Spring Peepers

I heard the first spring peepers
the night after
_______ got put
in the psyche ward
at Cooley-dick

Somehow those little frogs
didn't get the news
that life has a hard edge,
somehow those little frogs
kept singing


-Jim DuBois
April 2, 1998

Watching The Frightened Men

At the Roost,
watching the frightened men
whose relationships
are mediated
by alcohol and women.


-Jim DuBois
April 9, 2011

At Least

At least
there's people
downtown.

At least
there's people
at The Roost.

At least
there's a chance
of human contact.


-Jim DuBois
March 30, 2011

I've Been Struggling Lately

Sitting at the Roost
in the middle of the day
feels so desolate,
but much less than
sitting on a stone stoop
on market street,
wishing for friends.

But then I glanced
at someone's laptop
and discovered they
were playing
Settlers of Catan online
and realized they were killing time too,
faking activity,
distracting themselves from desolation,
and it made me a little happier.

(Because I usually imagine
that everyone else
has lots of friends
and deep meaningful lives
and that I,
somehow,
was the only one who got screwed
out of those things)

And I won't let myself
end on that note,
because I have meaning in my life,
it's just that
I've been struggling lately,
like all humans
sometimes do.


-Jim DuBois
March 30, 2011

The Roost - #3

They're playing Madonna
at The Roost,
and I'm writing
and waiting for Phil.


-Jim
March 12, 2011

The Roost - #2

Sitting at The Roost,
wearing a spandex shirt
I inherited from
a fairly recently deceased friend.

It's too short,
and when I reach,
I worry
everyone will see
my underwear.


-Jim
March 12, 2011

The Roost - #1

Sitting at the Roost,
pretending to be an intellectual,
or at least to be busy,
by writing thoughts in my notebook.

Sitting at the Roost,
wishing for more friends,
or at least for closer ones,
hoping to engage a human via technology.

Sitting at the Roost,
in the corner,
on the couch,
drinking tea
and writing,
to kill time,
or at least to try and enjoy it.


-Jim
March 12, 2011

A Certain Peace

The first time I remember
    walking down route 9
    by St. John's church
    in Northampton,

I had given up hope
    and was carrying
    a rolled up blanket
    and looking for a place
    to sleep.

I had given up hope
    of finding people
    of finding my way
    of finding a home,

but there was a certain peace
    that settled over me
    in that moment
    (maybe because
    I had stopped trying)
    and then Julian pulled up
    on the street
    (in Steve's british car
    he was borrowing without asking)
    and took me to stay
    at the Cummington Community
    for the Arts
    for a few days.

I remember wandering around
    up there,
    going into the weird little cabins
    (which I later learned were private),
    sitting in a field
    playing flute
    which echoed back nicely
    from the hills
    and imagining
    I was the long lost son
    of a woman I imagined
    lived in the little old house
    nearby.

I remember eating a lot of carrots
    and seeing Lauren's
    circular art cabin,
    with the hand-made walk,
    nestled in the edge
    of the woods.


Now it is nearly twenty years later
    and I am sitting on State street
    on the low stone wall
    by Edwards church
    and I am trying
    not to try
    and to give up hopes
    I have of other people,

and even though
    I've had insomnia recently
    and my best friend's husband
    died three months ago
    and we (including her three
    and a half year old son)
    haven't found our bearings yet,
    a certain peace
    has settled over me again
    and I am using it
    to relax,
        to remember,
            and to write.



-Jim DuBois
Nov 13, 2010

Faded

I.

I never thought
those times would
become faded

Or that my voice might be
the spectre of the past
calling out,
reminding you,
reminding me,
of something…

…something indistinct
but important,
locked away in memory,
in childhood,
in these faded photographs
of who we used to be
but can never be again.



II.

I never thought
those times would
become faded,
but these photographs
tell the true story,
that we weren’t who we
thought we were,
and we still aren’t,
and it’s only by a trick
of the mind
and avoidance of the sight of our old bad
hair cuts
that we convince ourselves
that nothing’s changed.



III.

Sometimes something
indistinct can tell us
more than something precise,
because what is essential
is dynamic and can’t be captured…

…we can only be reminded of it,
and experience it anew.

We have memories and feelings
about the past
but no more moments of it.



IV.

I look out the window,
watching the grey weather
quietly drop snow onto Northampton
as I write down some thoughts
that came to me
after looking at these old pictures.

I know that one day,
this moment will also fade,
this ink will disappear and
the paper crumble.

Until then
I just want to say:

We still have time
to be who we’ve
always been.



-Jim DuBois
2005?

Old Working Class Women

Old working class women,
smoking in the little park near the parking garage,
gossiping about this guy
who lives in their building -
they can't let each other finish their sentences,
they are agitated, but talkative and friendly.

Sometimes they wish they could afford
a better place to live.


-Jim DuBois
August 19, 2010

Everlasting

Old guy, reading the paper
at Stop & Shop,
"I'm one of those
everlasting survivors."

