On the Road to Patsy Cline: Poems by John Reinhard (MVP) [Paperback]

John Reinhard (Author)

Book Description

Series: MVP | Publication Date: October 1, 1996

Reinhard is a genuine American troubadour.

Editorial Reviews

Review

After Skinnydipping, The Old Couple Fishes For Brown Trout
The Artistry Of Pain
Before And After The End Of The World
Cabin Fever
Clair On My Shoulders
The Crazy Old Man From Faribault
Dad's Dinky
The Death Of The Town Drunk
Denise Robards Used To Live Around Here Somewhere
Driving Into Faith
Elvis At 60
Emily Dickinson's Ankle
First Storms
Fishing For Bluegill
Jimmy Pohoski's A Woman Now
Last Ride Down The Whiskey
Learning The Names Of All Things
Little Girl As Earthquake Lit By Stars
Living Will
The Loneliest Road In America
Loss
Mortal Sins
The Newberry Chair
On The Road To Patsy Cline
'on The Tip Of The Tongue'
Perhaps Our Parents Made Love After All
Places I Would Live
Places Your Brother Would Send You
Prepare To Meet Thy God
The Private Parts Of Animals
The Punchline
Rising Above The Earth
The Running Boy
That Night I Didn't Make Love At The Flamingo Motel In Long Prairie
Where To Find Heaven
Wyoming
-- Table of Poems from Poem Finder®

In the America of John Reinhard's second collection, On the Road to Patsy Cline, joy is still to be found, despite-or perhaps because of-diminished expectations, in small-town cafes and motels, and lyrical imagination enjoys free play like a trout fishing line. "She could extend a note into a bruise," Reinhard says of country legend Cline, and as often as not his poems similarly reach through their music to bruise the reader's heart.

Richly gifted as a lyricist, Reinhard is a storyteller foremost. His stories are refreshing for their lack of villains; he turns a forgiving eye on ordinary ridiculousness, and acknowledges a general human wish "to set things right."

. . . While his approach is playful, Reinhard's subject is a profound, even religious longing -- Minneapolis Star Tribune, Jan. 5, 1997

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

"Emily Dickinson's Ankle":

Shitfaced at deer camp
we sit and toast to
eight-point bucks, to
too much red wine
in the venison gravy, to
the cool and lengthening nights
of autumn, to Emily Dickinson's
white dress, to the old farmwomen
of Nebraska who've turned to
poetry, to the way
love hangs from the human form
like silk and finally
to the human form itself when
Buck Lund offers up his glass
saying, "Here's to a woman's feet,
to the ankle and arch
and the way the foot moves
even when she's standing still,"
and Kent swirls his wine,
"Jesus, yes, there's nothing
more underrated, sexier,
than a woman's foot";
since these guys are hunters
maybe they fall in love
with what leaves tracks
in the snow and lets them
follow, and then Jane says,
"Men like whatever body
part they can get to
with the least difficulty-
this is not a matter
of aesthetics," Jane says,
so everyone looks at me,
waits, until I respond,
shitfaced at deer camp,
"I like a woman's smile,"
and then the men groan and Buck
says, "You're growing soft,
old buddy. A smile? More
than breasts heavy with milk
or air or whatever
breasts get heavy with?
More than ankles? Red-tipped
toes?" and I have to admit
I almost said, "A nice fanny"
and thought of some
I followed for a while, yet
I never fell in love with someone
because I liked walking
behind her, while I've chased
women whose smiles
excited me, teased me close
toward something
genuine, broad, bottomless
as desire, and Jane says,
"I like the smile, too;
besides, have you ever seen
a man with nice feet?" Soon
all the bodies, shitfaced
at deer camp, give way
to sleep and forgiveness
and the various boundaries
of our delight.

In the morning's fresh light
the stags will bound
toward the sky and some will not come down
as men pretend themselves
to leaves and burst
with fire, while I,
no gunman, keep long as I can
to my night's dream, this time
of Emily Dickinson, who leads me
to a small room
where she reads a poem
I've not heard before
of death and life in one
breath, and there
I throw myself at Emily's feet,
at an ankle
alone and too long sad
where I kiss her round moment
of bone, its poetry, her small
alabaster moon, and how
it shines, how it smiles,
how in light steps it gives
shape to one more
distant, tideless
landscape.

Product Details

• Paperback: 94 pages
• Publisher: New Rivers Press (October 1, 1996)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 089823171X
• ISBN-13: 978-0898231717
• Product Dimensions: 8.9 x 6 x 0.3 inches
• Shipping Weight: 6.4 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #4,593,513 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

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