National Poetry Month--Coyote in High School

"Coyote in High School" is the final poem of my sequence of Coyote poems that I've posted like a serialized chapbook for #NationalPoetryMonth. In this poem, I take a look at the reality behind the bad boy archetype that's so common in books, movies, and television. 

The Fonzie character in the TV series, Happy Days, may have been the "cool" guy everyone else wanted to be, but his horizons were most likely limited by his family situation and his position in the class structure of his town and his country.

COYOTE IN HIGH SCHOOL

What is it about the bad boy,

the one in black leather

on too loud, too fast wheels,

the one we were warned against in high school?

Behind the scenes of proms and sock hops

and classes sanitized so we wouldn’t catch

the germs of thought,

all the girls had dreams about that bad boy

that we couldn’t even admit to ourselves

while our dates were safe white bread.

When we walked down the halls to lunch,

we knew the bad boys,

leaning against the walls

in cocky poses of insolence and threat,

were using their X-ray vision to see us

naked or--worse--in our schoolgirl underwear.

Some of us hunched over our books

and scuttled past that leering line.

Some of us stretched erect and strutted slightly

on our way beyond their limited prospects.

A classic teacher’s pet,

I snuck out twice with dangerous boys,

sideswiped by the kind of temporary insanity

that catches your heart in your throat,

roller-coaster, sky-diving, over-the-falls-in-a-barrel

fear and excitement blended into one shiver.

The first, in senior year, was careful with me,

insistent on leaving the good-girl scholar a virgin.

He didn’t want to hurt me, he said,

didn’t want to be bad news. I didn’t tell him

my father had taken care of that years earlier.

I didn’t answer his phone calls after that, either.

A couple of years later, the second one took me to his room

on the back of his Harley and made love to me

all night, telling me he knew he wasn’t good enough

for a girl like me, but he’d make me happy anyway.

He did that, and I avoided him thereafter.

I went with each only once,

though they were more gentle than the general run

of jocks and frat boys my friends dated.

After all, the insanity had been only temporary.

I had friends who’d stepped over the line too often

or too long and paid and paid—

as did some of us who mated with business or psych majors,

just in different ways.

Looking back, I wonder

if anyone ever warns the hard-shelled boys in leather

against the honor roll girls?

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Coyote at Your Wedding

"Coyote at Your Wedding," the 9th and penultimate poem in the sequence of Coyote poems I've posted for #NationalPoetryMonth, brings this particular narrative of Coyote to an end. The final poem is a commentary on the class situation of the bad boy/Coyote archetype, and the way the deck is stacked against such people (and even supernatural beings).

COYOTE AT YOUR WEDDING

He left his shotgun in the car,

though he longed to storm

through the doors and aim

a blast at the groom’s head.

He has no invitation,

of course,

and hopes some fool

tries to make him

leave. He’s a black-leather thunderhead

among the white flowers.

He wants to make a scene,

commit a crime, scandalize

the guests, bloody

the groom’s nose, carry off

the bride kicking and screaming.

As he walks through the crowd,

the invited ones move

to give him space

as they would any wild predator

stalking through the church.

Trouble swirls around him,

creating a wake

of racing hearts

and choked-back squeals.

He wants

to smash the flowers,

throw food at the walls,

rip the bridesmaid’s

dresses, curse the minister.

He’s looking but can’t find you

because you’re waiting

off scene for your musical cue

to enter in procession.

Coyote drops hard

into an aisle seat

in the back row

where he can grab you

and take off when you come in reach.

He props one boot

on the back of the seat in front

to block anyone else’s access

to his row. He doesn’t know

he’s sitting on the groom’s side.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Coyote at the Park

The 8th poem in the serialized chapbook of Coyote poems that I'm posting for #NationalPoetryMonth is "Coyote at the Park." In this poem, for a change, Coyote is the one being watched while unaware of the watcher.

As I thought more and more about the bad boy archetype in fiction, TV, and movies, I came to realize that it has its root in class. The bad boy is always an outsider, poor, working class, rough-edged, not one of the privileged class. He may have found a way to make himself wealthy, like Gatsby, but he always carries that taint of the interloper. He has charm, intelligence, and bags of sex appeal, but he's still from the wrong side of town.

COYOTE AT THE PARK

Coyote sits and waits.

He’s asked you to meet him

here where you’ll feel safe,

as if

anywhere were safe

with Coyote.

You spot him

as soon as you enter

through the stone arches,

all that dark shining

in the sunlight.

Teenaged girls in tight pastels

giggle and flirt

with more trouble

than they could ever handle,

and Coyote sends them

off with a wink.

He’s in a good mood,

waiting for you to come

as you promised,

benevolent predator

refusing the prey

on a whim or the hope

of something better.

