July 2016

by John Gifford

It was the final day of the 1989 Tour de France, and French rider and race leader, Laurent Fignon, sat in the start house at the head of the course, straddling his Raleigh, preparing himself for the 24-kilometer (15-mile) time trial that would take him from Versailles to Paris: his hometown, and, on this hot July day, the sporting capital of the world. Dropping his gaze, strands of his long, blond hair fell from his head, radiating out like spokes from a hub and shielding his face from the reporters’ cameras. After three weeks and over 2,000 miles, it had come down to this final stage. The race was Fignon’s to win or lose. What was he thinking? Was he contemplating his strategy? The painful saddle sore he’d acquired in the Alps just a few days earlier? The 50-second advantage he held over American Greg LeMond, whom had just departed the start house ahead of him? Perhaps he was imagining the taste of the champagne he’d sip later that evening, after claiming his third Tour de France victory.

As the Tour’s leader, Fignon had the privilege of starting last and he’d elected to have time splits relayed to him during the race to keep him apprised of his performance. And in what would prove to be perhaps the most momentous decision of his career, the Frenchman declined to have his bike outfitted with aerodynamic handlebars, which LeMond was using today, just as he had a couple weeks earlier, when he’d won the Stage 5 individual time trial. Nor, for that matter, did he elect to wear a helmet, as LeMond and many of the other riders had — a choice less about practicality, perhaps, than vanity. Fignon had a blond ponytail which would flap in the breeze as he made his way onto the Champs Elysees in front of, not only tens of thousands of spectators lining the Paris streets, but also three billion television viewers around the world who were watching what had turned out to be the most exciting Tour de France in recent memory, and, one that, in less than 30 short minutes, would deliver the closest finish in its long history.

At last, Fignon sat up in the saddle and clipped his shoes into the pedals. Now clutching the handlebars, he took a deep breath and exhaled, listening as the official counted down the final five seconds. Cinq! Quatre! Trois! Deux! Un! Then the clock beeped and the crowd roared as Fignon — already a two-time Tour de France champion and the country’s greatest hope to win the 1989 event — rolled out of the start house wearing the maillot jaune of the race leader, his brown legs turning a massive gear, his blond ponytail flapping in the wind as he made his way through the frenetic streets of Versailles, toward Paris, and history.

At the 5-kilometer mark Fignon’s longtime coach, Cyrille Guimard, told his star rider that he’d lost 10 seconds to LeMond. Fignon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Mild panic set in. He pedaled faster.

***

I stood among a small crowd that day, watching the race from inside a sporting goods store in a Carlsbad, California shopping mall. I was 19 years old and a passionate cyclist who hoped to one day turn professional and ride in the Tour de France. Six years earlier, I’d watched Fignon win the 1983 Tour and I was thrilled to see him competing for a third title today after winning the Giro d’Italia (Tour of Italy) only the month before. Like my father, I was heavily involved in bicycle racing. But whereas his favorite rider was Bernard Hinault, the famous Frenchman and five-time Tour de France champion, who was nicknamed “The Badger” for his unrelenting tenacity, Fignon was my hero and I cheered for him now, even as the others rooted for LeMond, America’s best rider. It was easy to understand why. LeMond was a nice guy. He was always smiling and willing to talk to the press. The French loved him because he was fluent in their language. Fans around the world admired him because he gave them hope. After surviving a hunting accident only a few years earlier, and now vying for the Tour de France title, with residual shotgun pellets still imbedded in his body, he seemed to suggest that anything was possible. Watching him sail along the streets at 34 miles-per-hour, hunched over the aerodynamic handlebars in an efficient, wind-cheating posture, he reminded me of Superman.

Fignon exuded a different kind of charisma. With his wire-rimmed spectacles and thin, blond hair, he was the most unique and interesting rider in the peloton, as far as I was concerned. The other riders had nicknamed him “The Professor,” not only for the eyeglasses he wore, but also for the fact that Fignon was one of the few riders in the peloton to have completed his baccalaureate exams. After winning the Tour de France in 1983 and 1984, he was one of cycling’s biggest stars, and yet he shunned reporters and cameras. When he did give an interview, he appeared guarded and mysterious. I wanted to know what he was thinking, and he gave the impression he didn’t want you to know. He was aloof. He was distant. His responses to questions were often witty quips. I liked that. He had an appetite for Stephen King novels. I liked that, too.

