on where the shrimper would be trawling, what kind of boat they drove. He worked the rope not only with his hands but with an understanding of what was needed, the intimate knowledge that comes with time spent close to the heart of the work itself.
The nets were dragged along the ocean floor by trawlers, but before that they drifted down, down through the briny seawater. And before that, they had to be made – fashioned – from the rope that passed through the fingers of my grandfather’s hands. Hands I loved so much, I never knew how to say it.
By day, a daydream ponderer who never gets her fill –
by night, a barefoot wanderer who’s wandering still.
With the bamboo wind and a golden rain-tree,
what a lucky pilgrim she shall be.
The essence of time is found spontaneously in moments, not measured in minutes. Minutes are fleeting, moments are precious. Minutes are disposable, moments are priceless. In man's strange invention of measured time, minutes tick tick tick away, evaporating, yet somehow stacking up to become the years of our life, a row of slender volumes held in place between the bookends of birth and death. That's why it's so important to stop, slow down, take notice, pause. The moments are what we notice, what we remember, what we carry with us. They inform us, re-mind us. Our experience of the moments is what gives us a deep, rich experience of life.
It was one of those days when the movie of your life should have won an Academy award for best screenplay. The twists and turns knocked everyone out, the plot was as tight as high-end waterproof luggage, and the soundtrack matched how everyone felt that year with uncanny accuracy.
All you know is it’s one of those days when the music fits how you feel like a jigsaw puzzle edge-piece: tongue in groove on one side, a nice straight line on the other, like driving until you reach the ocean.
How you feel matches the cloud structure, these particular blues of sky and sea, the quality of the light coming through.
Nothing you’ve heard about the definitions of pleasure or pain – or what they are supposed to mean – has anything to do with your experience now.
You take a breath, quite possibly the best one yet. It’s such a relief to finally stop wondering what will happen in the next scene, to stop worrying about how the story might end, and just sit there.
You just sit there, drinking your drink, feeling the support of the ground beneath you, and practice letting go into that feeling. Maybe the sun breaks through the clouds, maybe it rains. You mostly go on feelings lately. These days, you never know which thoughts you can trust.
The air stirs, moving over your skin, rustling your hair, your shirt, almost imperceptible, sensual. The air is fine, warm and soft. As your mother once was, as your father once was.
You eat a little something, very slowly, and feel – for the time being – free.
You must not complain about dust. Dust becomes cloud becomes rain becomes forest becomes life, so you must not complain about dust as you wipe it from a table, books, shelves.
May there be an empty space in the palm of my hand, where every night some means to an end used to be. Not just any space – an interstitial space between the microcosm of the container of my physical body and the macrocosm of the jeweled net of infinite galaxies.
Of course the prevailing winds will still blow from the north, and I’ll still be listening to the broken record of myself, but maybe a sound like running water will become loud enough to drown out the static feed of my looping thoughts. Maybe the sound of a tree growing will untangle the knot of my mind’s running commentary, embroider a fine silk cloth of meditation.
I am always wanting to be reminded of something I’ve forgotten. That is precisely why I do every little thing that I do.
Just drive the train and don’t look back, just glow in the dark and don’t think too much about it. Have a glass of wine and a night of beauty rest, consider yourself to be a well-loved mystery.
John Lennon’s Imagine, and Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ In the Wind are both songs that – when the music is stripped away – reveal themselves as powerful poems. They have both stood the test of time, asking the heavy questions of what it means to be a human society, and both offering us the same fundamental invitation: let’s consider changing the ways in which we have chosen to live, ways less harmful and more peaceful, ways that discourage hate and separation, and encourage love and union.
With Blowin’ In the Wind being written in 1962 and Imagine in 1971, both songs are super-charged with countercultural ideas, calling out war, religion, and injustice on all fronts: social, political, racial, personal, and spiritual. In Blowin’ Dylan essentially asks us, through a series of symbolic and metaphorical questions, what it will take for us to change our behavior, our beliefs and values, our…
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