United States, (b. 1945)
TORNADO ALERT
- That night
- against a copper sky there rose
- a body, large and dark,
- extending land to cloud.
- On the dusty stack of last
- year’s hay I sat and watched it
- lumber nearer, wavering, frayed,
- and almost letting loose
- to stringy clouds,
- then tightening towards
- human form. Steadily,
- it looked at me,
- and I knew it was a woman.
- For all I knew of women
- was there, the mystery I dreamed
- beneath the flowing skirts of aunts,
- the fleshy angles
- of teen-age girls –
- and now a broad hip
- swaying, a lithesome
- fluid rhythm
- that was always foreign,
- always close to my imagining –
- a song translated to the sky
- and one with it.
- From all directions
- came her silence breathing in
- my breath, a feeling heavy
- from inside that could have been
- a wish to leap into
- her grand revolving.
- My hesitation broke
- her silence into laughter,
- shattering the oats.
- I felt the urge the fence
- posts followed leaping
- from their dull lives in earth
- to dance the sky,
- or at least
- to let my clothing go
- the way the corn
- in all its ordered rows
- let go its leaves and seed to be
- one with swirling cloud.
- Half-mad with yearning,
- half-crazed by fear of this
- too-large, too-godly,
- all-absorbing woman,
- I, boyish and afraid,
- burrowed down to root myself
- in hay. And then
- from near the hog house
- a sow ascended,
- a wingless flight
- into the guttural roar of mud and dust,
- its thick form turning
- slowly, its snout agape,
- its short legs pedalling air –
- a crazy celebration, her joining,
- as if by choice, the sky
- hilarious with debris.
- First rain,
- then the stinging sky,
- struck my face.
- All her darkness was upon me.
- All her rage.
- The pig was gone.
- I heard my own unwilling
- scream of terror
- and turned face-down, clawing
- like a rodent trapped in hail.
- With no choice but to live out
- instinct of beast, bird, or fish,
- I scratched and writhed, prying
- the stubborn sea
- of hay, my only hope
- a burial. Submerging
- so deep that sight and sound
- were gone,
- I lived
- the single smell
- of molding, musty hay.
- Whoever it was survived
- climbed up through my chest,
- and I stood upright
- into torrents ‘of friendly rain
- on the fire of torn skin.
- The bristling sow
- weaved through my mind.
- Somewhere,
- I imagined her
- still skirmishing with filthy air,
- still turning over and over
- in a sky of wreckage.
- I heard the rescue sirens,
- frail strands of sound.
- I saw the sad, dishevelled farmyard.
- I saw the waxen faces of my frightened
- parents peering from the cellar.
- And I laughed,
- already denying those reports
- of finding, 30 miles east,
- stomach sliced by the free-wheeling
- ploughshares of the sky,
- the haughty, grunting, earthy sow.
DURING THE FIRST 3 MINUTES OF LIFE
- The piglet
- sucks
- naps
- wakes up
- sniffs
- the nipple next door
- bites
- his brother’s ear
- naps again
- snores
- wakes up
- shivers
- jumps straight up
- twists an ankle
- squeals
- looks around for the sound
- leaves home
- gets lost
- pees
- on the run
- stops on a window
- frame of light
- looks up
- into the sun
SOMETIMES A SOW
- Sometimes a sow
- couldn’t have her young.
- They’d catch
- in the tight gate
- of her womb
- and she’d lie heaving
- towards death.
- When I was ten
- I learned a trick
- to get them out –
- a metal hook
- in my hand
- into the birth channel
- shoulder deep
- to find
- the small snout.
- I’d slip the hook
- under the chin,
- hold my breath,
- and pull.
- Sometimes
- the wish-bone jaw
- shattered
- and the pig died,
- but when it worked
- the release was sudden –
- a small form
- wet in my hands.
- At the sound of life
- the sow would sigh
- her jowled sigh
- and I would sigh
- and put the pig
- bleeding
- to her teats.
Hog House Poem
- It’s 6 a.m.
- Something’s happening in the hog house
- and I’m just 8 years old,
- going out to catch that robber by myself.
- No robber. It’s just the boar Dad
- bought last night
- doing something.
- He looks different now,
- his mouth so foamy
- my mouth waters. And there, close by,
- the old sow standing still.
- She’s different too – her hams lathered
- where he lathers her
- with his mouth. Now he up and mounts her
- like a saw-horse on a barrel.
- Oh, the whole world’s tilting
- and there’s a good smell in the air.
- I’m just going to stand and think
- about the fact that I’m still 8
- and this morning
- something’s really happening
- in the hog house.
About the Poet:
Jim Heynen, United States, (b. 1945) is a poet and a writer of novels, nonfiction, and short fiction. Born on a farm in Northwest Iowa, Heynen was formerly the Books Editor of the Minneapolis Star Tribune and now lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota.
Heynen is best known for his short short stories about “the boys,” and his many works include The Boys’ House: New and Selected Stories, Standing Naked: New and Selected Poems (2001) and Ordinary Sins: After Theophrastus (2014).
For many years he was Writer-in-Residence at St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. He has been awarded National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships in both poetry and fiction. [DES-10/19]
Additional information:
- The Boys’ House: New & Selected Stories (2001)
- Heynen’s web site
- Heynen’s Bibliography