Bedbug Press - In a Stone's Hollow

Heaven of the Moment
by John C.Morrison

Praise for Heaven of the Moment:

David Biespiel (award-winning poet, author of Wild Civility, and editor of Poetry Northwest) says this about Heaven of the Moment:

“Like William Blake, who could "see a world in a grain of sand, /And heaven in a wild flower," John C. Morrison's Heaven of the Moment can move from pensiveness to exhilaration in the flash of a phrase. Morrison is a poetic naturalist: He ponders the silent correspondences between the natural world and the self. He shows us how to adore the brimming promise of a lived life. Whether he's writing about early love or lousy summer jobs, about solitary games or familial communion, his poems overflow with generosity and gratefulness.”

Dara Wier (award-winning poet and author of Reverse Rapture and Remnants of Hannah):

“John Morrison writes of "God's prick/ready to douse our world, his infinite love and patience..." and in doing so reveals in what passionate ways his poetry sustains his own infinite patience, love and reason for writing poetry. By means of a careful, attentive examining, poems in HEAVEN OF THE MOMENT pay serious homage to this heaven of the moment we inhabit. This is a beautiful book by a serious poet for whom poetry reveals a means of understanding what otherwise would be impossible to bear.”

Greg Pape (award-winning poet and author of Sunflower Facing the Sun and Black Branches):

“With clarity and grace John Morrison's Heaven of the Moment brings together the timeless and the particular. Relying on memory, humility, and a trust in the power of precise language, Morrison conjures and explores those moments that define and give meaning to a life. Among those moments, that seem to pass so quickly, in which everything happens and much is lost and found, moments of insight and decision, moments that shape the bonds of love and friendship, Morrison, in these evocative poems, gives us a measure of what matters.”

John C. Morrison earned his MFA from the University of Alabama and received the 2004 C. Hamilton Bailey Poetry Fellowship from Literary Arts, Portland, OR. His poems have appeared in numerous journals including the Seattle Review, NaturalBridge, Cimarron Review, Southern Poetry Review, Good Foot, Poet Lore, The Sycamore Review and Hubbub. His poem “One Hundred Years Ago” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He directs the Writers in the Schools program for Literary Arts, and also teaches poetry at Washington State University, Vancouver. This is his first collection of poetry.

excerpts

Evening Dress

for my son

One day the sky will open,
promise, like there’s a zipper
invisible from our side. One

long zip from zenith,
where cirrus clouds curve
mare tail strands, down

to the horizon, green peaks
of distant spruce trees. What’s next?
What’s behind? No, it’s not

a giant pant fly, God’s prick
ready to douse our world, his infinite
love and patience at end. No.

Promise. The sleek zipper
belongs to the back of a long
dress. From sweet wisps at cool nape

down to dimple a tip of the tongue
above the buttocks. While everyone
goes about their day in cars,

on sidewalks, in dusty offices,
all beholden to a dull script,
you will see what to reach for

as the dress slips off into evening,
into darkness. Promise. Close your eyes,
draw her close, breathe stars.

My Son the Houdini

After breakfast I chain
his wrists, ankles, lift
and lay him in a casket, kiss
his forehead, padlock and plunge
the heavy box into the icy river.

A minute later, I panic
peel away shoes to dive in
and he rises soaked, shivering
and beaming on the rocky shore
of the far bank. Then he’s over

the rise to school where bored
in class he folds in half,
again in half, folds, folds,
with smart creases, folds
until he lies on the desktop
like a well-worn wallet

his teacher, Mr. Jaybird,
opens to find three dollars
for lunch, a matinee
movie stub, and a photo:

my boy grins, gives the camera
a wave, behind him
hand on his shoulder
all smiles, me, his old man.

Porch Steps

The sun, like a tall yellow house, rises
on the block where I park for work.
A woman in white pajamas
sits on the front steps and drinks coffee
from a dark mug. We always smile
and wave as I walk to a job

I forget as it happens, as though
penciled notes fade each time
I turn the page. And she?
If I didn’t have my own life,
I’d invite myself up for a cup
and conversation, risk lifting

into the spring sky just to see
from that vantage the day
take shape. Settled in a spare room,
I’d pitch in around the cosmos to earn
my keep: bolt gravity tight
at the poles and equator

of new planets, bend light around
black holes, and give directions
to the recent dead: After two days,
you’ll reach heaven. Saints take
a day to review your soul,
sins, misgivings. That’s all I know.