What many reporters and fans disliked about him was his arrogance. After his 1983 Tour victory, Fignon traded his Renault for a Ferrari. “Everyone drives one of these!” he said with a sniff, much to the dismay of the French who were discovering that, in Fignon, they had a hero they could not afford, nor tolerate. He threw water bottles at reporters, spat at cameras, and generally allowed the world to see him at his absolute worst. Still, I liked him. Fignon seemed to go at his pace and do things his way, something I’ve always tried to do.

Mostly, I admired Fignon for his ability on the bike, and for his graceful, flowing style, which, unfortunately, wasn’t apparent on the final day of the 1989 Tour de France. I assumed the saddle sores were tormenting him. Still, he was a brilliant tactician and I had confidence he could hold on to the lead, especially given the final stage’s short, 15-mile course. Having begun the day with a 50-second advantage over LeMond, it seemed reasonable that he would win, even if the American turned in a brilliant performance. I think everyone expected this, because when the Frenchman crossed the finish line that day, collapsing and falling to the ground, reeling in the reality of his defeat, the cameramen mobbed him while the television announcers exclaimed — never mind that Greg LeMond had just made what may have been the greatest comeback in sports history — “Laurent Fignon has lost the Tour de France!”

The loss would haunt him the rest of his life.

***

It was a crash that heralded the end of my cycling career. While out on a training ride one day I overlapped another rider’s back wheel. I remember looking down at my front wheel veering into the other wheel and knowing I was going to go down. A moment later I was sliding across the highway, feeling the pavement peeling away the skin on my knees and elbows, and burning a hole into my chin. Fortunately, I’d been wearing a helmet, though the crash had still knocked me out for an instant. I don’t remember falling or hitting the ground; I only remember overlapping the other wheel, and the sight of a distant car approaching as I slid across the highway on the side of my face.

I was out of commission for several days. I couldn’t walk or drive my car. I didn’t ride my bike again for weeks, and when I finally did, I began to realize I was never going to become a professional road racer. Whereas I’d once been fearless on my bike, now, riding at high speeds unnerved me and I was afraid of crashing. I might have overcome this setback — rather quickly, even — but my day job prevented me from spending more time in the saddle. Time I needed to reacquaint myself with high speeds, and to put in many miles on the road. Time I didn’t have. Time I spent, instead, at the office.

It simply wasn’t going to happen for me, and as frustrating as this was, I had to accept it.

Eventually, I sold my bike and took up running. It was a sport I loved, and still do, for its inherent simplicity. Not only this, but running shoes are much less expensive than a racing bicycle. And I can get a great workout in 45 minutes — the same amount of time it used to take me to warm up before a long bike ride.

***

Fignon always considered himself a winner. And he was. In addition to his two Tour de France victories, he won the French National Championship in 1984, the Giro d’Italia in 1989 — after losing this same race on the very last stage only five years before — and was twice winner of the Milan-San Remo classic (1988 and 1989), to name a few of his accomplishments. As his team’s leader — Fignon rode for the Renault, Système U, Super U, and Castorama cycling teams before spending the final two years of his career as co-captain and mentor to the rising Italian star, Gianni Bugno, on the Gatorade-Chateau d’Ax squad — he was often expected to allow his teammates to win smaller, less prestigious races. Instead, especially during his prime years in the mid- to late-1980s, Fignon rode in these races to win, preferring to bask in the glory himself.

When his teammates complained that he was too quiet, that he never discussed his personal life with anyone, Fignon said, “They are paid to ride for me, not be my friends.” He once commented that his combative nature was essential to him being able to compete at such a high level, an attitude reflected, perhaps, in the Federation of International Cycling Professionals (FICP) rankings. In 1989, the year he lost the Tour de France by eight seconds to Greg LeMond, the year the press awarded him the Prix Citron (Lemon Prize) for his rudeness during the Tour, Fignon was the world’s No. 1 rider.

By virtue of his previous Tour de France wins, and all-around talent, he was a star and allowed to do things his way. Things like climbing off his bike, ducking into the team car and abandoning a race if he started poorly or if the weather conditions were not to his liking. Others might criticize him, but Fignon always found a way to come back and contend for another victory. As a professional, he knew the exact conditions necessary for him to have the best chance of winning, and, in the absence of such criteria, he had no problem waiting for the next race, and favorable conditions.

This attitude helped teach me the importance of listening to my own body, that I didn’t have to train if I felt tired, that it was okay if I didn’t want to run in cold weather. While I haven’t always enjoyed the luxury of deciding when and how I’ll train, now that I do, I’m reminded that a champion knows when to compete and when to rest.

