Edward Byrne: Two Poems

EDWARD BYRNE has had five collections of poetry published: Along the Dark Shore

(BOA Editions) which was chosen a finalist for the Elliston Book Award; The Return to Black and White (Tidy-Up Press), Words Spoken, Words Unspoken (Chimney Hill Press), East of Omaha and Tidal Air, (both by Pecan Grove Press). His poetry has appeared in numerous journals such as: American Literary Review, American Poetry Review, American Scholar, Black Warrior Review, Carolina Quarterly, Crab Orchard Review, Florida Review, Greensboro Review, The Literary Review, Mid-American Review, Missouri Review, North American Review, Oxford Magazine, Quarterly West, Southern Humanities Review, and Southern Poetry Review,as well as a number of anthologies, including The Liar's Craft (Doubleday/Anchor Press). He is a professor of American literature and creative writing and directs the visiting writers program in the English Department at Valparaiso University, where he also serves as the editor of Valparaiso Poetry Review.

RAFTING THE RAPIDS

In August, under noonday haze, the valley fills

with small fields of wildflowers. The morning

mist has long since risen above this basin

and begun to wind its way uphill, fog still

hugging high fire roads that twist toward stark

ridge tops. Even early lines of dark clouds

that appeared at dawn have finally cleared.

Now, as we follow the river's scrawled signature

across this country, floating rafts past hillsides

spattered with patches of spruce, pine, and fir,

we can see how these steep slopes quickly climb

right into the open sky, its bright horizon clipped

only by an uneven outline of rim rock. Here,

where the current's flow slows to a lazy pace

and tawny silt stains the river until detailed

beneath the glare of midday blaze it takes on

the color of tea, we wade cool waters still chilled

by late winter's snow as we drift downstream.

We await the rumble of rapids before heading

for a few watershed buttes just beyond the next

bend where the faster whitewater is running.

As the afternoon sun starts its descent, we move

gently toward a narrow sluice, shoot through

a sudden drop, then surge over those bedrock holes

and rolling wave trains swollen with the seasonal

release flushed from an upriver dam. By sunset,

we have slipped past the last falls of the gorge:

all that's left is one short stretch of mild ripples

and a small section of beach for landing. Tonight,

we will lie beside this constant sweep of current

that continues as persistently into the future as life

itself, and fall asleep beneath a flood of darkness

marred merely by sparks embarking from some

faraway stars scattered like moments of memories

we'd hoped to hold on to, those shattered fragments

solely able to offer light from times already passed.

Edward Byrne

THE MOTORCYCLIST SEEKS REFUGE

In the temporary shelter of that revivalist's

roadside tent extended under a threatening

sky--the poles swaying and ropes already

straining as the canvas above begins to stretch

or billow in this lifting wind--he finds himself

waiting for the rain storm, caught with hundreds

of others, self-proclaimed lost souls calling out

all their holy grievances, almost a whole county's

devout men, women, and children now gathered

in front of a modest platform where scaffolding

supports that mere square of flooring, plain

wooden planks, eye-high and serving as a stage.

Yet waiting for the rain to end, thoughts

of his past cause him to pause, feeling not

only alone among this congregation, but left

emotionless, as he listens to the old preacher

and his penitents, to those abstractions--

aphorisms about sin, guilt, and forgiveness--

nothing lasting nor more than empty words

attached to confessions or promises he knows

are sure to be broken, though spoken

with conviction and in the steady repetition

of those childhood rosary prayers he still

remembers once having offered in penance.

Edward Byrne