| Four Poems By Jared Carter |
Hobo Signs
A flat rock the width of your hand with two small stones
on top, one round and smooth, one rough and square –
notches cut in a rail of the fence near the gate, always
odd numbers or even, never a mixture of the two – sticks
shoved in the ground, some pointing straight up, others
slanted – these were usually somewhere near the tracks –
some of these signs meant you might get a bite to eat
up at the house, a woman would come to the back door
and let you chop wood, or carry water, then give you
a plate of beans, cold cornbread, maybe a cup of coffee –
certain signs meant the old man who lived on this place
would curse you out, fire a shotgun over your head –
some meant you could climb up and sleep in the barn –
others, be careful, there’s a chow dog in the barnyard –
all of these things showed that people had ridden the rails
ahead of you, people who had been cold and hungry,
who tried to get some sort of break here. They had left
hints and warnings for others who came after them: rocks
arranged in a certain way, notches on the fence, circles
drawn in the earth. Then they moved on. You would, too.
A flat rock the width of your hand with two small stones
on top, one round and smooth, one rough and square –
notches cut in a rail of the fence near the gate, always
odd numbers or even, never a mixture of the two – sticks
shoved in the ground, some pointing straight up, others
slanted – these were usually somewhere near the tracks –
some of these signs meant you might get a bite to eat
up at the house, a woman would come to the back door
and let you chop wood, or carry water, then give you
a plate of beans, cold cornbread, maybe a cup of coffee –
certain signs meant the old man who lived on this place
would curse you out, fire a shotgun over your head –
some meant you could climb up and sleep in the barn –
others, be careful, there’s a chow dog in the barnyard –
all of these things showed that people had ridden the rails
ahead of you, people who had been cold and hungry,
who tried to get some sort of break here. They had left
hints and warnings for others who came after them: rocks
arranged in a certain way, notches on the fence, circles
drawn in the earth. Then they moved on. You would, too.
Hunting and Gathering
It is a man thinking all day of eating ice
because he has no money for anything else.
Is ice not water, is water not free?
Does it not fall from the sky, forming
pools in the street, places where a man
could drink, could cup it in his hands,
pretending it is frozen, it is something
to eat? Could he break it from the ruts
in the road, and drown out the breaking
inside his head? But no rain hammers
these streets, there is only the downpour
of plastic cups and sandwich wrappings,
latex and motor oil, it is only aluminum
that recycles, that pays by the pound,
that gets eaten by some vast machine.
No one pays anything for glass bottles
or newspaper or steel cans. He must keep
searching for aluminum, in rusted barrels
and dumpsters, he must search through
the alleys with the others – with old men
breathing through their mouths, talking
to themselves, pushing shopping carts –
with bag-ladies roaming the approaches
to the Interstate, stooping, combing
through the weeds – with runaways
standing along the entrance ramps,
with men out of work, holding up
cardboard signs – all of those searching
for something, though it be nothing.
It is a man thinking all day of eating ice
because he has no money for anything else.
Is ice not water, is water not free?
Does it not fall from the sky, forming
pools in the street, places where a man
could drink, could cup it in his hands,
pretending it is frozen, it is something
to eat? Could he break it from the ruts
in the road, and drown out the breaking
inside his head? But no rain hammers
these streets, there is only the downpour
of plastic cups and sandwich wrappings,
latex and motor oil, it is only aluminum
that recycles, that pays by the pound,
that gets eaten by some vast machine.
No one pays anything for glass bottles
or newspaper or steel cans. He must keep
searching for aluminum, in rusted barrels
and dumpsters, he must search through
the alleys with the others – with old men
breathing through their mouths, talking
to themselves, pushing shopping carts –
with bag-ladies roaming the approaches
to the Interstate, stooping, combing
through the weeds – with runaways
standing along the entrance ramps,
with men out of work, holding up
cardboard signs – all of those searching
for something, though it be nothing.
The Good Samaritan 2.0
I found Money in a ditch, thrown
to one side of a dangerous road.
It was soiled, chafed by the touch
of many fingers, and seemed weak
and unable to stand.
Let me help you,
I cried, and together we hobbled along
to an inn – there were large pillars,
and imposing doorways made of glass –
where I left Money to be cared for
until my return.