In my own athletic endeavors, from racing bikes to running, I have always remembered Fignon, his temperamental personality and the competitiveness he displayed throughout his career. While serving in the Marine Corps, I ran 20 miles or more every week. As enthusiastic as I was about competition, I entered races and sometimes won them. Much of my semiannual performance reviews were based on my Physical Fitness Tests (PFTs), which consisted of a 3-mile run, 20 pull-ups, and 80 sit-ups within a two-minute period. These reviews were actually competitions, with accolades and bragging rights going to the winner. I trained for them like someone obsessed, usually finishing at or near the top of my company. Everyone who knew me regarded me as a model Marine, both for my work ethic and for my physical fitness — qualities I’ve tried to carry into civilian life and middle age.

I still run, primarily for enjoyment, but also for the health and psychological benefits it brings. Going out on a hot summer day and putting in five miles is one of the most invigorating and cleansing things I know of. Often, I’ll think of Fignon and what others must have thought at seeing him ride by, his blond ponytail streaming out behind him, so cultured and debonair, and yet always willing to attack and compete for the win. When I see another runner up ahead, something in me changes and I find myself turning the situation into a race. Maybe it’s a way of briefly reliving my athletic prime, or perhaps it’s only a test to find out how much gas I’ve left in the tank. Regardless, I give it everything I have to catch and pass the other runner. Even more motivating is spotting another runner behind me. This forces me to push myself, to increase my speed and focus on my form to ensure he doesn’t catch me — because I tell myself that’s exactly what he’s trying to do. This is as much a mental challenge as a physical one, and it’s a game I recall playing during my cycling days, when I would put my head down and push a big gear, trying to establish a steady rhythm to put as much distance as possible between myself and my nearest competitor. As I pedaled, I would try to emulate Fignon, even his facial gestures. I grimaced. I squinted. I even forced myself to smile while ascending steep hills. Though my legs and lungs were burning, I persevered, knowing it would certainly demoralize my opponents to see me smiling while they, too, were suffering.

***

In the years since the 1989 Tour de France, it’s been proposed time and time again that, had Fignon simply used aerodynamic handlebars that day, as LeMond did, he would have won the race. Granted, at the time, these strange triathlon handlebars were still a novelty in the European peloton. And because of the obvious aerodynamic — and time saving — advantages they afforded, they were also controversial. But they worked for LeMond, who demonstrated just how much more efficient they were than Fignon’s handlebars, which forced him to scoop air like a sail, slowing him, costing him the race.

It has also been proposed that, had Fignon worn an aerodynamic helmet, as LeMond did, he would have won the Tour de France.

Some have dared to suggest that Fignon could have won the Tour simply by cutting off his wind-catching ponytail. But of all three scenarios, this was certainly the least likely. After all, if there is anything the French expect of their champions, it is panache, the concept of verve, style, flamboyance. When one wears the maillot jaune, they believe, this person, above all others, must ride with panache. For the French, it’s a matter of style and pride. And dignity. Fignon understood this, perhaps better than any other rider in the 1989 Tour de France. And he upheld this concept to the best of his considerable abilities, which led to his defeat.

The French never forgave him for it.

***

Part of what intrigued me about Fignon was the Tour de France, itself: the world’s largest annual sporting event and, arguably, the greatest, covering over 2,000 miles in three weeks, attracting more than 10 million spectators along its route, fans who come out to see some of the most elite athletes in all of sports — athletes who race 100 miles or more during a single stage, burning up to 10,000 calories a day — push their bodies to limits humans were not designed to reach. The event is so arduous and demanding that teams groom their young riders, limiting their involvement to a select number of stages, sometimes for several years, before allowing them to complete an entire Tour. Which makes Fignon’s 1983 victory even more remarkable. It was his first time competing in the event and, at 22, he became the youngest rider in half a century to win it.

***

In 1987, after Greg LeMond’s near-fatal hunting accident, Fignon was the only European rider, outside LeMond’s own team, to send the American a get-well note.

***

Over the years, I lost track of Fignon. After I took up running, I no longer subscribed to the cycling papers which had once kept me informed about the sport, and I found myself less interested in following the Tour de France, probably because I no longer recognized any of the riders.

