Poetry: Selections from Christopher Kuhl

What Genius Invented Love?

 

God, with his ten thousand names,

created the world. He knows all things.

 

But who was the genius who invented

love, in all its hundred thousand ways?

 

Whatever, whoever they are, they join,

retreat, join, retreat, separate, and come

 

together. And they live in the twilight

green of leaves and the pale blue,

 

cerulean blue, righteous blue of earth

and sky. And they are not afraid of anything;

 

they have made, and continue to make, whatever

gives them pleasure. What more could they ask?

Jesus Amidst the Pines

 

Pine cones gathered from

the pines on the edge of

an ancient lake,

 

a lake as old in its wild life

as Jesus,

 

Jesus, dark, Rastafarian, with

the pine trees and cones

and wild lake,

 

dressed in jeans and flannel

shirt, a necklace of little tree

treasures,

 

garnered from trees humming

at his birth,

 

yet destined to live thousands

of years longer. But now, they, too,

are threatened by men with chain saws,

 

chain saws that will crucify them,

crucify them: the Crucifixion

is never forgotten, and the trees

 

are always chanting it and then,

in spite of the threat they, too, face,

they burst out with

 

leafy joy at the Second Coming,

 

the Second Coming, living now

amidst them, the towering trees and their

giant boles,

 

beside the ancient, wild, holy water.

Storm Moments

 

Hail. Thunder rain. Rivers overflowing

their banks. Ninety-mile-an-hour winds.

Flash floods swallowing shores, leaving

roads overwhelmed with shattered trees.

My days

 

were laid out for me even before I

was born. And so I went out into

the storm, into trees cracking and

sheets of lightning firing. Was

 

this my end? In a moment I was

knocked down by tornadic winds,

and drenched with rain. I laughed

with a fearless joy. This was not

my time or place.

Maximum Security

 

I want a lined notebook.

I want pockets full of

gel pens, a box full of

manuscripts,

 

and a shelf full of books.

I’m a writer: I want everything,

including cigarettes,

and coffee. I want a

 

bottle of Jameson and a

shot glass, to celebrate

when I finally get something

right.

 

I want a window to look

out of, watching squirrels

run up and down, chasing

each other

 

among the trees. I want

to write about squirrels. I

want everything without

which I cannot write.

 

This is terrible: I am not

in control, free; I am owned

by the things I think I need,

including this poem.

 

I want everything. Everything.

All of it.

The Last Exit

 

Beyond the last exit, I hike

the rise to the west, and witness

the old growth, new cuts, the blight

 

that ripened the trees for the chain saws

wielded by those dealing in lumber. Hug

a tree? Nope. Not these guys: money

maybe, but not old-growth forests.

 

But suddenly a storm comes up,

bringing their work to a halt, and the mud

starts its run down the hillsides, sweeping

away everything and everyone in its path:

 

there are no trees left to stop it. And now

all of it—clear-cutting, mudslides, even

the storm—is over. At sunset,

 

the sky crimsons out, the clouds carry

orange, pink, even gray: the leftovers

of a western storm. Awareness courses

through what is left us,

 

slow and certain as death, slow and

certain as death. Slow, slow and certain.

This is the last, the final exit.

Christopher Kuhl earned a bachelor’s degree in philosophy and one in music composition, as well as two masters of music degrees and a PhD in Interdisciplinary Arts. He taught English at the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy. He enjoys reading a wide array of literature, as well as philosophy and history. His other interests include studying higher mathematics and classical Greek and Hebrew, as well as drawing and painting with acrylics. He is never bored.