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The Legal Studies Forum
Volume 30, Number 1/2 (2006) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum Lawyers & Poets Scenes || Dreams TIM NOLAN _________________ Doors and Windows These habits of unlatching, unlocking, turning the porcelain knob, lifting the squeaky sash, pulling the past gently behind you to seal it off in the room, raising the clackety blinds to look out through all your eyes, listening for the slam of the car door out on the street, pushing the electric button, feeling the full wind, lapping the air like water rushing by on the highway, being a retriever of the hello and goodbye, accomplishing these constant daily transformations, crossing the threshold again and again, coming in and going out, until you become-all threshold-your face being the site of all the thresholds you've crossed, into all the rooms, out of all the houses, with that surprise, weariness, that leap of love, the turning of the key, the leaning on the sill, the dancing on the threshold, the door in your arms. [675]
Do You Know What I Mean? As you wake up-all the little nothings are released from your dream like a flock of monarchs-they hardly bend the blades of grass- and-the mongrel armies gather forces- as you bathe and shave-your nose broadens-and your eyes-oh-what tender shock in seeing them again. How did you select this costume of your body from all the possibilities? And each gathering moment presents a question you would like to avoid. I know you know what I mean- this lightness of the self-this transparent veil-it covers your face in sorrow or in joy-sometimes- in those brief moments- you understand all the lively accidents. [676]
English I love this knock about tongue, its hard consonants and cracks, its noble vowels, its mothering of empty space. I love the way that English works on the seashore among the crabs and green vowels, the way it bakes bread with vigor and pounds stones with venom. Its venial and cardinal sins, its fucking and sucking, its mewling, all the syllabic sense, its birdwalk and catwalk and small talk, its feisty short vowels and long sane vowels, its mister and mistress. I love speaking in it and I love lounging in the gutter of it. The sea of it. The sea of it washing the edge of the page. And its drowsy languor, the fall to love of it, the seeping excess. The down to nothing if it. The empire of its sounds. [677]
Memory Too When you get to be a certain age, anticipation relaxes and you sense the past as a long tailed comet and you (your face like a fat snowball) the flaring trajectory at the head of it, with deep space out in front of you. Then, sometimes, pausing over the puzzle, you realize your mother's maiden name is odd-Leadon-weighted down, yet somehow free-depending on your pronunciation. And once in awhile, a whole scene comes back- a quiet room, the afternoon light, then a slow moving cello, tapping its way on the stairs, taking its long breaths at each landing. Of course, you always rearrange the sequence of events to place yourself at the very center, always getting in the last word, rising from your chair to speak the final paragraphs of The Great Gatsby. Even embarrassment, even despair take on that nostalgia of the scar- that accommodation on the surface of the skin. And your body becomes an easy suit, made of that durable and yet to be discovered fabric that changes color and texture, expands and recedes-not at your command-but somehow-of your willing. [678]
My First Poems Were written on the backs of sad check stubs-in the MEN's room at work-West 57th Street-New York City- in the days when you could smoke-everywhere-and had every occasion to smoke- and everyone was about to be- someone-I would be-T. Nolan that one eyed poet-who wrote- short lines-almost Greek- leftovers-like Sappho-they spoke-in an absence of- speaking-they were oddly- enjambed-in a way no one had ever enjambed such things- then-when I was done with my-efforts-done smoking- done with my-bodily needs- I folded my-masterpiece- into that tight wad-with all the other sad check stubs- in my wallet-which was full of other sad stubs of days- like stubbed cigarettes-then- I understood-the words came to- nothing-and-I was silent- for a long time-smoking- [679]
carrying-Check Stub Poems- a whole book of them-my own- Harmonium-my own-Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror-unfolding them like crumpled-origami swans- still-floating-with music-I heard- [680]
Wonder What will they make of us in the future when they sift through our debris, when they apply their speculative minds to us? Will they think-"I've found the key to the lexicon in this Chock Full O' Nuts coffee can." Or- "Rituals were conducted at Airports facing southwest." Will they imagine our royal processions in wooden cars across I 80 in Nebraska? Will they search for a Ford Fairlaine, having found the repair book? Surely they will find our bones and skulls-no surprises there. But how will they understand that 8 track tape of Blood, Sweat & Tears, how to hear that voice, the jabbing brass section, wind rushing past with the highway rushing past, that deep sense of freedom? Maybe the TV, radio, and micro waves will bounce forever between canyon walls in Syria-waiting to be caught by a sensitive device. Maybe our heartbeats will be monitored remotely eons later-had we lived this is how our hearts would sound-that old song of the heartbeat- pitched to the inner ear-and-coincident with the moon. [681]
The Journey I would like to surprise you with some sleight of hand-some turn of phrase-some transformation that would be some-as if-some hypothetical-that you wouldn't believe at first-but all at once- the words would convince you to sell your clothes-throw away your sad shoes-wear that saffron gown-make some small music with those finger bells-hit the road- the road-which has been there all along. [682]
Tim Nolan was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1954. He graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1978 and, with his wife Kate, moved to New York City where he obtained an MFA from Columbia University, worked as an archivist at the Whitney Museum, and read the poetry slush pile for Paris Review. He returned to Minnesota in 1985, received his J.D. degree from William Mitchell College of Law in 1989, and took up the practice of law. Nolan is currently a partner and Chair of the Litigation Department with the Minneapolis law firm, Rider Bennett LLP, focusing on construction and real estate litigation. His poems have appeared in The Nation, Ploughshares, Poetry East, and other journals. Garrison Keillor has read his poems on "The Writer's Almanac" on National Public Radio. |
