NORTH OF HERE BY PETER NOLAN SMITH

NORTH OF HERE

BY

PETER NOLAN SMITH

The only problem with Maine is that you can’t eat the scenery - James Steele 1978

MANGOZEEN BOOKS 2024

VERMONT WINTAH 1973

A blizzard buried Montreal The temp arctic. Minus zero. Crashing with two New Zealanders Across the street From the Winston Churchill Pub Only forty feet through chest high snow. To a beer was a gamble. Life, death or frozen limbs. More storms ahead On the morrow Sun. I bid adieu to my friends To Marie-Claire A waitress at the pub "I'll be back in the spring. Au revoir.”

I hitchhiked south. Boston bound. Grey low clouds Overhead Snow drops like clots of cream. A farmer drive me to the border Guards wave me through the frontier.

On American soil. No cars No trucks Only snow. And the cold cold wind. The night. Skin freezing Shivering bones Tears of ice. No traffic. Only snow and cold.

Finally headlights An Oldsmobile Toronado Front end transmission A Rocket V8 Over 4000 pounds. The V8 beast stops The lock pops up I brush off the snow Sit inside. Warmer than warm. The driver an old woman. "My name's Meryl. Can drive in this."

"I'm from Maine. We know snow."

We switched seats. I drive 20 mph Into the snowy night Headlights barely pierce the snow. The only vehicle on the road On the way to Burlington.

I stayed the night Meryl cooks stew on the stove. After dinner A fire in the living room. Whiskey in a glass.

Outside the cold. The snow. The night howls around her house. Yellow birch burns in the fireplace. Warm feet Warm hands The room pure New England The North. Wintah 1973

FIRST FIRST SNOW IN NYC 2024

No snow In New York City. Not cold neither. Three years now.

Yesterday Two inches of snow. Cold. Not Omaha cold -40. 20 degrees Fahrenheit cold. And sunny. The wind a cruel cold Fort Greene Park. The two inches of snow trampled Thousands and thousands of feets. Each child's step immortalized in the cold. Steps atop steps Like the ruins atop Troy.

The slope down from the Monument Snow flattened by children's sleds. Hundreds of sleds Thousands of shouts of glee.

This morning No one, but me and the sun and the snow And the cold. Near Arctic cold.

1957 Blackstrap Hill, Falmouth Maine Five years old With my brother, sister, and father. No sun. A gray sky. None of us cold. Inside our parkas. Children from Maine never cold Until the sun goes down. We trudge through knee-deep snow. Dragging a toboggan and a sled. To the top of Blackstrap I stand on the toboggan. Slides slowly over the snow. Arms out For balance. Picking up speed. My father, "Jump." I don't see why. More speed. I fly Faster and faster. Children in my path No stopping. I can't fall. I only fly. At the bottom of the hill A young girl In my path. No stopping Shut eyes. No thud. No scream. The toboggan arest. Open eyes. Step off. People laughing. Not my father. "Go to the car." I go, the girl's smile, I smile back. The station wagon locked. Sit on the snow The air cold, the snow cold. An hour later My father, brother, and sister Dragging the toboggan and sled. My father pulled me to my feet. "Sit in the front. I'll turn on the heat." Full blast all the way to Falmouth Foresides.

Not like today Out the wind In the sunlight Fort Greene Park Snow underfoot The first snow in three years But the same as Blackstrap, Because as my grandfather once said,"There are two seasons in Maine. The season of good sledding And the season a bad sledding." Truth in those words. Especially with more snow coming In two days. More Good sledding ahead.

THE LITTLEST BEAR

Vernon fished the Casco Bay from Peakes Island. The other day-fishers know his boat. A 1985 Seaway 22-footer running the Drunken Ledge, The Cod Ledges, Big Ridge, and the Tanta’s ‘punkin bottom’. Pollock and cod in the winter. All in sight of the Ram’s Head Light station. Vernon 56. Fishing all he know. Not speaking much, Except to the fish and his boat THE LITTLEST BEAR. Forty-one years of fishing Still has all his teeth and hair. Once a stud to the cougars at Billy Ray’s Tavern They thought he was worth one night. Not no more. He smells too much like fish.

On a sunny January day Vernon trailed two long lines Over the blister bottom of the Klondike. A good haul of cod to sell at the Portland pier. This his life. The wet of the sea, the smell of fish, and..... A three-foot wave broke o’er the bow. The sun low off the shore. No other boats were in sight. Wind from the north. Dark clouds on the flat horizon. Casco Bay not flat for long. Heavy seas ahead and behind. Still plenty of fish on the lines. Only two options; Haul in the catch or cut bait and head to the shelter of the nearest island. Inner Green. The cold Atlantic wind skates across his skin. Something bad Down East. Bad but not wicked. “Fuck it.” No fool Vernon cut the lines. Time to outrun the weather. Maybe not enough time. Throughout that evening the storm got serious. No one at Billy Ray’s Bar seen Vernon. Not asea nor ashore.

