The Banayn Review: Jim Benton, Winter, Issue 4

Jim Benton

Bio: 
Jim Benton taught English and creative writing in public high schools for almost 20 years in Oklahoma and Texas, helping his students win awards and scholarships for their poetry (not to mention scoring high on standardized writing tests). Eight times he took aspiring poets for an “experiment in living like poets”— 4-5 days in Santa Fe where they lived without electronics and sought out moments of poetry in ancient sites, frigid streams, mountain climbing, hiking, and sitting by the fire. They talked of life and poetry, read their works to each other, lived in community, and created chapbooks of their work on their return. In the years since he retired in 2010, he has devoted more time to writing his own poetry. Early in 2021 eleven of his poems will appear in We Carry the Fire, a non-fiction exploration of the spirituality of social activism by his former professor Richard A. Hoehn (New York: Church Publishing, Inc.).

Fisherman

Toes sinking into the littoral sand, he listens to the sea,keen to overhear the murky conversation of fish and tide,to spot a glimmer of numinous fin beneath obscuring waves.Espying the catch that calls him to the margin, he unfurlsa well-worn ragged net and casts it deep, joining selfto surf and all to all in the casting not the capture.
Though from the dark sometimes he drags a luminous glint,the celebration of connection is the prize he treasures,the reward that calls him over and again to the ever-shifting edgewhere light rises at dark’s retreat and dark reclaims it by its rise.Shadow and moment are his delight; transitory and liminal,his aspiration. He is a fisherman longing to be caught.
Carrying neither creel nor notepad, he trusts his empty net,the sand beneath his toes, and flush of sun to carry him home.At dawn, he watches the sun rise, turning his eyes to the west,where indigo night more quietly yields to day’s blue distance.The space between the stars catches his eye as surely as their twinkle,and in the brightest light of day he dances with his shadow.
His work is seeing in the dark — in light and shadow and shade —extending and inviting the rich connections of clambakes and fishfries,shrimp boils and seaside picnics, driftwood fires and rising sparks of laughter.His nets catch and release him to share the lambent links he sees below,to play the remote music he hears for all to dance and find their owndim uncertainties below the waves and rising into night.

The Hunting Season            After Ken Hada

Autumn,the killing season,season of mastery and command,the hunter is called to stalkand slay the slipping away of time,to master fearof shortening days, to stakeagain the ancient claimof dominionover every living thingbecause the looming winteris the hunter of us all.

Winter

Tree Stripperrips leaf and limb to bonereveals skeletal ice alone:silhouettes at dusk
Leaf Burnersmokes autumn’s kindling colorfirebroils green to red to gray to white:frost on ashes
Light Swallowerrises hungry in nightdevours portions of day as its right:early afternoon shadows
Destroyer of Lifesteals the dancing fluid forcestores lively energy as future source:frozen streambeds
Night Callerbeckons ghosts on moonlit windstrains jagged creaks from ice within:footprints in snow

Sometime During the Evolution of Species

If rats had genetically softened their coats	bunny rabbit cuddly	or striped them chipmunk cute,
If they had slowly fluffed their tails like squirrels	or lopped them off with a survival-of-the-fittest 	carving knife,
If they had learned to sit on their haunches	like sexless meerkats	or taught their progeny winsome	instead of furtive,
We would be tossing supposedly tasty crumbs	with faux-French names and fortified rodential nutrition	under dark low tables to feed them,
Gently lifting them onto our laps to stroke and snuffle,	and giving them clever names	like Nibbles and Whiskers.	Cats would be known	for the monsters they are,And no campaign to Save-the-Lions,	Cloud Leopards, or Iberian Lynx would gain	the slightest traction.
During the evolution of species,	if rats had more adorably adapted	to the rise of Homo sapiens,Their role in nursery rhymes and commerce	would be duly refined and augmented,	but they would not be nearly so likely	to survive our extinction.

On Seeing a Moth

She spirals upward, orbit decayingaround a single indoortracklight bulb, rises and fallsto dusty immolation,all too quickly disappearsinto my morningroutine.
Too long have I circled:rewind fast forward rewind,unmysterious murder mysteries,channel surfing, windowstoo long closed to wonderif moths and planets just outsidespiral upward all too quickly toward the sun.Too long have I failed to noticethe fragile holy temple, dust to dustof desiccated moth, the inner lightof once keen wonder swirlingall too easily downmy indoor plumbing.

Scissortail and Redbud

Flighty dandy,down from Oklahoma City,a scissor-tailed flycatcherbreezes in with a flourish,flashes his stunning white breastfor the gathering day.
On the arm of a Texas redbud,so close I smell his feathery cologne,he poses for the last shutterclickof paparazzo lens before the sun —then gone.
Rooted in scorched hardscrabble,rising from heat-sucking asphalt seas,the tree endures. Silent. Slow.Her shriveled leaves clutch their green,proffer scant shade.
Landscaped, ornamental,wed to the soil till death do part them,she nurtures life, holds insideimpossible magenta blossoms,never flies away.

On the Road to Waxahachie        December 21, 2008

On the road to Waxahachie, I look for signsof hope. A wind too warm for Christmasrustles dry broomweed. On flatbed haulerswhite limestone behemoths wrestedfrom unnumbered ancient seabed days,rumble toward new company headquarters.
On the road to Waxahachie — cement plants,puff-powdered clouds, white-winged poisonangels gather while angular flocks graze gray-shingledon a Midlothian hillside. Shameless city limit signscouple back to back, every field for sale,awaiting further developments.
On the road to Waxahachie, I loop arounda high school football stadium,scoreboard bigger than Dallas, subcontractedlight poles cracking — a concrete corridorof corruption, conspicuous consumption,and commerce too cold even for Texas
On the road to Waxahachie, I look for signs.Right lane closed ahead. Gun show coming.Blue sky browns at dusty edges;daylight yields to headlights. I can seeonly what I see.