Poetry by Jake Lawson

Porchlight Prize in Poetry, Second Place

Jake Lawson is from Mooresburg Tennessee, and he an adjunct English instructor at East Tennessee State University. He is a carpenter, scholar, and writer of poetry and fiction. As a proud member of the Johnson City Poets Collective, he helps co-host monthly mic nights and poetry events. When not writing, his hobbies include flintknapping and playing music. His work can be found online and in print at Appalachian Places, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Town Creek Poetry, The Tennessee Voices anthology, Appalachian Journal, among others.

Ornithology

"My dreams often feature birds—these poems are from a collection I’m writing about the endangered and threatened bird species of my region in Appalachia. As a child, I wanted to be an ornithologist. The first poem is a dream."

Fantasie Impromptu

I dreamt of Keats sleeping outside
Fanny Brawne’s window,
just below cold sills of sweating panes,
shivering in complete abandon
of health and shelter. I remember that Keats,
in his youth, wanted to be a surgeon.

I dreamt of a garden
where dew collected on his lapels,
little bulbs of soft frost embroidering petunias
like droplets of icing—magnified delicate sweetness
found in microcosms: moisture in petals of lace,
brimful honeycups, a silver sheened clover
in patches of crabgrass—with awareness
of microscopic detail one learns from pain,
when logic and reason is not enough.

I dreamt he was a surgeon, I dreamt he was in a garden alone,
with details and fantasies to rescue him
from his own abandonment,
to ease him from his mother’s last embrace,
the unfair loss of his brother,
the irritable reaching for fact and closure—
his dreams asking questions of what outlasts life.

Maybe it’s the freedom found in birds at flight,
turning seasons, hypervigilant observations
of endless stars, the intricate mosaic of spring.
Beauty is fleeting, too, but there is infinitude
in awareness: the economy of a small room,
chaos of an unmade bed,
details of archetypes that do not change.

I dreamt he resigned to never miss the siren’s call,
to be grateful, complete, devoted, and watching all:
Keats waiting for Fanny to wake softly,
slide out of bed, stretch, and yawn.
She would draw back the curtains, open her window,
pull him out of the cold.

Before Dawn

Step on leaves, not branches,
never stir a stone, my father said—
we stalk the edges of black water.

A light gray film warms
over a void of woods,
catches our vapored breath.

He casts across, a whipping
pull of artificial lures over deep pockets
of fructified darkness.

The rock-shadows cast
glinting silver coins,
water rushes like static.

The branches stir as shadows lift.
We snap our slack with a hidden flick.
The Black-Crowned Night-Heron

was here long before we arrived.
A fin ripples the surface. He says,
If you see them, they’ve already seen you.

Understory

Suppose I hide
in early autumn’s lapping veins,
disappear in a mosaic
of rust-tones:

streaks of hot butterscotch wings,
golden old brown leather,
fox fur, red-tailed squirrel—
camouflage of Bachman’s Sparrow.

Somewhere, the bird fixes
to whistle its slow note,
which pulls a rapid-fire
of cadenced, soft,
foreign syllables.

If I wait long enough,
I’ll hear its call of resignation,
a farewell from hidden branches
and low growth.