“Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.” - Gary Snyder
Doris Lynch’s collection Swimming to Alaska was published in November 2023 by Bottom Dog Press. The poems describe her Alaskan adventures including a year in an arctic village. Her haibun collection Meteor Hound, published by MediaJazz.com, also came out in 2023. She’s won fellowships from the Alaska Council on the Arts and Indiana Arts Council.
Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Doris, what poems have you brought for us today?
First Call, Cody
Kivalina, Alaska
Was it the evening Oscar
drove past with his dog team?
When we heard the whoosh of his sled
over the crusted snow? Or perhaps,
the night the stove oil emptied
and our cabin turned as black as though
the engine of the world had blown out.
Surely, a night when the Aurora Borealis
rippled her flaming chest across the sky,
and we lay in each other’s arms listening to
the angels soldering heaven. Or perhaps a night
more ordinary when the iron stove spat
sparks across the floorboards and Orion
spilled its tallow over the sky. A night when
lemmings squeezed their swag-bellied bodies
under our door leaving scrimshaw
bracelets on the shed counters.
That night, you little darling, were cruising along
at just the right longitude, just the right latitude
through the cosmic dust. How lucky we were
to be billeted just north of the Arctic Circle
waiting, waiting.
Your sister slept soundly, her hands
clutching Good Night Moon while I called
to you with my belly and breasts. Outside,
our chimney, all the village chimneys
poured clouds into the sky, little
grey ghosts beckoning you home.
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Ice Fishing on Thanksgiving Eve
Kivalina, Alaska
On the frozen snow’s rippled palette, a circle of Inupiat sit cross-legged on the ice. Recently arrived from the Lower 48, I know nothing of winter's immense want. As our jigging unlocks tom-cod from the frozen lagoon the women sing century-old songs. Under the ice, hungry fish dart after silver lures. With an awl, a high school girl re-opens one hole as its wide eye freezes over and over. I wonder how quickly before the sea ice will fail, whales hunger, fish stocks decline. For now, an incoming tide rushes fish through a channel that connects the Chukchi to the lagoon. Under a wan sun, we smack each cod onto the ice, where it flash freezes before the great heating that will kill us all.
the sharp stab of capture hook throat eye
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Conjuring Borealis
Outside your gabled window, wind
unravels the slender petioles of leaves
and trees heavy with fruit balance
over goldenrod pastures.
"My neighbors no longer drink from
my cups,” you say. “Do people
really believe cancer’s contagious?”
Even thousands of miles away
I cannot let you go. These mountains
numerous as Pennsylvania fence posts
if only I could mold their firmness,
make whole again those
apples upon your chest.
Later when night bandages the sky
under layers of black gauze delicate
as bridal lace, I will bundle up fire
and magic, scrape this Northern
sky clean of its Borealis skin and bring
you suitcased in the plastic slots
of airplanes this spray of night sky
to lighten your journey.
You're listening to the poems of Doris Lynch on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
