Northwoods

It is late spring and too warm by far for the

season, so that blue vapors settle in the

mystic Northwoods pines, bring to mind  

ancient gods and those who invented them.

The waters of the timeless lake unfold

from your skin, so that the fracture of

sudden sunlight as you emerge

drapes you in furious diamonds.

Water sculpts us and absorbs us,

christens and absolves us, but that may

not be enough; it is only water after all.

Vast clouds approach and the thunder

rolls out in a way that I have never heard:

As the storm nears there is a constant

insistent rumble. It goes on so for 30 minutes

without pause. The worst of the rain skirts us,

we learn later, still soaked in the memory of a

drenching downpour, its sound the

enlightened ohm that empties all thoughts.

At night, the loons defy language in their

absurd haunting calls, intone wood-deep

chants from which certain spells might be

cast when mixed with native ingredients.

I am an old witch,

haggard in her tumbled ways,

soaking sumac and drying herbs

against the backdrop of barking wolves.

There are more elements than we can count.

Earth, air, fire, and water are all

one and the same. This is the only secret.

c. 2012, by Martin A. Bartels (working draft)

Part of my new collection, "Unlanguage"

The Au Pairs

The three young women gathered

at the green park bench,

each lovely in her own way, in the

ways that women are beautiful.

Seated at the bench beside them I

couldn’t help but overhear their

European accents, that they’d never

met before. You are German, too?

the newcomer asked of one.

No, French, said the taller of the

three. From Montendre. And you?

—I am from Italy but I speak German, too.

And then the blonde, the German,

said something in her native tongue.

They all laughed at this delightful

little secret. I smiled in happy envy

at the fleeting instance of being a

foreigner in my own country.

Their charges, the children, I mean,

careened across the playground,

oblivious to this moment and its

import, if any might be ascribed.

As practiced as mothers, perhaps

more patiently, even, the au pairs

corralled the children with

gentle calls and admonitions.

In this small park that held the 

world, the women shared at least

two languages, their youth, the
responsibility of caring for

wealthy people’s children, and 

the mixed joy of a new country.

Maybe a certain worldliness, too,

that I—a well-traveled stranger—

can only resurrect from memory,

sitting instead now on a

park bench as my daughter

climbs the playground set,

imagining herself a great explorer

in distant, undiscovered lands.

c. 2012, Martin A. Bartels (working draft)

Part of my new collection, “Unlanguage.”