To my great surprise, however, some years ago, during graduate school, one of the students I tutored brought his physiology textbook into the writing lab one day. On the book’s cover was Fignon, a photo from his racing days. He sat on a treadmill in what looked like some kind of medical laboratory, his long, blond hair falling onto his bare chest, to which was connected all sorts of electronic devices to monitor his heart and lungs. There was even a tube fitted into his mouth to measure his maximum rate of oxygen consumption. Elite cyclists have always astounded scientists for their seemingly superhuman endurance capacities, and I suppose Fignon was at the top of this list for not only for his athletic abilities, but also his colorful character. He made you want to look at him and listen to what he might say next. And, like him or not, you respected him for what he could do on a bicycle.

By now (2010) we were well into the Internet age and Fignon had long since retired from professional cycling. Occasionally, something would remind me of him and one day it occurred to me that I could search the Web to find out what The Professor had been up to in recent years. I was elated to discover that he’d written an autobiography, We Were Young and Carefree, which had just been published in English and which I wasted no time in ordering. I was also shocked to learn that he had just died of cancer at the young age of 50.

It took several weeks to receive the book, which shipped from England. When it arrived, I read it in a few short days, fascinated by Fignon’s account of his life — before, during, and after his cycling career. But I was saddened by the pain he surely carried around with him in the years since the 1989 Tour de France. For the opening chapter of his book, which is entitled, “Eight Seconds,” begins with an epigraph:

“Ah. I remember you: you’re the guy who lost the Tour de France by eight seconds!”

“No, monsieur. I’m the guy who won the Tour twice.”

 

John Gifford is the author of the story collections, Wish You Were Here (Big Table, 2016) and Freeze Warning, which was named a finalist for the 2015 Press 53 Short Fiction Award. His work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Saturday Evening Post, Southwest Review, U.S. News and World Report, and elsewhere. He lives in Oklahoma.

Poetry talk and poems from Charles W. Brice

by Nicholas Reading

Charles W. Brice’s poems root us. They root us in the Wort Hotel, Jackson Hole, Wyoming while the speaker witnesses his parents’ violent argument. They root us in PGE Park for a triple A game between the Portland Beavers and the Tacoma Rainiers while a father and son, for five dollars a piece, reinforce bonds in a way that seems possible only at a baseball game. They root us in Walloon Lake and the Odawa Casino while three friends find a meal after a long hike. And through these places and events, Brice roots us in reflection, nostalgia, the importance of being still and listening. Family, friends, nuns and pitchers populate his poems and his subjects are brought to life and treated with compassion. His echoes range from Nietzsche to Robin Williams, from Elvis to Yeats. Brice’s new collection Flashcuts Out of Chaos (WordTech Editions, 2016) is an impressive and fresh look at the natural world around us and the world we inhabit naturally. The poems are finely crafted and provide a measured and valuable glimpse into the complexity of the human condition.

Brice was kind enough to take time out of a busy summer to field SL inquires. We cover his inspiration, love of sports, and Mario Lemieux’s broken puck. Warning, there are frightening, though heartfelt, accounts of nuns.

Nicholas Reading: What does poetry mean to you?
Charles W. Brice: Poetry names the unnameable. When I was in practice as a psychoanalyst, I often recommended poems to my patients when we, the patient and I, were having trouble articulating what he/she was going through. “Margaret Are You Grieving,” by Hopkins and “It May Not Always Be So; And I say,” by Cummings, were favorites. They both named the tremendously complicated field of loss that reduction to a few psychological shibboleths just wouldn’t cover.

NR: What does sport mean to you?
CWB: To me, sport is something, along with poetry, music, dance, that makes life worth living. The Penguins just won the Stanley Cup and all of Pittsburgh came together to celebrate. Sport is a way of connecting to people, something precious we have in common. Of course, my great friend, Jim Hutt is a big Sharks fan, so it can also be a means of lording a win over a good friend from now until eternity!

NR: Is the intersection between poetry and sports a natural one for you?
CWB: Absolutely. Especially when it comes to baseball. Everything about the game is poetic, from the way the pitcher addresses the mound to the “psychology” that goes on when there’s two out in the bottom of the ninth and the bases are loaded.