From behind the stone,

you watch his long lithe body

stretched on the wooden bench

as if to soak up the heat

stored in its slats,

grace unconscious

of your secret admiration.

Coyote is a contented man

today when you are expected

any moment

before he realizes

you’re gone.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Coyote in Black Leather

The 7th poem in my sequence of Coyote poems for #NationalPoetryMonth that I'm posting to this blog as a kind of serialized chapbook is "Coyote in Black Leather." I wrote this poem immediately after writing the poem, "Outside Your House at Midnight, Coyote" (posted here yesterday). This is one of the most popular and reprinted poems I've ever written.

After writing this poem, I began to envision a whole sequence of poems about the bad boy archetype as Coyote in human form. Coyote is the trickster, the troublemaker, and yet often an ally of humans, even as he tries to seduce and exploit them. That seemed a good match for the anti-hero that the bad boy figure in literature, film, and television so often turns out to be.

COYOTE IN BLACK LEATHER

Coyote slides on black leather

over the T-shirt

that reins in biceps, shoulders, chest.

Dark jeans and biker boots cover the rest

of his long, lithe body as he invades

your everyday, suburban life

like a growl.

You avert your eyes, pretend

you don’t watch

his tight, hard body, his mocking face.

You know he’s bad, doesn’t belong.

Besides, seeing him makes your face too

red, your breath too

short, your bones too

soft, your clothes too

tight. You pretend

not to peek, don’t want him to catch you looking

at the hungry way he stares at you.

Coyote has no class.

Coyote is your secret.

You tell him it’s more exciting that way.

He lifts the eyebrow bisected by a scar and stares

you into silence. He knows

you’re ashamed. He thinks

you’re ashamed of him.

Coyote takes you

to dangerous places.

In dark, dirty bars, he threatens drunks

and fights to protect you.

Coyote takes you

where no one else can.

Coyote takes you

where you can’t admit you want to go.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Outside Your House at Midnight, Coyote

"Outside Your House at Midnight, Coyote" is the 6th in my sequence of Coyote poems for #NationalPoetryMonth. It was the second one written, however. "3 O'Clock in the Morning, Alone" was the first I'd written with the Coyote avatar. Several years later, my youngest son had inveigled me into watching the TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and a sizzling scene of a lovesick Spike watching outside Buffy's window at night inspired me to write this poem. And this one then unleashed several others.


 OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE AT MIDNIGHT, COYOTE

stands in shadows, only the red eye

of his cigarette showing his presence.

He watches lights in windows

downstairs and your silhouette

against curtains as you move

from room to room, readying for bed.

He grinds cigarette into the ground

with his boot, to join the others

littering the spot where he lurks,

across the street, vacant lot,

under trees along the fence line.

As you switch off lights,

room by room, and climb stairs

to your bed, Coyote moves out

of the shadows, closer to you

by a few feet more. The outer rays

of the light on the corner

catch his sharp features, golden hair,

the hunger on his face.

He watches your light click on upstairs.

Closing his eyes, Coyote can see within

your walls as you undress and slide under

covers. Tendons in his neck stand out,

rigid with tension, and he swallows his own

wanting with pain. He opens his eyes

to the dark again, watches your last light

wink out, whispers something so soft

even he won’t hear, stays to witness

the vulnerability of your restless body.

Sleep. Coyote’s standing watch.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Coyote Invades Your Dreams

(Note: I have no image for this post. I want to warn you not to search for "images coyote dreams" on the internet. It seems there's a popular trap used in hunting coyotes that's called "pipe dream." Your stomach will take hours to settle down from the images of bloody coyotes entrapped, dead in groups and hung on lines like fish on a stringer. Even a dreamcatcher made of coyote skin, head, and tail.)

This is the 5th in my sequence of Coyote poems for #NationalPoetryMonth, "Coyote Invades Your Dreams." The dream world is, of course, a natural for Coyote since he's a supernatural being who has taken on human form. He can come and go there even more easily than he can in the modern material world we all live in.

COYOTE INVADES YOUR DREAMS

You’re staying clear

of him. Just because

you noticed him once

or twice doesn’t mean you want

anything to do with him.

He’s beneath you—

and above you and inside you

in your dreams. His mouth

drinks you deep, and you come

up empty and gasping

for air and for him. That traitor,

your body, clings to him like a life

raft in this hurricane

you’re dreaming. His face

above yours loses its knowing

smile as he takes you. Again,

this night, you drown

in your own desire. Coyote

marks you as his.

You wake to the memory

of a growl.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Coyote on the Telephone

Here is the fourth in my sequence of Coyote poems for #NationalPoetryMonth, "Coyote on the Telephone." I wanted to write this poem to demonstrate the power of Coyote's seductive voice and persuasive words.