But others passed by
and heard Money calling, O save me,
some brigand has locked me up, once
I thrilled to your touch, O set me free etc.
and with little effort, they intervened,
and released Money, so that it set out
and took to its former habits again,
and this time found its way to a place
among the lenders and moneychangers
in the Temple Court.
A madman appeared
with a whip and drove everyone out,
and emptied the cages of white doves,
and overturned the moneylenders’ tables.
What is happening, I asked, rushing
to Money’s side, while the authorities
dragged the man away.
Oh, nothing much,
Money said, brushing a speck of dust
from a fold of its toga. Just one
of the natives, acting up. But tell me,
how have you been, since we last met?
Let me buy you a drink. It’s been a while,
my friend, and we have much to talk about.
I found Money in a ditch, thrown
to one side of a dangerous road.
It was soiled, chafed by the touch
of many fingers, and seemed weak
and unable to stand.
Let me help you,
I cried, and together we hobbled along
to an inn – there were large pillars,
and imposing doorways made of glass –
where I left Money to be cared for
until my return.
But others passed by
and heard Money calling, O save me,
some brigand has locked me up, once
I thrilled to your touch, O set me free etc.
and with little effort, they intervened,
and released Money, so that it set out
and took to its former habits again,
and this time found its way to a place
among the lenders and moneychangers
in the Temple Court.
A madman appeared
with a whip and drove everyone out,
and emptied the cages of white doves,
and overturned the moneylenders’ tables.
What is happening, I asked, rushing
to Money’s side, while the authorities
dragged the man away.
Oh, nothing much,
Money said, brushing a speck of dust
from a fold of its toga. Just one
of the natives, acting up. But tell me,
how have you been, since we last met?
Let me buy you a drink. It’s been a while,
my friend, and we have much to talk about.
The Least of These
No, not a dream, but here, now.
A vast metal shed, where chickens
crammed in wire cages are hoisted
for slaughter – to have their throats
slit mechanically, their feathers
boiled away, their corpses, already
inert, plumped up with chemicals.
Everything is computer-controlled.
But listen. With their last breaths,
as their suffering mounts, they whisper.
They are still able to call out to us.
Go, tell others that we perish here
in grim, unfathomable numbers –
unseen, unbefriended, unconsoled.
Call up the words, you who are safe
for a little while, and let others know:
“As ye have done it to the least of these,
ye have done it unto me.” But in reality
chickens cannot speak, poets lack power,
nothing can stand up to the juggernaut.
Perhaps. But I will continue to search,
I will enter the next house, to descry
what infamy may be found there.
And I will bring it to you in this way.
No, not a dream, but here, now.
A vast metal shed, where chickens
crammed in wire cages are hoisted
for slaughter – to have their throats
slit mechanically, their feathers
boiled away, their corpses, already
inert, plumped up with chemicals.
Everything is computer-controlled.
But listen. With their last breaths,
as their suffering mounts, they whisper.
They are still able to call out to us.
Go, tell others that we perish here
in grim, unfathomable numbers –
unseen, unbefriended, unconsoled.
Call up the words, you who are safe
for a little while, and let others know:
“As ye have done it to the least of these,
ye have done it unto me.” But in reality
chickens cannot speak, poets lack power,
nothing can stand up to the juggernaut.
Perhaps. But I will continue to search,
I will enter the next house, to descry
what infamy may be found there.
And I will bring it to you in this way.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Jared Carter
Do not reproduce any part of this page without
permission from Jared Carter. Contact him through
his Website.
Do not reproduce any part of this page without
permission from Jared Carter. Contact him through
his Website.
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Jared Carter's fourth book of poems, Cross this Bridge at a Walk, was published in 2006 by Wind Publications
in Kentucky. A Midwesterner from Indiana, he has published in such journals as Iowa Review, Kenyon Review,
Poetry, TriQuarterly, and a number of online ‘zines.
His web site, http://www.jaredcarter.com , offers poems, stories, and photographs. Reviews and information
about his latest book may be found at http://windpub.com/books/bridgewalk.htm
in Kentucky. A Midwesterner from Indiana, he has published in such journals as Iowa Review, Kenyon Review,
Poetry, TriQuarterly, and a number of online ‘zines.
His web site, http://www.jaredcarter.com , offers poems, stories, and photographs. Reviews and information
about his latest book may be found at http://windpub.com/books/bridgewalk.htm
Photo by Richard Pflum