Editor's Note: Colorado-based poet, Beth Biresdorf competes in triathlons, has climbed all of Colorado's 14ers (peeks 14,000 feet above sea level or higher), rejects hedonism, exemplifies the possibilities of healthy living, and is a technical writer specializing in résumés and business writing. In her spare time, she pens a fair amount of captivating poetry. She lives in and writes from the heart of a post-modern western reality. She is one of the hidden voices, one of the many regional artists who create art to share with friends and family. Here at Critical Civitates, we are quite pleased to kick off Volume 4 with Beth's work, and we hope you will share the gift with others.
Three Poems by Beth Biresdorf...
Adrenaline
I worry this impulse like a stone,
Run my fingers along the ridges and cracks,
Familiar as a rock I've climbed
One hundred times,
The beta of yearning etched deep
Beneath its luculent face.
This I know--
Toeing my adrenal lust to find
Purchase into need, into want.
Sighing my bones into the
Crevasse's embrace
Where my body folds, supine,
Spooned against earthy flesh new
With hands eternal.
The movement of my muscles
Follows ancient instinct,
But my lungs breathe in the musky scent
Of fresh discovery
Under my roaming fingers.
Ascending,
Heart racing, neck sweating,
Chalky hands clinging, back arching,
Hips pressing firm against the
Enduring stone
Until my body folds over the final lip
And I roll onto my back,
Panting, eyes skyward,
Thankful this is a walk-off.
Cowboy
I envy the cowboy,
Perched on his horse as he surveys the rolling prairie
Punctuated with sagebrush and hyssop,
Scarred by the cracked and arid stream beds
As it trudges resolutely onward toward the Owl Creek cuestas,
The towering crags of the Wind River range.
Caked in endless layers of dust and sweat, and
Cocooned in the vastness of his solitude,
His lowered gaze and terse words convey not coldness,
But the shy and leeward leaning of his heart.
His safety lies in harsh and wordless winter nights,
The empty landscapes bearing only predictable surprises,
Acts of God far more forgivable than human ploys.
Oh, to drink in the endless desolation,
Siphon off a breath of serenity,
Thick crème rich enough to calm my rambling mind,
To retreat to the cold safety of wind with its perennial wisdom,
Whispering an intuition clear as the crisp November air
Nipping at my ears.
I yearn to lift my heart to the thunder rumbling through
The summer monsoons,
Bound headlong into the unaltered maze of terrain with its
Barren pockets of wild waste,
Sense the bobcat standing watch over my alien habituation
Within the palms of this disbanded land.
I long to sink into my instincts,
Rouse the hungry animal lying dormant within,
Face tangible problems with definite answers,
To slough off the unfortunate gift of abstraction
And surrender to this aching simplicity.
Blue
The first time I heard Joni,
Her voice, high and piercing and clear,
Was a precipice in my youth
Of which there was the before,
And then there was the after.
Listening to her travelogue of canyon mornings,
And lonely street corners, clarinets,
My soul split apart,
Abruptly aware of the yearning for purity,
The beautiful pain of emotion lain
Just beyond the reach of name.
As it was when I paused to
Ask you for a cigarette,
So cavalier with my laughter
Weaving a naïve cocoon
Out of all I thought I knew.
Green and gullible, I stepped out into
Everything that waited within
Everything I didn't know that I didn't know.
The collective unconscious,
The shifting of gears,
The slowing of seeing and hearing
Down to you,
Down to the sharp, frozen chill
Of your breath hanging in the autumn air.
And through everything that comes and goes,
I still hold the cadence of your words,
Verse-perfect in their stop-and-go flow
Dancing just out of reach.
I hurried my stride to catch you,
Always one breath behind,
Chasing that perfect moment where
Every chord aligned
And your song became mine.
I followed your raspy tones,
Collecting them in my colander-hands
And riddling them raw,
Humming the melody once again,
Forever failing that one note
But refusing to settle for anything less
Than stubborn exactitude.
The curse of being born with an artist's ear
And a lover's heart.
The last time I saw you,
It was Denver, winter of '08,
And I've spent the years
Drinking to drown my fate
Of setting you free over and again.
Sisyphus with his boulder
And me with my mermaid-song.