Coyote, of course, is famous for his use of the word. He can talk himself out of almost anything, which is good for him because he usually talks himself into all kinds of trouble, taking someone else with him who may not be as adept at sidestepping the negative consequences when they come slamming down.


COYOTE ON THE TELEPHONE

Coyote calls you on the phone,

asks, “Where have you been all my life?”

in a voice that climbs inside your head

and crawls down your backbone

to your hips. He asks, “When

can I see you again?” Your brain

says never, but his voice stops it

and with some other part

of your body, you reply, “Whenever

you want.” Coyote laughs, low and sultry,

and you shiver, knowing

how much trouble you’re in.

You call Coyote. You’ve sworn

you won’t, not again, but your fingers

press the numbers

on their own without the brain’s

supervision. Your brain’s not

doing too well when Coyote

is near--or even the thought

of him. When you say, “I shouldn’t

have called; I swore I wouldn’t,”

he laughs that way he has

that sends your synapses flying

and your skin growing too hot

and tight for your bones

that are melting as he growls.

You know you ought to hang up

and your finger sits above

the TALK button throughout

the conversation but only pushes

it after the dial tone kicks in.

You never thought you were weak

before. Coyote’s taught you

what you never wanted to learn.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Coyote at the Poetry Reading

Today's poem is the third in my sequence of Coyote poems for #NationalPoetryMonth. "Coyote at the Poetry Reading" was written later in the series, although in the narrative sequence, its place comes much earlier near the beginning.

As a poet who's done hundreds of readings and organized long-running poetry reading series for many years, it was a natural for me to write a poem putting Coyote in that environment, especially because there are poets who try to pretend to be like Coyote, wearing their expensive, tailored leather jackets and flaunting their Ivy League degrees (as they pretend to scorn all such things). The thought of setting the real deal up against such pretenders and other cabals on the poetry circuit was irresistible.

Of course, all the black-leather bad boys of film, television, and literature owe their genesis to Marlon Brando's masterful performance in The Wild One. So here's a photo of the grand old original.

COYOTE AT THE POETRY READING

He walks in late,

of course,

and sits in the back row

even though he’s on the program.

Coyote wraps a storm

around him like a protective shield,

wears his leather like armor,

stares the woman in business suit

and her partner in high-style casual

into dropping their eyes. Coyote

makes everyone nervous.

Whispers circle the room.

Who asked him to read?

“Must have been some woman,”

one bearded man says, with a sniff.

“A guy would have known better.”

“Probably thinks it’s some kind of slam,”

one professor tells another.

When they call his name,

Coyote stalks to the podium

and growls into the microphone,

while, around the room, the air

burns with after-lightning

ozone and smells of blood

and splintered bones.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Appointment with Coyote

I must confess I’ve always had a fascination with the bad boy in literature, TV, and film.  I know it’s not healthy, but judging by the sheer number of bad boys in fairy tales, literature, movies, and television, it must be pretty common.

I have been fortunate enough to have been married to two of the nicest men in the world, my late first husband and my current husband, but before and between them, I had the most lamentable taste in men. I blame it on all the reading I did as a child. The bad boys were always the most interesting guys. 

All this may explain why, over the years, I've written such a number of Coyote poems, and why they seem to form a narrative arc.

APPOINTMENT WITH COYOTE

Coyote showers, shaves, slathers musk

when he knows he will see her. On Wednesdays,

ten is a sacred hour.

He always wears something new

when she comes for her appointment

to see if she will notice.

Nights fill with Wednesday

morning dreams,

but the empty days go on—

all but hers, when he becomes

for fifty minutes

strange, compelling

beast, sexual being.

Coyote sees it in her eyes, the way she draws

unconsciously near, the sudden aware

jerk backwards

that must have been the apple’s

consequence in Eden.

The things he could make her feel, she fears.

This morning her old car refuses

to start. Coyote drives her home,

thighs one hand apart. Filling the air

with her fragrance, she pretends

nothing joins them. Coyote fears

losing control in the sleet

and sliding into some fiery collision

before he reaches her door,

then races skidding away in the ice.

Tomorrow, her husband will buy her a battery.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

National Poetry Month--Three O’Clock in the Morning, Alone

I have written a sequence of Coyote poems, imagining the trickster Coyote manifesting as an avatar in human form. In these poems, I see Coyote as the archetype of all the "bad boys" of literature, film, and television--Bluebeard or the Beast in fairy tales, Heathcliff, Marc Antony, Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront, James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, and Spike in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I've always been secretly drawn to these dark antiheroes, and judging by the sheer number of bad boys in fairy tales, literature, movies, and television, so are many others.