NR: Was a love of sports a common denominator in your house?
CWB: I lived the first 18 years of my life in Cheyenne, Wyoming. My dad was a great baseball fan. He drank too much and wasn’t exactly talkative, but we had good times watching the Game of the Week with Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reece. I used to love listening to Diz ruin the English language. In our house in Pittsburgh — when Ari was five, I responded to a flyer asking if I’d like our son to be in an under 6-year-old soccer league. I checked the “yes” box and the box that said I would volunteer to help the organization (which was just getting underway). I included a note that I didn’t know the difference between a golf ball and a soccer ball, but would be happy to answer the telephone, stuff envelops, etc… . I went on vacation and came back and got a call from my “assistant coach.” Thank god, my so called “assistant,” Bill Modoono, played soccer in college and knew the game. I was a coach for five years, until Ari became good enough to be on an all-star team. I loved every minute of it. So yes, sports have always been a big deal in the Brice family. Oh, one more thing: when Ari was 10 we got his mom, my wife, Judy, a present for Mother’s Day: a Spalding infielder’s mitt! Now, as I wrote in my poem, “The Game,” Judy thinks that a baseball game should last as long as it takes her to eat some ballpark food. So she is no great fan, but she was a terrific sport. We spent a good part of Mother’s Day playing catch!

The Game

Twenty-one years of Ariel beam
from under a baseball cap. “We’re going
to the game tonight,” he says,
“The Portland Beavers Vs. The Tacoma Rainiers.”
He knows that I’ll love it
and apologizes to his mother
who thinks baseball should last
as long as it takes to eat a foot-long and fries.
Five dollars a piece that night to sit
behind home plate. It turns out that
the difference between triple A baseball
and the major leagues is 25 bucks a seat.
The scoreboard is hand operated:
no hits, no runs, and a bald head
where the errors should be.
It’s hair cut night! Ten barbers
stationed in PGE Park give fans
their choice of haircuts. A radio
announcer sits in the 20^th row,
swinging his arms over his head,
doing a Harry Caray imitation
during the 7^th inning stretch.
Arms around each other Ari and I sing,
“Take me out to the ball game.”
“I love you, dad,” he says.
I kiss his cheek, laugh out loud;
slap him on the back. I really
don’t care if I ever get back.

NR: Your poem, “The Game,” has so many interesting layers. On one level it seems to act as a metaphor for the current American consciousness. Triple A vs MLB. The haves and have-nots. And ultimately it is a poem about family and love. Can you speak to the ways in which sports unite us? About their importance to our communities? To us personally?
CWB: Sport ties us all together and makes for memories that will outlive all of us. The first time I took our son to a hockey game, he was five years old. In those days (31 years ago), I got tickets in the first row at the old Igloo for $20 apiece. At some point, Mario Lemieux scored his 17^th goal of the season. He broke the puck in the process. Yes, broke it! The ref took a look at Ari and me, skated over, and flipped that puck over the plexiglass and gave it to us. Ari still has that puck. At baseball games, no matter what age he was, Ari would talk and talk to me. We could talk about anything at a game. This is still true. He’ll tell his grandchildren about some of those games.

NR: In your house, what is it like when your team loses? When your team wins?
CWB: Big celebrations with wins, philosophical statements about another day when we lose.

NR: What opportunities do you see in using sport as the poem’s subject?
CWB: Sports just lend themselves to poetry. Anytime I can, I use sport as a subject. In the poems I’ve sent you, “Safe at Home” is about McCutchen and what a terrific athlete he is, but also about the fact that young African American males are in grave danger in our present society. “Blatherskites,” addresses identity, baseball, and the hypocrisy and confusion of modern psychoanalysis. All kinds of subjects are kicked off by contemplating the deeper meanings of sports.

NR: Your poem, “Three Blatherskites and You’re Out,” is a wonderful read. You write:

“So many struggle all their lives
to find themselves;
create and sustain
an identity.”

And the poem is introduced by a quote from Charlie Morton that reads, “…I’ve get to get my bread and butter back. That slider is what I am.” It would seem that your identities are intertwined. Can you talk about that poem a bit more and where you found the inspiration?
CWB: Ha! You are analyzing the analyst! I’d never noticed the fact that Charlie and I have the same first name! You have made me read my own poem differently now. I’d go with Charlie Morton’s assessment that his being is in his slider. You may have noticed from my other poems that I’m a Sartrean at heart (even though I make fun of him—I make fun of everyone and everything). I would go with CM’s feeling that he is what he does, or what he throws, in his case. We humans are never static or positional unless we are dead. We are always there, always throwing, always out ahead of ourselves. I am a poet so long as I write poems. Charlie is his slider until he throws a curve ball!

NR: Your poem, “My First Poetry Teacher,” which follows, is especially intriguing. The layers go from Cheyenne to Longfellow to . . . martyr? What did this first poetry teacher mean to you?

My First Poetry Teacher

If she liked you, Sister Humbert would
pull out her pen and draw a red check
mark on your cheek, grab that cheek
between thumb and forefinger, and
shake it back and forth until you screamed.

