Art Chowder November | December 2017, Issue 12 | Page 27

POET TIM GREENUP
By Karen Mobley
high school I was ceaselessly devoted to
poetry. I wasn’t. I continued to prioritize
music and friendship over writing and
reading. At some point in college, poetry
became a more significant part of my life.
I began reading poetry, particularly Dean
Young, Mark Levine, and Erin Belieu, who
all had an edginess that attracted me.
Because I’ve always been interested in
music, I like hearing poetry read aloud.
Spokane is such a great city for poetry;
you can attend a reading nearly every night
of the week. There’s also a great podcast
called Essential American Poets that pro-
files famous American poets and features
audio of them reading their work. You can
also find some good readings on YouTube.
I don’t know how many times I’ve watched
the video of John Berryman reading Dream
Song 14.”
Darkness and anguish live side by side with
humor and whimsy in Tim Greenup’s first
book, Without Warning, published in 2016
by Scablands Books. Founder of Scablands
Books and fiction writer, Sharma Shields
said, “What strikes me most about Without
Warning is what a funny, surprising, even
laugh-out-loud take it is on real, painful, to-
the-bone grief. If you know Tim, then you
know what a sharp, observational, funny
guy he is, and these poems contain all of his
depth and humor. He captures the illogical
and time-collapsing elements of profound
change (and abrupt loss) in such a striking
way. One moment you’ll be laughing out
loud, the next crying out in anguish. That
incredible range is one reason he’s such a
terrific poet.”
“Because he is so funny and likable, he
could easily be writing crowd-pleasers all
day long. But his register is so sharp—his
poems are subtle, devastating, strange,
discomforting, AND funny and likable—
sometimes all in the same poem,” said poet
Ellen Welker.
AT THE PARK
A pale boy holds a flower in his teeth
and makes shapes in the clouds—a candle,
the flame, an elephant searching for reason
in an unknowable universe. And the boy
thinks to himself, I deserve this respite
of bird call, warm grass, families walking past
in church clothes, though they haven’t gone in years,
though they sometimes pray alone at night. He uncrosses
his legs and stretches. He rubs the grass with his hands,
breathes evenly and deeply. He knows he is here,
peering into the sun, though he is also wandering
the many tools of his father’s musty garage
wondering what does what. He’s always there
somewhere with bread crust by the duck pond
while a tall tree reaches out
and greens the water for centuries
THE RUTABAGA
My neighbor appeared with a beer in hand.
I was on my knees pulling weeds.
The woman who used to live here
was a master gardener, he said,
and spit on the ground next to me.
A newt crawled across my gloved hand,
leaving a trail of slime. A spider soon followed.
Never a weed breached our property line,
never did a dark thought enter her brain,
take hold, and refuse to leave, my neighbor said.
Until she killed herself, I said, pointing to the garage.
That never happened, he said.
In one fluid motion,
I pulled her hacked-off head from the dirt,
stood, and began shaking it in his face.
Then explain this, I said.
That is a rutabaga, plain and simple.
I twisted the head around.
I stared into its empty sunken eyes
and began suddenly to understand;
this is a rutabaga.
November | December 2017
27