Today I ran across an obscure little collection of poetry by early Evergroove faculty Craig Carlson: Words in Another Language / Craig Burnham Carlson. Port Townsend, WA : Sagittarius Press, 1991. 220 copies were printed. It contains poems about the South Sound and fishing. For you old Evergroovers out there who remember Craig, I hope this stirs pleasant memories. Here's a poem from that book entitled "Shelton," which I deem to be hyperlocal:
Ride into this town any Wednesday on a dare.
Follow the dust of trees to the mill and stop.
Forget whistling. The world is flattened to a plane
under a sky unfeathering like a common loon.
Loggers in red suspenders loom down Railroad Avenue
direct as chainsaws. Out in these streets
men are men, a dollar is a dollar.
These streets lope and swagger, but never backtrack.
Molly sits on the corner
by the Holiday Park Retirement Center
waving at everyone -- she thinks she remembers them.
You learn to live in a small place and dig in;
so much happens that no one ever means.
on the right near Squaxin Island or nearer,
say Little Skookum, anyway west of Eagle Point,
cutthroat trout elude fisherman in small boats.
Anywhere from here, tides splay and plunge deep.
Days go by like words in another language.
No wonder we are the way we are
living in this rain on the edge of time.
These streets slope and saunter, but never break.