They say nothing. Saying something was bad luck. They drained their PBRs and watched the Bruins. At midnight the tavern door opened wide. Vernon. Drenched to the bone.

“Rough ride home. Two Jamie’s, a ‘Gansett.” He eyed the bar. Four other fishermen on the stools. Dry. “Get these landlubbers a drink too.” Vernon says nothing else. There was nothing to say. A lifted finger. Another round. As many afore closing Vernon knew his limit.

THE SOUL OF A SUMMER STUTTER

MmmmMagic Kkkklaxon Xxxxxray Thththat A childhood stutter and stammer slurred my speech. 1950s. Maine Across the narbor from Portland Mouth resisted the passage of the and ghs. Family and friends failed to decipher my words. Mangled consonants and muttered vowels in my mouth. Adults thought me stupid. Schoolmates thought me retarded. Three beat me. I soon understood everyone is stupid Even me.

My father took me to Maine Medical. Doctor's diagnosis “His tongue is too big for his mouth. Slicing his palate with razors will free his tongue to work more.” My father rejected their cure. “My son will live with a lisp.”

I had more than that A stammer, misjuxtaposition of syllables, lisp, mumbling Thereafter my own language. Words mine alone Understood by none.

Our family moved from Falmouth Foresides To the South Shore Of Boston A Catholic school. Nuns. Uniforms. Mass. Hide my speech. The nuns would none of that The ruler on my wrist for a sloppy ths. Same for gh Slap slap slap My classmates happy to be spared the rod The more severe nuns believed me Satan spawned. I was also left-handed.

Sister Mary Osmond understood my flaws. Scheduled speech therapy. Taught Palmer Penmanship To my right hand. Her efforts helped Sadly the bullies relentless more than those in Maine Strangely my speech in Latin was perfect Mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa. Forgive me forgive me forgive me a lot. Priests understood my Latin I believed in neither God or Satan.

1966 Ruby Tuesday Dreams of the Rolling Stones. A teenager in the 1960s seeking to live forever young. Through books. Music. The world. None of us had to speak in the 60s or 70s. Teachers and parents sought silence. Singers and poets hid me from the and ghs. We live with forgotten words, and the history of ancient scents. My girlfriend Smelling of A road tarred with peaches.

Years later. 1976. A stolen car. A city. New York City. Different from all before And everything more Not magic Only the being here more than now The spoken stood once In my way But not with poems Poems Whose power lost to the modern age But not for a boy with a thick tongue Especially with a Boston accent.

RED FISH AWASH

The ACADIA BAY 2 on the Gulf of Maine

Out in the Atlantic Above the Cashes Bank A hundred miles east of Portsmouth Calm seas Close to winter Tricky weather. Today so far okay. Sunny A slight swell from the deep. Quentin slogs through the knee-deep catch. Ninety-three minutes into his shift. Four hours on. Four hours off.

The aft awash
Red fish chewing bait.
The hold half-full. Quentin never dry, always wet. His fingers and toes Icy old. Christmas a week away. Land way over the western sea. Quentin not counting days Nor the minutes. Till land. His eyes on the height of fish in the half full hold. The net full. More riches from the Cashes Bank.

On the Horizon Another trawler The Paper Sun. Heavy with a tub of hake. The sea never looks a lot like Christmas. This far offshore. Quinton noses the air. Diesel fumes The stink of fish. The sea. Always the sea. Quinton not bathed in days. Soon Back ashore Soon New Bedford. A few beers in Knuckleheads. A burger and fries too. A night in a cheap hotel Then drive to Maine. Three hours. To Arundel His mother Sister A dog dog Penny, A bath More beer. A home cooked meal and then Christmas But not today Not Tomorrow Just hard labor If lucky Just four hours on Four hours off If wicked lucky Work 24/7 Cold and wet eevery second

Aft awash with redfish Gulls glide over the wake. The sea always the sea. The Atlantic always the Atlantic Till the ACADIA BAY II Berths in New Bedford And Quinton’s boots stomp the pier Waiting for that first bazz on Merry Yulemas to one all and none.

HUNTING CHRISTMAS TREES 1958

Fir trees lined the sidewalk On Vanderbilt Avenue Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. Spruce pines. Chopped Up north from New England forests. My homeland. Trees For families and friends To celebrate Christmas. The fragrance of evergreens, As
The tree elves Elysaah, Ruth, and Bobby Hock trees and wreaths. Working hard Whilst I laze On my yuletide throne Surrounded by Trees.

