White Doe
by John Repp
Sleet driving down,
the white doe browses
in my rented field.
I take a step
& she bolts up the hill.
__________
The buttery funk
of my morning beard,
the coppery tang
of my morning fear.
__________
Out there, nothing
but wind shivering
the five leaves left
on the maple.
In here, dread
of the phone,
a friend’s joke,
the power
shutting off,
the next
step. Forget
reasons. Too many
explanations.
__________
A Zen master named Joko
calls fear paradise.
Same with all the others.
Goddamned Zen.
__________
I prefer grief,
which drives you
to your knees when
& where it wants.
None of this
rodent nibbling.
__________
“I prefer”!
Thick snow blows.
The wind’s gaping mouth.
Childhood blanket
for heat, two candles
for light, fog
from my nostrils.
__________
Snow to my hips,
I wade to the barn.
Near the willows, the white doe
swivels her head to whiff.
No wind, razor-cold dusk,
I stand breathing.
She bends to feed,
muzzle rooting in the drift.
John Repp is the author of two books of poetry and several limited-edition chapbooks of poetry and fiction. He received the 2003 Lyre Prize from Cherry Grove Collections, the 2003 Editors’ Prize from Rhino, and an NEA Creative Writing fellowship in poetry. He teaches English at Edinboro University of Pennsylvania.
John
Repp
White Doe
Paper,
perfect bound, 40 pp
$8.50 plus s&h
2004, ISBN 0-932412-27-0
In these musical poems, John Repp's Zen eye and moral sensibility transform the landscape of American home places and human relationships.
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