When you angered her she’d wrap fifteen
decades of rosary around your throat and tug,
or cold-cock you as she did Ronnie Davis
one frigid Cheyenne morning when he
pushed through a crowd of girls to get into our
classroom and its promised warmth.

She knocked Ronnie on his ass with a hard right
to the nose. People crossed themselves while
Ronnie rose up like some sixth grade god and
landed one to her gut. She fell like a huge
cottonwood strewn with Halloween toilet tissue.
The clangor of rosary beads when she hit the tile
made Hector’s fallen armor sound silent and inglorious.

She made us memorize poems that year.
Mine was Longfellow’s, “Excelsior!”
Some young Alpine buck climbed a
mountain pass even though a wise old
peasant warned him not to, and a maiden
offered him her breasts for a pillow, an
image that electrified my eleven year
mind. People crossed themselves, but they
found him dead in the snow the next day:
“There in the twilight, cold and gray,
lifeless but beautiful he lay,” was Longfellow’s
description, which also described Sister
Humbert’s Dominican habit, with its black
grotto hood and white scapular, and Ronnie’s
face as she led him away from us forever.

CWB: “My First Poetry Teacher” is a completely true story. Sr. Mary Humbert, OP, was my sixth grade teacher. I didn’t know it then, of course, but I’ve come to see her, and the vast majority of her colleagues (Dominican nuns), as some of the most disturbed, sadistic, and cruel people I’ve ever met. Clinically, she was a sadist through and through. She was also very stupid, as were most of the nuns that taught me. Stupid and mean: a horrible combination (cf. George W. Bush). I went on a road trip about 10 years ago with a friend of mine, Jim Hutt, who was also taught by Dominican nuns and who is also a psychologist. He felt, and I concurred, that we had been psychologically abused by those nuns. In my poem, “Burnt Offering,” I relate another true story of a nun, Sr. Silvester, slapping my friend Bill who, she was convinced, was smirking at her. He had been badly burned in the face over the summer and what she took as a smirk was his attempt to smile through scars. I have another poem, “Follow Me,” just accepted by Borfski Press, that recounts how, in second grade, our nun decided to dress a little boy named Pat in a girl’s pink dress, shoes, with a pink bow in his hair and force him to go out for recess where grades 1 through 5 had a wonderful time shaming him. This was for the sin of being talkative (what today we’d call ADD). You know, in Ireland, the priest molestation scandal metastasized to include nuns who had horribly mistreated mostly young pregnant women. I sometimes wish that some of these people could be held accountable in this country, but mostly I want to let it go. Sr. Humbert would mark us with pens, grab our cheeks and aggressively shake our mouths around. I’m sure now, clinically speaking, that she was getting sexual thrills by doing so. Not all the nuns were like that. There’s a poem in Flashcuts about Sr. Johanna who, along with Sr. Marie (both English teachers), inspired me to read good literature and to think. Sadly, these were the only two who were encouraging. In his heartfelt elegy, “In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” W. H. Auden wrote, “Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.” I can say that these mad nuns hurt me into poetry, and for that I’m grateful. They may have been sadistic dolts, but they were terrific muses!

NR: Spirituality, as it relates to the natural world, seems central to your sensibility. “Walking Townsend Road, Petoskey, Michigan,” is a good example. It is a poem that is driven by Buddhist tenants and also a Midwestern appreciation of nature. How did you find that intersection? And I dare ask, what is the importance of spirituality to the poet?

 

Walking Townsend Road, Petoskey, Michigan

One day it’s the red-twigged dogwoods
ringed by rag weed yellows and
chicory blues that clarify mind
and confirm insignificance.

Another day it’s the garter snake
whose crushed head reassures
and saddens, the long green body
pocked with purple checks
stretched out on the southbound lane,
the sheen of life still coats its skin,
its breath, now, of the expired world
where there is only awe.

Today, like Buddahs at sunset,
three sand hill cranes stand
on Billeau’s farm facing West,
enacting contrariness. Rusty
feathers hug their shoulders
like prayer robes,
as maples and ashes
ablaze in crimson and orange,
conduct cornstalk symphonies
in the dying autumn sun.

Against sunset’s gleam
it’s hard to tell, at first,
whether those cranes are deer
or birds or monks.
Their hunched silhouettes mark
the force of sun over meadow,
breeze over grass: a tyranny of calm
in this bloody, battle-fed, world.

