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Mississipi

CONFLUENCE

To dominate the conflux of the rivers,

the Minnesota with the Mississipi,

a place inhabited for ten thousand years,

Bdote in the local language,

Fort Snelling was built on the bluff above.

The confluence of the rivers was sacred

to the Dakota Sioux, who believed

that their first ancestors had come as spirits

from the stars, and had been made human

from the clay along the riverbanks,

with life breathed into them like a newborn’s cry.

 

***

 

As the West became more settled slaves

were brought to the fort to be bought and sold.

While the Civil War moved from battlefield

to battlefield in the East and the South,

the Dakota, literally starved

of what was theirs by treaty, rose.

On the day after Christmas, and seven days

before Lincoln issued the final

Emancipation Proclamation,

thirty eight Dakota men were hanged

simultaneously, their execution

having been approved by the President –

presumably pour encourager

the remaining two hundred and sixty two

and the families still incarcerated

in the concentration camp at Fort Snelling,

now a National Historic Landmark

in the city of Minneapolis.

 

***

 

A regiment of ‘Buffalo’ soldiers

was stationed at the fort. It comprised

white officers, black troopers and NCOs,

and thus nicknamed by First Nation people

either because the soldiers resisted

bravely like the buffalo or they too

were being used. They saw no action.

The Dakota Sioux had been subdued.

The ‘Indian Wars’, that centuries old

genocide, were continued elsewhere –

and Minneapolis grew brick buildings,

straight paved roads, gas light and water mains.

 

***

 

John Berryman, poet, impassioned teacher,

university professor, a troubled

and a troubling soul, jumped to his death

from the Washington Avenue Bridge,

Minneapolis, onto the west bank

of the Mississipi. In some poems

he has a black-face minstrel persona:

‘I don know, Mr Bones. You asks too much…’

 

***

 

Outside Cup Foods Hot & Cold Deli,

on the roadway, at the intersection of

East 38th and Chicago Avenue,

in the early evening of May 30th,

2020, George Floyd stopped breathing, murdered

by a white man dressed up in a uniform.

 

 

 

DOWN THE LINE

David Selzer By David Selzer0 Comments1 min read1.5K views

For Kira Somach

 

I have regular readers – some I have known

for years, others I will never meet –

on every continent except

Antarctica: a wonder not a boast!

One, an actual friend from long ago,

tells me, via email, that she often reads

some of my poems over the phone

to her father – she in Missouri,

he in Florida: to remind them

of his years working in England,

and her years here becoming a woman.

Sometimes she rehearses the reading

before she makes the call. I like to imagine

the words spoken down a telephone wire:

under the Mississipi, over

the Appalachians, around the Everglades –

but I guess the sounds are bounced from the sky,

across longitudes and latitudes

and a multiplicity of time zones,

which is no less extraordinary,

no less amazing, no less humbling – my words

sounding through the ether.

 

 

 

LOVE AND MARRIAGE

After the usual, civil formalities are finished
and the formal photographer has gone,
you begin to photograph people not poses;
charming, as you mingle; capturing, like a magus,
the very spirit of each and every guest.

In fifty years, we have been seldom apart.
When we are you are my very limb
and life. I was alone in Illinois,
driving, by the side of the Mississippi,
on the Great River Road, south to St. Louis –
thinking of you every lonely yard of the way.

Marriage, love, last, of course, by chance, choice.
I watch you ‘work the room’ – enchanting,
diffident, vital, a benison.

 

 

 

CARDINALS AND GIANTS

As the First Gulf War began, I watched
the Cardinals – in their brewery
sponsored stadium in downtown St Louis –
beat the ‘Frisco Giants. The home team
is named for the scarlet-breasted bird –
the visitors (aka the New York
Gothams before they went west) for chutzpah.
The fixture was part of the USA’s
annual baseball World Series, which,
of course, includes no teams from abroad.

It was a weekday, early evening –
very much a family occasion.
The programme, advertising caps and tee-shirts,
urged us to ‘think of our boys in the Gulf.’
Most of the players had Hispanic names.
In the intervals, the black vendors
climbed the terraced steps. ‘Any of you farmers
want a coke?’ they called and the mostly white
crowd took no offence Missouri being
a state of farms – soya beans and hogs.
Meanwhile, the quadrille of baseball resumed,
its restrained drama accompanied by the theme
from Jaws each time a player made a home run.

As twilight became night, I remembered
the wide river a couple of blocks away –
rising in the hills of Minnesota
and debouching, two thousand miles
and more, through the shining, shifting Delta
into an altogether different gulf –
and I thought of the immense Republic’s
dark, inviolate fields.