The Turn of a River Rock
A ribbon of rippled silk runs the river’s length
where water touches shore. Hypnotic wavelets
caress your willing feet like heartbeats. You
don’t think to leave until deeper water calls.
You’ve heard of large rocks imprisoned in clay,
so you dive and turn a rock, unprepared
for life that’s there, or the certainty of death.
Tiny snails hold fast the underside; some
are crushed by the turning. Crawdads scurry,
unless an otter visited first; then a hundred
parts of death scatter in a silent cloud.
The startle makes you cling to the rock.
You can’t return it now. The crater begins
to fill with silt. The current is relentless.
How did you think it otherwise? Release,
and you’ll drift over roots brought down
in storms, over undulating grass, and clay
banks too slippery to stand. Mud is deeper
around the bend. Come November, come
weary salmon. All of this was here before
places had names. Whatever you’ve come
to fear, it did not stop your birth. Turn,
in a second fetal roll for shore. Cormorants,
black and urgent, fly low upstream at dusk.
A turtle slides off a log. Ducks settle
in reeds. The quickening heart is yours.
Geese, by hundreds, migrate in the night.
A cottonwood leans over the river.
| J.L. Cooper |
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levelheaded: The Turn of a River Rock
J.L. Cooper’s “The Turn of a River Rock” deserves to be heard. Go on, read it out loud to yourself or a pal. The poem follows no formal pattern of rhyme or meter. Instead, the unpredictable yet delicate variety of sounds creates a push and pull similar to water drawing onto a shoreline, receding into itself.
The first sentence is demonstrative of the how musical the poem can be: “A ribbon of rippled silk runs the river’s length / where water touches shore.” It’s easy to catch the alliteration of the “r” sounds in the words “ribbon,” “rippled,” “runs,” and “river’s.” The repetition of this constant sound at the beginning of words gives the first line energy, pushing the poem forward. Less obvious is the way the final “r” sound of “river’s” turns the music on its head, in essence pulling the “r” back into the line through the consonance at the end of the words “where,” “water” and “shore.” Push (pause on a line break) and pull.
Now, do we think Mr. Cooper was fully conscious of the way his poem’s “r” sounds magically mirror a river lapping against the shore? Hells to the no. But we do think his ear is tuned in to the rhythm of language and the subtleties of sound. We do think he had the ability to write a sentence that is a joy to hear. We also think reveling in the pleasure of sound is in itself a worthwhile pursuit of poetry.
While we believe calling attention to English as music is one of the poem’s aims, Cooper’s pleasant sounds also reveal some dark themes. There are “large rocks imprisoned in clay.” In contrast to the life underneath, there’s “the certainty of death.” Snails cling to the underside of the stone and “some / are crushed by the turning.” There are “roots brought down / in storms,” “banks too slippery to stand [on,]” and “weary salmon.”
The above images remind us that the world can be cruel and hazardous. And yet, hope remains. Migrating geese may be off to a better world, but here “A cottonwood leans over the river,” and that, friends, is miraculous. Sure, the plant might plummet into the river and be carried downstream, but how wonderful it is while it stands bent. Many treacherous parts, one beautiful song.
– The Editors