CWB:  It’s wonderful that you picked up on the “spirituality” as it refers to the natural world in my poetry. That combination comes from the influence of Jim Harrison on my writing. I was lucky enough to know Jim and spend some time with him. He was a totally original American character. We once spent 15 minutes on the phone trying to understand what a dog’s thinking process was. We were especially intrigued by how smell was represented in the dog brain. Anyway, it was his fascination with the natural world and his respect for Native American spirituality that rubbed off on me. I am an atheist, so the spirituality to which I refer has to do with what Nietzsche or Sartre meant when they spoke of the human spirit. Nature presents us with something that is strictly beyond us. We are part of nature, but we’ll never capture its essence. Every time I walk down Townsend Road (which is near a cottage we have on Walloon Lake in Petoskey), I experience something new, something completely beyond me. It reminds me of one of Jim’s favorite sayings, “You can’t step in the same river even once.” On the other hand, I’m a big fan of Buddhism (there is no god in Buddhism—you can have one if you want, but in terms of the dogma, a god is not there). The idea that all we are is what we are in the moment makes us appreciate the moment. My idea in this poem was to capture a moment that I was present to, that lifted me out of myself.

NR: I’d love to hear about how you came to the title of your collection, Flashcuts Out of Chaos. Could you talk about how you transition between poems, subjects, and “scenes instantaneously, with no time for fade-in or fade-outs.”
CWB: So neat that you asked about the title. I had a number of titles before settling on Flashcuts: The Inverted World, and Chaosed in Love’s Love. The title comes from the last couple lines of my poem, “Fall, Up North.” I’d had another ending to that poem for months that was weak. I just didn’t like it, so I let the poem sit around for another few months. In the meantime I was writing a screenplay with my friend Ivan Rami and, of course, I was involved with all the screenwriting lingo. In our screenplay I wrote several scenes that were Fade Ins, Fade Outs, and several that were Flashcuts. A Flashcut is an instantaneous switching of one scene to another. I realized, when I went back to “Fall, Up North,” that much of life is an instantaneous switch from one event to the next, and that this walk that we were on was a flashcut out of the chaos of our lives. How many times in life are we involved in one thing, only to have something else completely take us into another realm—whether that be illness, the birth of a child, the death of a loved one, the publication of a book, or even a gorgeous sunset? Life is chaotic. For me it has no ultimate meaning. We must make meaning where we live: in the tiny scenes of our lives, that’s where we find the beauty, the splendor of existence.

Fall, Up North

Everything dying up here
is so alive. We walk
through a maple leaf blast,
the deep red explosion
coating us in color, anointing

our entry into gamboge
birch and aspen—
leaves lit as if from within.
No wonder our dog, Mugsi,
thinks they’re as energized

and happy as her tail.
Our neighbor, Jim, on
this morning walk with us,
points to a patch of myrtle
he’s planted that will creep,
if we live long enough,
towards our property.
Judy sits on a step

at the public access park,
and for the trillionth time
is flummoxed by the sun
beads bouncing across
Walloon Lake, its blue
liquid canvas conducting
the daytime lightshow.
We watch in reverence.

On the way back Judy
wants to turn right when
I know we should turn
left. Jim knows it, too,
and we watch as Judy
finally reads the road sign,
sighs, and says we should turn
left. Never undone, she declares
that Jim is right while I am wrong
(that’s forty years of marriage
in a song). Hungry,
at walk’s end, we decide on lunch
at the Odawa Casino. They
once owned all we just saw:
their leaves a bed for spring trillium,
their eyes the hues of autumn
identical to the land we love. Now

their ears the mind-numbing
clang of slot machines, their eyes
every color not known to nature.
We get the senior buffet special,
all you can eat for seven bucks apiece.
They’ve done a fine job with the casino,
the food is spectacular, Judy and Jim
eat the fish while I enjoy a steaming
bowl of bean and ham soup. Mugsi

waits asleep in the car. She dreams
of leaves that fly away from her
like the moths and butterflies
she loves to chase. I dream
that we four will take this walk
again, this flashcut out of chaos,
this path with all the right turns.

NR: SL is a journal devoted to “honest reflections on life’s leisurely diversions.” Many of your poems embody this philosophy. A walk through the woods and you consider mortality. These moments demand meaningful perspective. Can you speak to how those walks, those moments, influence your writing? Your life?
CWB: Poetry, like sport, lives in the details and awareness of the details makes life more worthwhile. A walk down Townsend Road in Michigan is enhanced because you start to notice all the details. The same happens when you notice how Melencon dances on both feet before going into his windup, or how Stargell pumped his bat before waiting for the pitch. If you pay attention to these details, the world is a brighter more vibrant place.