-Jim DuBois

Enough

Far enough
Wide enough
Long enough

enough

Expansive feeling of life
at the railroad bridge
over the Connecticut river


-Jim DuBois
April 14, 2010

Upon Opening My Kitchen Door

Upon opening my kitchen door
I see a strange chair
which startles me for a moment
and then I remember
in a rush
how we stole that chair
last night
on a date.


-Jim DuBois
July 15, 2007

Lessons

I remember
playing piano
onstage with Trevor
at Fire & Water^*.
I was reluctant because
I didn't know much
about playing piano.
People liked our song,
and afterwords
Trevor said,
"See, it didn't matter
how much you know,
you could still
entertain them."

I also remember
Attaboy^** giving me
a drawing lesson.
I brought
my pen and paper
to the cafe,
and he said,
"Ok. Now draw, man,
draw!"

Another time
I saw
some modern sculpture
and said
to my artist friend,
"I don't get it,
I coulda done that,"
and he said,
"Sure, but
the difference between
you and this guy
is that you didn't."

A few weeks ago
when I was having
an open studio
to sell my art,
Kathy told me
what her brother says
about pricing his art:
"Keep raising the price
until you get nauseaus
and then sometimes
double it."


-Jim DuBois
Feb 23, 2010

---

* Fire & Water was a cafe in Northampton, MA
** Attaboy is the name of a friend of mine who used to live in Northampton

Looking for Something

I remember many years ago
when I was browsing
in the consignment shop
down on Pleasant street.

It was grey and snowing outside,
and inside, me, one other browser
and the guy at the register
were the only ones there.

The other browser was a skinny guy
looking for some cheap boots or something.
I wanted some cool cheap shirts, probably,
and the guy at the register kept looking boredly out the window.

Then this girl came in
and we all felt a little happier,
because we were lonely
and our only way out was through girls.

She knew the guy at the register
and they talked for a little bit
and me and the other guy had to listen
because it was otherwise quiet in there.

She said she was having a lazy day,
a relaxed, lazy, snowy day,
and she had spent the morning in bed
playing Nintendo with her boyfriend.

And to me, and undoutedly to the other lonely fellows,
it was like the god we had always wished for,
but never believed in,
had sent a divine being,
a kind of benevolent angel,
to let us know that
somewhere, someone was happy
and not lonely
and that even though such a divine entity
was always going to be out of our reach
and we'd probably have hard struggles
with our separate desperations,
we should not give up hope.


-Jim DuBois
Jan 1, 2010

Sometimes

I put together another book of my poetry, which you can get online from a print on demand service. This is a larger collection of poems I wrote in the 1990s, and it covers a wide variety of themes, including love, spirituality, nature and space travel.

Sometimes - a collection of older poems

The World is Mine

I like to go downtown
get a 33 cent pad of paper
and $1 pen
and sit on a bench
and draw
and write
and feel like
    the world is mine


-Jim DuBois
Oct 22, 2009

Haircut

Haircut haircut haircut

sittin' at Tracey's wedding
thinkin' 'bout my haircut
it didn't come out how I wanted
but things don't always, anyways

I forgot a belt today,
and the flute playing didn't go how I thought -
which is neither good or bad,
just how it is

I thought I was losing hearing in one ear,
and worried about it a little,
but watched this little girl
bopping a balloon into the air
with her head
and she really wasn't worried,
just energetically bopping the balloon,
and it reminded me of this little dog
I saw once that ran all around energetically,
and maybe a little oddly,
and I didn't find out 'til later
that the dog was totally blind

The funny thing was it almost seemed to not know it was blind,
and it definitely didn't care
or get held back in any way about it
and I thought,
it's ok that I forgot that belt,
and I can live with this haircut,
'cuz hair keeps growing and changing anyways

And what is hair?
The beautiful uncut grass of heads...


-JIM DuBois
Aug 16, 2009

The Economy of Memory

I'm watching a sea of static on TV
    late at night

I'm talking to my girlfriend on the phone

I'm writing a poem
    and finishing it later

I'm living in a tent behind Hampshire College

I'm going nowhere

I'm standing on the balcony of F2,
    going nowhere

I'm living on Bridge Street in Northampton

I'm thinking about thinking

I'm thinking about memory

I'm taking off my shirt

I'm looking at the clock

I'm wondering how it will end
    and when it began

I'm floating, a tiny black-eyed fetus
    in amniotic fluid

I'm making notes for a future poem

I'm learning to write the alphabet
    by tracing sandpaper letters

I'm writing a story for the first time
    in my life

I am six

I am twenty-five

I am thirty-four

I'm telling her about myself

I'm using her attention
    to search through my memory,
    to reconstruct myself
    from different angles

I'm telling you about telling her

I'm remembering remembering



-Jim DuBois
Dec 13, 2003

Another Short Poem

Sittin' here,
doin' nothin',
it's all
Sun and Now
and Whatever

-Jim DuBois