KAI CARLSON-WEE
Corn Fires
Fields of junked cars. Fields of horses. Fields
of semi-trucks hollowed by time. It looks like
the reason you sailed beyond us, Nik. Riding
whatever was left in your veins. A ripple of heat
running out of the coals in the same way, spilling
the same dank spells on the air. The way smoke
finds your face when there’s no wind to blow it
away. The way bodies find other bodies impossible
not to touch. The way everything gets old, tired
of being what it is. And memory finds us constantly
changing the reasons—light pouring in through
the windows of death’s dark cathedral—infinity,
heroin, driftwood, ash. However you want to
explain it. The night I went back to the ballfields
in Dundas, standing alone in the emptiness there
(the marked yards, vacated bleachers) and took off
my shoes on the roof of your grave, as the flood-
lights went brighter, making that giant design more
complete, more lost in the purpose of duty. And
the reason these lyrics still stand in my mind, however
distorted by grief and time, by not understanding
the words. And the reason I’m wasting this weekend
without you, walking around on these backcountry
roads, going nowhere, watching the corn fires fade
to a heatwave, burn to a black carpet, to shriveled
hairs crushed to a fine nothing, a powdered ash,
a peeling of smoke rising up from my bootsoles.
Doing a little dance, stabbing a stick in the ground.
of semi-trucks hollowed by time. It looks like
the reason you sailed beyond us, Nik. Riding
whatever was left in your veins. A ripple of heat
running out of the coals in the same way, spilling
the same dank spells on the air. The way smoke
finds your face when there’s no wind to blow it
away. The way bodies find other bodies impossible
not to touch. The way everything gets old, tired
of being what it is. And memory finds us constantly
changing the reasons—light pouring in through
the windows of death’s dark cathedral—infinity,
heroin, driftwood, ash. However you want to
explain it. The night I went back to the ballfields
in Dundas, standing alone in the emptiness there
(the marked yards, vacated bleachers) and took off
my shoes on the roof of your grave, as the flood-
lights went brighter, making that giant design more
complete, more lost in the purpose of duty. And
the reason these lyrics still stand in my mind, however
distorted by grief and time, by not understanding
the words. And the reason I’m wasting this weekend
without you, walking around on these backcountry
roads, going nowhere, watching the corn fires fade
to a heatwave, burn to a black carpet, to shriveled
hairs crushed to a fine nothing, a powdered ash,
a peeling of smoke rising up from my bootsoles.
Doing a little dance, stabbing a stick in the ground.
What an interesting poem. I looked up information about Kai Carlson-Wee and I think we could be friends. He seems like a very cool guy--professional roller-blader, sufer...Very cool!
At the beginning of the poem we are introduced to Nik and I feel like he has passed on because of some drug--maybe addiction, maybe an overdose. But I feel like line 3-4 gives us a lot of evidence for this, "Riding / whatever was left in your veins." and the mention of heroin later on.
"A ripple of heat / running out of the coals in the same way, spilling / the same dank spells on the air. The way smoke / finds your face when there's no wind to blow it / away." These lines have amazing images. I love the "dank spells on the air" and "The way smoke finds your face when there's no wind to blow it." I can see this second one and "dank" just illicits so many smells. It's like when you go camping (not that I go camping that often, but) and the smoke from the dying-down fire follows you around even when the wind isn't blowing. My wife says the smoke follows beauty.
He says that "bodies find other bodies impossible / not to touch." I teach Freshman English and I can confirm this fact. No, but I do believe that it is impossible not to touch the people around you. Or the environment around you for that matter. Because we can think for ourselves we effect everything and everyone around us even if we aren't aware of it.
The poem turns in line 14 and now the speaker of the poem is standing on a grave, I assume that it is Nik's grave--another hint that he died. And the speaker begins this beautiful list: "And the reason I'm wasting this weekend / without you, walking around on these backcountry / roads, going nowhere, watching the corn fires fade / to a heatwave, burn to a black carpet, to shriveled / hairs crushed to a fine nothing, a powdered ash, / a peeling of smoke rising up from my bootsoles. / Doing a little dance, stabbing a stick in the ground." It is like a pan down in a movie. We start with this huge scene, which then pans down to a corn field on fire, then a man walking/dancing, then smoke rising from his boots. This focus leads us to the image of the speaker doing a "little dance" and "stabbing a stick in the ground." These corn fields burning up I believe is symbolic of the speakers friend--wasting his life, burning himself up with drugs, and then the speaker wants to mark his friends passing in a way that makes sense to him. This stick in the ground isn't so much for the friend, it isn't meaningful to the dead, but it helps the speaker make meaning of his friends death.
This poem is an absolute beauty. Very insightful.
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