NR: Do you see any parallels between preparing for a game and preparing to write?
CWB: This is a great question! I’ve never thought about it. I guess the parallel for me is the anticipation: when I sit down to write a poem I really don’t know how it will end. Often the endings are very surprising. Sometimes the poem I thought I was writing is really about something else. The same happens when getting ready to watch a game, or even play a game: part of the excitement is not knowing how it’s going to end.

NR: Your collection, Flashcuts Out of Chaos, deals with family and relationships, politics and sports, the liminal and the metaphysical. Can you speak to the unique opportunities that poetry offers the author, and the reader, to communicate in new and authentic ways?
CWB: Poetry is a succinct form. Done correctly, it gathers vast amounts of experience, expression, and feeling into a very small space. Poetry is the only art form where each line, each word, becomes tremendously important and where stanza breaks become critical. Because of this, the communication value of poetry is tremendous. It packs a punch in each line, each stanza. This allows a tremendous amount of information to be communicated and allows the listener/reader to interact with the poem. Each poem becomes the reader’s poem.

NR: In the end, what value have sports brought to your life? To your writing?
CWB: I am who I am because I write and because I love sports. The bonds brought by both interests are tremendous. I don’t particularly care for football, but every season I, and three of my cronies, get together and go to a sports bar in the Burgh and watch the Stillers (yes, that’s how you must spell it). A friend’s daughter made us red baseball hats that read: Stiller Scholars. Of course, we hardly watch the game. We gab about our children and our careers and complain about our spouses, you know, the usual. I’ve already touched upon the wonderful memories and connections sport has brought between Judy, Ari, and me.

NR: This last question is broad, I know, but I expect your answer to be illuminating. What brought you to poetry? As a reader? As a writer?
CWB: What brought me to poetry? When I was 16, my mother bought me a portable Royal typewriter. For some reason I immediately began to write poems on it. I didn’t save any of them, but I enjoyed the writing. At that time, however, I was a drummer in a rock band, and later in a soul band, and my world was music. In senior year of high school we were allowed to bring in the poems of a writer we admired. This was in Sr. Marie’s English class. I have no memories of what poet I found, but one of the other students, a girl named Bonnie, brought in e. e. cummings. I was blown away and became a huge fan. The first poem I ever memorized was, “It May Not Always Be So; and I Say.” I wrote poems all through college, but stopped when I met my wife to be, Judith Alexander Brice. I read her poems, which were terrific, and decided that I had no talent. Judy, by the way, published a splendid book of poetry three years ago entitled, Renditions in a Palette (David Robert Books). So I didn’t write poems for 20 years. About 16 years ago I talked Judy into going to a writer’s conference in Michigan, the Walloon Writers’ Retreat. I wanted to be a novelist and short story writer. Again, the faculty there seemed to be much more interested in Judy’s poetry than my fiction. I met some incredible poets there: Maria Maziotti Gillan, Marie Howe, Dorianne Laux, Robert Fanning, M. L. Liebler, Tomas Lux, and others. In a workshop with Maria Gillan I wrote a poem, “The Game,” about going to a minor league baseball game with our son, Ariel. I just sort of tossed it off. I had sent a short story to the journal, “Barbaric Yawp,” and they turned it down. So, just for fun, I sent them “The Game.” They accepted it right away! While I kept writing stories, I started writing poetry in earnest. I have had tremendous success as a poet. My poetry has appeared in over 45 publications. I write poetry every day. It’s like breathing to me now.

Charles W. Brice is a recovering psychoanalyst. His first poetry collection, Flashcuts Out of Chaos, was published by WordTech Editions in June 2016. His poetry has appeared in The Atlanta Review, Avalon Literary Journal, The Paterson Literary Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Spitball, VerseWrights, The Writing Disorder, and elsewhere. He is an International Merit Award winner in the Atlanta Review’s Poetry 2015 International Poetry Competition, and his poem, “Wild Pitch,” was named one of the 75 best poems in Spitball magazine.

Nicholas Reading is the poetry editor of Sport Literate. He is the author of the chapbook The Party In Question (Burnside Review Press, 2007) and Love & Sundries (SplitLip Press, 2014). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Bat City Review, jubilat, Nimrod, Painted Bride Quarterly, and San Pedro River Review.