Poets on the Plains: On Grass Widow

On Grass Widow by J.V. Brummels
by Matt Mason
Nebraska State Poet emeritus

Hello, my name is Matt Mason, I am the State Poet of Nebraska, and I am here for Poets on the Plains.

Today, I’m reading and talking about Nebraska poet JV Brummels’ poem “Grass Widow.”

The poem is from JV’s book Book of Grass from Grizzly Media, which won the Nebraska Book Award for Poetry and is Brummels’ 4^th of his, so-far, 6 books of poetry.

Brummels was raised on a farm and later on a ranch and started a horseback cattle outfit. He also taught at Wayne State College in Nebraska, where he was instrumental in providing an environment that churned out a number of fine writers. He helped this by showing poetry as a living art that belonged not just in the college but in the bars, the restaurants, hotels, everywhere. And for that, Nebraska and Nebraska poets owe him a sizeable debt of gratitude.

But enough about JV Brummels, let’s let his own words introduce him:

Grass Widow

After a cool dry spring, the sun
finds a notch in the ozone
and burns through a lens of humidity.
Every pickup fishtails at every gravel corner.
Every driver knows the days are endless
but the season of getting it all done finite.

We adjust, change to fit the weather
the way over time an open wound
becomes a washed-out trace of scar,
and by the time the dry south wind is high
in the heavy heads of the cottonwoods
and my lip has shed its sunburn scab
I’m maybe ready to tell the story
I’ve tried to say so many times.
Maybe I’ve got my lip back.

And maybe all I can do is shuffle
the pieces and hold each shard
up to hot sunlight, hoping
for some vibration of recognition,
some whispered part of the whole truth.

A day this spring:
I drive south across two counties,
the wet-paint splatter of drizzle
on the four-lane enough to idle
the chemical rigs in miles of fields,
earth no longer turned, simply
sterilized for a new crop no one wants.

To a courthouse, monumental
above the fastfood arches
and cars lined up for coffee
and some egg and pigmeat sandwiches,
maybe some flash-fried potatoes.

Past deputies and metal detectors,
the new terrific security,
to stand beside this young mother
at her arraignment. Her men are gone,
the first to a new woman north of the river,
the next to the place junkies go in lieu of jail.

What’s behind it all? Some handy
farm or household chemicals
distilled and needled to the blood.
I witness her sign away her children.

The hanging judge harangues.
The silent reporter keeps it all in shorthand.
The marshal clasps his hands behind his back.
The present carries the weight of the past
like a heavy pistol high on the hip.

Back years: In the day
of zero tolerance and just say no,
thank you, I hold this woman
a girl no bigger than a whisper
on my lap while hand joins hand
joins hand as the joint is passed
around the kitchen table.

Back years again: WPA workers
finish pouring the counted tons
of concrete of this courthouse,
paint the halls and offices,
scatter ashtrays and spittoons
around the courtroom
where they’ll be handy
for snuffdippers like me.
And again: Just a meeting of two rivers,
some plank shacks on a mud street,
prostitutes waving from spindly balconies,
grass waving from the treeless hills above.

And somewhere anchored on that green sea
a young mother waits at a table in a soddy,
dust sifting on the fine-haired heads
of her toddling children, for a husband
gone after gold or the herds, his distant death
by drowning or bad horse or lightning bolt
bad news the wind is whispering.

This is a powerful poem. It starts in a way that reminds me of Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner, with a character introducing that he’s about to tell you a story, so you better settle down. It sets a mood right away and has the haunting lines which echoes throughout: “Every driver knows the days are endless/but the season of getting it all done finite.”

The poem meanders through the landscape of northern Nebraska, meanders through time. And what those things do to us and our relationships. It’s a gorgeous meditation.

As I mentioned, JV Brummels has 6 books of poetry, each one of them worth picking up.

This is Matt Mason; I am the Nebraska State Poet, based out Omaha.

POETS ON THE PLAINS HOST

Matt Mason served as the Nebraska State Poet from 2019-2024 and has run poetry workshops in Botswana, Romania, Nepal, and Belarus for the U.S. State Department. His poetry has appeared in The New York Times and Matt has received a Pushcart Prize as well as fellowships from the Academy of American Poets and the Nebraska Arts Council. His work can be found in Rattle, Poet Lore, Prairie Schooner, and in hundreds of other publications. Mason’s 5th book, Rock Stars, was published by Button Poetry in 2023. You can find more about Matt at https://midverse.com/

FEATURED POET

A writer and poet, J V Brummels lives in western Wayne County where his family runs a horseback cattle ranch. He holds a B.A. in psychology and English and a MA in creative writing from Syracuse University. He’s taught at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Wayne State College and in the New York State Poets-in-Schools Program. He’s served as editor for Nebraska Territory.  Honors include receiving an NEA Literature Fellowship; the Elkhorn Review Poetry Prize in 1987; and the Nebraska Book Award for Poetry (2008) for Book of Grass. His book Cheyenne Line and Other Poems was named one of the Nebraska 150 Book in 2017. A longtime professor at Wayne State College, he’s also written and published short fiction and a novel. For the last 20 years he’s served as publisher of Logan House, co-founded with Jim Reese, which specializes in contemporary American poetry. In 2006 he was named director of the newly created WSC Press. WPAFind more at https://www.facebook.com/people/JV-Brummels/100026536271624/