The poems I've written about Coyote have been some of my most popular poems. I even have a whole group of female fans in the UK just for the Coyote poems. So I thought I would post a Coyote poem each day for the next ten days in sequence, sort of a serialized chapbook of Coyote poems. Here is the first.

THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, ALONE

Coyote wails in the far field

beside his woods.

He runs yelping,

baying among the trees,

hot on your trail

across farms and highways,

down city streets to prowl

outside your triple-locked doors.

Coyote could splinter

that wood, shatter

your windows, plunge

into your life, drag you

to his den.

He will be civilized instead,

phone you in the morning, pretend

he has left a book behind.

Coyote moves back

into his woods, voice

fading.

He dials your number

now, growls into your sleepy ear.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)

Poem for National Poetry Month--"Storm Son"

With all the turmoil and political posturing toward more war while we're yet engaged in a continuing war for the longest time in our nation's history, I thought I would post this poem I wrote when my oldest son's unit was called up, and he was pulled out of his freshman year in college for Desert Storm. He's older now, running a successful business of his own after earlier years of detour caused by this interruption in his higher education, but I remember vividly how I felt when he was called to go to a war many of us believed was unnecessary.

STORM SON

I almost died giving him life,

bled on the table for an hour after

his head forced its way out between my legs

while they wheeled me to the delivery room.

In fifth grade, he played football, youngest

on the field, punched holes

in the line of defense

till they tackled him and kicked in his ribs.

At sixteen, two men mugged him

on payday. He slugged the one

who took his cash. The other

slashed his arm open

before they fled. Dripping blood,

he woke me to take him for stitches.

He joined the Reserves, like most of the others

on the Fast Track in his AIT,

for college money, poor man’s financial aid.

Before he joined, we talked

about war. Lifelong activist, I warned him

they’d call and he’d have to go.

He wasn’t gung-ho, just willing to pay

the price to go to school.

When he entered college last semester,

I watched him discover

learning’s delights. He planned to apply

for scholarships, decided he wanted to teach

physics, just starting

to do what I always

knew he could. Nineteen,

he looks twenty-five

to strangers who think he’s my brother.

To me, he still

looks too damn young

to kill or die in the desert.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press)

Poem for National Poetry Month--Oklahoma Poem

I'm just back from the AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) 2016 national conference in Los Angeles. While there, I gave a reading and saw many old friends and colleagues, starting collaborations on several new projects.

One of the things I most enjoyed was a Friday evening spent with several much-loved people and ending in a long conversation with Jeanetta Calhoun Mish about Oklahoma and the Oklahoma literary scene. Jeanetta is the director of the Red Earth Low-Residency MFA Program at Oklahoma City University and the founding editor of Mongrel Empire Press. 

Our long, fruitful discussion left me homesick for Oklahoma, so my first poem on here for National Poetry Month is a poem for Oklahoma. 

Please notice that the word, "squaw." is used in this poem as the pejorative utterance of a self-hating Indian man, my father. This word is always an insult, and I don't want anyone feeling that, because it was used in a particular context in this poem, that it's an okay word to use to refer to Indian women. It definitely is not.

OKLAHOMA POEM

(for Jim Barnes)

In his first words, I can hear Oklahoma,

the hill country way back behind his talk

about teaching French literature in translation,

as if I have gone home, drifted back

through all the years to that childhood place I fled.

I have described it to others

as the armpit of the nation,

when I was young and not long free

of its windy roads and redbud trees and overgrown

hills, still hurt and bitter

about things Oklahoma had little to do with,

beyond being the last place to stand

for a people and the place where one of them

was born and the place where he left

his wife and kids. The last two events were

what ate at me, and they could have

happened anywhere.

Only the first was unique

to Oklahoma, the old Indian territory

where my ancestors limped off the Trail of Tears

to join other tribes forced from their homes

by other ancestors of mine,

founded the Cherokee Female Seminary

at Tahlequah and a newspaper

all over again,

were finally forced to give up their lands

so rich ranchers could take the best parts

of the reservation and leave the hilly, scrub lands

to my great-grandparents, great-aunts, grand-uncles,

and Grandma.

What does any of this have to do with me now

all these years and miles away?

Me, with the broad squaw face,

as my self-hating father, from whom it came, called it?

When I hear Jim say about Oklahoma

(as one refugee to another), “We both got out,

but it’s still inside—it settles in you,”

I know he’s right, Oklahoma in more than his voice,

in the way he makes light of misfortune,

in his penchant for poking fun

at pretensions, his own and others’.

Oklahoma’s settled in us both.

And through the echoes in his voice of its turtledoves

and winds and sky that could pull you off your feet

into infinity if you didn’t have troubles to weigh you down

to the earth, I make my peace with it

and come home.

Published in Heart’s Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)