Eyes closed Dreaming Of 1958 My father With ax in hand. The pine woods outside Gorham Maine. Snow on the ground My brother and me The two of us In tow In search of the perfect tree.

My mothers and the younger other us Back in the Ford Station Wagon Heat running Full blast Windows closed

On a cold winter afternoon. Our breaths hang on the air. Paralyzed by the chill. Us in red hats. Red mittens too. Always deer hunting season In Maine.

The land belongs to someone. Not us. My father very honest Except during tree hunting season.

Born in Maine As was his father And our grandfather. They know the rules. One tree a family.

I remember My older brother Before A tree taller than my father Our tree. For Christmas. My father spits in his hands We stand back. Thwock Thwock Thwock. The tree down To the snowy ground. Sap bleeds from the stump. Leaking the scent of pine Into the winter air.

Same as today on Vanderbilt Avenue. Hundreds of miles away from the Maine woods. Decades distant from my youth. Clouds overhead Colder by the minute. The scent of a hundred pine trees

The same As The Maine Woods 1958 An Evergreen memory From long Ago

Now Winter Coming Soon. As always Wintah On Clinton Hill And up in Maine. Especially Gotham. Merry Yulemas. One and all.

WINTAH MAINE

Walking a back road From school No sign of the sun Leaden clouds overhead Fields frozen stiff under deep snow. A northerly wind from Montreal. Grey slush underfoot Cold wet seeping Through soles Another slog to Grandmother’s house. Where waits A warm pot belly stove. Pull off boots Peel off sox Stick frozen toes Under the hot stove Aaah.

A cup of tea Milk and sugar Aaah.

No more the cold Grandmother’s house Maine winter Only another half-mile To go Till Grandmother’s house And Spring Another four months away Counting the days. To April Flowers No snow. Flowers. Ahhhh.

NAKED TO THE COLD SEA

Early 70s On Nauset’s nude beach Hippies not yet punks. A thick ledge of wet seaweed The high tide mark. Off with our clothes

Lay on the cool green algae Our bare bodies sink beneath the sludge. Comforted by the ocean’s flotsam. The summer sun We stand as one. Naked to the elements We laugh Our seaweed skin hued the cold blue-green Eyes met Understood. All As one into the ocean. Waves. Current. The Atlantic. The seaweed freed from our skin. Naked youth.

Hippies not yet punks 1972. Young.

SEAGULLS IN THE AIR

Age six, my best friend Chaney and I The end of the McKinley Road on Falmouth Foresides. Portland across the harbor. Water A Maine blue. Seagulls skate the cloudless sky. Chaney pulls out darts from his father’s den.

Hands me one. I throw Hit a gull. The bird flutters to the mud flat. Blood. Waves laps over its wings. The sea takes its own. Chaney puts away the darts. I hadn’t even aimed at the gull. We walk back home. Not a word to anyone. Not even to Cathy Burns. Whom we both loved her. He was eight. Always will be eight. I will never forget him.

Cumberland County Kingdom

From the Kezar Pond to Saco Bay. Old Orchard Beach to Bailey’s Island. The land of my youth. The summer camp on Watchic Pond Built by my grandfather. A frontline surgeon in WWI France. A retreat from the horrors to Maine With a nurse, my grandmother. A noble woman from a 9th generation Maine family. A family of five. One my father

A huge farmhouse In Westbrook under the shadow of the SD Warren paper mill. Cumberland County a land of tall pines. 1960 My best friend Chaney. Found a basket of dead puppies. We threw them into Portland Harbor. The tide took them to sea. My innocence destroyed by death.

Four years later a big-breasted girl at a drugstore counter. “Will you walk me home?” At 12 a walk was a walk. I stuffed my comic in my jean’s back pocket. Drained my vanilla soda.

A walk with the girl. A path along the Presumpscot River Past the paper mill. No houses. No voices. Trees. The grinding of the wood saws across the river The murmur of cars far from Main Street. In the woods. She lifts her dress over her head. Her breasts puffy pillows.

Touch. Soft. Nipples hard. They belong to her. Not Barbie. She sighs. I run. Chased by her laughter. To my grandmother’s house. Upstairs to a bedroom with sea murals I lay in bed. Watching the headlights across the painted sea. East and west. Into the Atlantic.

Peter Nolan Smith is devoted to the magic of poetry and New England.

Despite a stammer, stutter, lisp, and a tendency to mumble, he has been blessed with the power to recite poems lost to himself the seconds he says them.

That is poetry.

Magic.

The wind, the sea, and of course chowder.

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