You, my constant stranger,
You're my angel and you're my demon,
You're the wide-eyed awakening
Of each desire that has ever brushed its lips
Past my ever-attending ear.
And though at times another song may weave
Its whistle-words in between my past and now,
In the solace of quietude,
The tape rewinds back to you,
Beautiful and blue.
Three Poems by Beth Biresdorf...
Adrenaline
I worry this impulse like a stone,
Run my fingers along the ridges and cracks,
Familiar as a rock I've climbed
One hundred times,
The beta of yearning etched deep
Beneath its luculent face.
This I know--
Toeing my adrenal lust to find
Purchase into need, into want.
Sighing my bones into the
Crevasse's embrace
Where my body folds, supine,
Spooned against earthy flesh new
With hands eternal.
The movement of my muscles
Follows ancient instinct,
But my lungs breathe in the musky scent
Of fresh discovery
Under my roaming fingers.
Ascending,
Heart racing, neck sweating,
Chalky hands clinging, back arching,
Hips pressing firm against the
Enduring stone
Until my body folds over the final lip
And I roll onto my back,
Panting, eyes skyward,
Thankful this is a walk-off.
Cowboy
I envy the cowboy,
Perched on his horse as he surveys the rolling prairie
Punctuated with sagebrush and hyssop,
Scarred by the cracked and arid stream beds
As it trudges resolutely onward toward the Owl Creek cuestas,
The towering crags of the Wind River range.
Caked in endless layers of dust and sweat, and
Cocooned in the vastness of his solitude,
His lowered gaze and terse words convey not coldness,
But the shy and leeward leaning of his heart.
His safety lies in harsh and wordless winter nights,
The empty landscapes bearing only predictable surprises,
Acts of God far more forgivable than human ploys.
Oh, to drink in the endless desolation,
Siphon off a breath of serenity,
Thick crème rich enough to calm my rambling mind,
To retreat to the cold safety of wind with its perennial wisdom,
Whispering an intuition clear as the crisp November air
Nipping at my ears.
I yearn to lift my heart to the thunder rumbling through
The summer monsoons,
Bound headlong into the unaltered maze of terrain with its
Barren pockets of wild waste,
Sense the bobcat standing watch over my alien habituation
Within the palms of this disbanded land.
I long to sink into my instincts,
Rouse the hungry animal lying dormant within,
Face tangible problems with definite answers,
To slough off the unfortunate gift of abstraction
And surrender to this aching simplicity.
Blue
The first time I heard Joni,
Her voice, high and piercing and clear,
Was a precipice in my youth
Of which there was the before,
And then there was the after.
Listening to her travelogue of canyon mornings,
And lonely street corners, clarinets,
My soul split apart,
Abruptly aware of the yearning for purity,
The beautiful pain of emotion lain
Just beyond the reach of name.
As it was when I paused to
Ask you for a cigarette,
So cavalier with my laughter
Weaving a naïve cocoon
Out of all I thought I knew.
Green and gullible, I stepped out into
Everything that waited within
Everything I didn't know that I didn't know.
The collective unconscious,
The shifting of gears,
The slowing of seeing and hearing
Down to you,
Down to the sharp, frozen chill
Of your breath hanging in the autumn air.
And through everything that comes and goes,
I still hold the cadence of your words,
Verse-perfect in their stop-and-go flow
Dancing just out of reach.
I hurried my stride to catch you,
Always one breath behind,
Chasing that perfect moment where
Every chord aligned
And your song became mine.
I followed your raspy tones,
Collecting them in my colander-hands
And riddling them raw,
Humming the melody once again,
Forever failing that one note
But refusing to settle for anything less
Than stubborn exactitude.
The curse of being born with an artist's ear
And a lover's heart.
The last time I saw you,
It was Denver, winter of '08,
And I've spent the years
Drinking to drown my fate
Of setting you free over and again.
Sisyphus with his boulder
And me with my mermaid-song.
You, my constant stranger,
You're my angel and you're my demon,
You're the wide-eyed awakening
Of each desire that has ever brushed its lips
Past my ever-attending ear.
And though at times another song may weave
Its whistle-words in between my past and now,
In the solace of quietude,
The tape rewinds back to you,
Beautiful and blue.