Matthew Henningsen

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Four Stanzas on Old Things

Deep shadows of history fall
On pavements trodden well in
A white city on bluffs that look
Over such quiet hills. Of
 
Signs and patience. The cries
Of voices that refuse to be
Silenced by feet tapping down
Corridors we cannot find. Still,
 
They come and march and
Say what was once said as truth,
As wisdom beyond censure, beyond
Hands that grope, in the dark.
 
So come. So raise fists to dark
Skies that hold rain that cannot
Fall on songs that are spoken
Aloud…. always
Together.
​

A Poem Found Beneath a Tree

I like to think of it as
A king in a bed who
Never wakes up. A kiss
Good-night and then that is
All… slipping away in
 
The dead of night. A
King, once. Or
 
The lone splash of lines falling
Into cold mountain water that
Came from a frozen pond by
A mill that ground stone from
 
An old mine with loose, lean
Floor boards. So much
 
Time and memories of trains
On tracks that creep across
Mountain-sides that we cannot
Take anymore. Just the sound
 
Of birds in bushes and the
Soft rustling off of little pale
Forms that whisper of
 
Time in bottles that we float
Silently downstream.
​

The Late Director's Notes

Early Morning

Rudolph breaks eggs on
The radiator, grinning
At Jill.

      “She’ll never come.”

A severed hand sits on
The table, stirring
Jill’s instant juice.

      “Now. It’s time.”

A grasshopper raps
On a window.

Summer, 2 Years Earlier

“Why don’t we? Yes, it’s
A fine idea.”

      Three sweaty, stout men
      Push the red baby grand.

“Yes.”

      A shoeless foot taps
      On the cold tile floor.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Rudolph picks
Up the phone.

13 Minutes Before

The slim black cat
Laps at egg, hissing

At the noise coming
From the window.

Dusk, Late Winter

The guests arrive.

Rudolph, in another room,
Pours juice for Jill.

The guests arrive.
​

Ode to the Outlaw
               "Where have you gone my..."

Blessed be the outlaw the
Lone man lost, but
Found on mountains too
Wild, too free
To be tamed. This outlaw

This wild man wild
Like winds that blow
Through trees that cannot
Be found… somewhere, lost,
On the sides of distant
Peaks. This

Wanderer, this cowboy
Of plains and places
That cannot be found on
Any maps. Where the
Hawk sits. Where the stream falls
Down from snows that tumble
Down from skies which were dark once,
So long ago. This wanderer, this

Outlaw of songs that whisper
Through pines and that knock
On doors in mountain towns but
Once answered… once answered the

Door opens to aspen songs and
Freedom and winds that crest the
Hills and fall back to words sung once
So long ago… so long
Ago that I think of a man

Straightening a picture once and
Gazing back, gazing back with
Wild eyes of plains and mountains and
Nights spent by open fires beneath open
Stars that smelled of…

Rain of,
Such sublime, sweet,
Freedom?
​

John Brown

I wonder what he meant, among
Other things, by writing in
The past tense. He was
Still alive, still wild-
Eyed, but writing in
The past tense.

Did he know?

The pale moonlight.
The sudden nightmare of
Piercing church chimes that
Quake up a limp leg
Twisting round
And round…

An ashen tree,
In dead December.

Did he know? Man
Alive man so
Wild-eyed.

​Matthew Henningsen's profile
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A Poem Found in a Cave
            ~Discovered behind a stone in deep, barren dirt

Off on ancient ridges by
Falls that tumble down to
A hand that waves at
Me in the dark I
 
Seem to see walls in mist and
Gray men in suits tapping
Down alleys that I knew I could
Find once but lost
To a song sung on cold
 
Nights by fires that burn in
Deep canyon caves that we
Can only find by the bright
Lights of hands traced on
 
Ancient ridge walls. I…
 
Think so much of days in
Forests and feelings of running
Like a child lost…
 
In the dark.
​

Looking at Kandinsky, From Across
​the Room

Kandinsky seemed to know in
His later years, that all art,
The best, the brightest art,
Must be absolutely:
Incomprehensible. Must be:
Like a poem you write
About Kandinsky, in his later
Years.

This is not a poem.

More like an exercise, a
Studied set of stretches that
You take before a jog
Around a still lake where
You meet Kandinsky in
His later years.

This is not a…

Gabarus Bay

And it makes me think
Of Pontiac. Killed. At Cahokia.
Lone man wandering, returned…

That is not an ellipsis.
Rather a way of smelling sunshine
That cascades up
From bright fires on summer
Mornings on cool autumn
Evenings… Rather a way

Of umbrellas gyring across
Wet mountain patios
That back up to streets
Where motorcycles hum,
Where motorcycles hum down

Passes from towns
Where people wave hats
While driving golf balls out
From asphalt tees that hit
Old trees with… a clunk…

And, it all makes me think
Of Pontiac.

Instagram of a Lady

If you happened to hike up
This way, trekking from town,
That crouches over a crevasse
That tumbles to a stream
That swirls to a river
That churns to a sea where
Ships power off to ports
Where people come,
Pushing down from cloud-hung,
Distant hills. And,

If you happened to push
Through brambles and brakes
And if you gazed up at
A half-shuttered window you might see,
Reflected in watery glass:
A mute, stuffed nightingale perched
Next to open scissors that point
At a mound of beads, waxed -

While, with a face to a wall,
A lone figure, turns.

Bull Run

Again they flee through us,
Ash-smeared men, delirious
With fear, men of bright
White teeth glinting in

Scorching, dry July heat
That makes delicate ladies in pink
Petticoats sweat bullets that smear
And blear bulbous, top-hatted

Men, resplendent in red vests
That cling too tightly to
Fat arms with dirty nail tips
That point and poke and prod at

The wild men rushing through,
The wild men rushing through.
​

Mementos from the End of Time

              “… scraps of memory found in dull minds…” 

At the end of time, when 
The trees can no longer stand and 
Small birds fall 
Down from the pale sky, I 

Think I’ll take that barren path that 
Stretches out to the 
Forgotten, though calm, lake… 
And sit – 
And pick up little sharp rocks – 
Tossing them into 
The broken water. 

While the lone boat of a 
Lone man paddles off into 
The distance. So, 

This is the place I’ll be and 
Where you can find me, if 
You want. Look for 
The stick up against 
The hollow tree. The 
Golden time-watch inside. Or, 
Find me in the dirt on boot-soles 
Left warming beside slowly 
Dying fires. The letter left 
Unopened in the metal 
Mailbox… but waiting… 

Always waiting like the man seen 
Far ahead on a trail. His 
Back to us as he rounds a corner by 
A tree… but, somewhere, in 
The green thick of the trees he 
Waits, a walking stick 
In hand.

While an old, worn 
Book remains open and 
Hidden in a deep, quiet 
Cavern, somewhere…  ​
​

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