Two Poems
Mark Blaeuer
Cedar Grove, 1982
“A crew of twelve from the Arkansas Archeological
Survey relocated 79 graves from a historic Black cemetery
threatened by revetment construction. Analysis dated all
graves to the period 1890 to 1927 when the cemetery was
covered by silt from a major flood. High frequencies of
degenerative joint disease on the adult skeletons suggest a
hard rigorous life style.”
—J.C. Rose, ed., Gone To A Better Land
Swollen with dead cows, televisions, whole
trees, the Red River slurried behind us.
One entropic principle—doom—stole
shoreline to Gulf of Mexico. That, plus
cottonmouths in black tarpaulined pits
after breakfast, cast the eidetic spell.
Our aims entirely straightforward, our transits
plumb, we meant science. That ephemeral
June (three weeks to spade, trowel, brush, analyze;
load in huge coffins our 79
pitiful bone piles) twelve pairs of eyes
ached, overseers to a hard design.
Land, time . . . gone over Jordan years ago,
my form a slender rampart against flow.
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Mark’s notes: “This poem was published at The Edge City Review, in 2002, and I included it in Fragments of a Nocturne. The field experience was arduous, but I’m honored to have been involved. An article with video about the project offers context: Cedar Grove Cemetery - Arkansas Archeological Survey.“
- - -
Case Hardened
The smith, an angry man is he. Repeatedly,
he pounds hot, red-hot, iron. The anvil must allow
a raw debility—a line of fathers—to
shape the odd ornaments, gate latches, ox shoes, toys
forged, or attempted once, for a coal-spotted boy.
If there persists a comfort in this heated show,
he won’t appreciate the irony of blow
and bellows yielding solace to cold memory.
The wife he’s nearly killed through welding hate
to all things gentle isn’t gone just yet.
She feels the old and new souls balancing
inside her body. Never let the sting
of evil interfere with good, she’ll say.
She and her son, and nascent daughter, stay.
- - -
Mark’s notes: “Measure printed this piece in 2014. The accompanying photo shows me on July 24, 1988, at
Bent’s Old Fort National Historic Site, in Colorado, where I endeavored to perform ‘living history.’ I was certainly no blacksmith, but I got pretty good at hammering square nails into existence. I’d pick one up with tongs while it glowed red, then plunge it into a wooden quenching tub, steam hissing, and finally place the newborn item (cold and still dripping water) into the hand of a child who’d been watching. The rest of the time, I’d tell visitors about the fort’s importance on the Santa Fe Trail during the 1830s and 1840s.”
- - -
Mark Blaeuer lives just south of Lofton, Arkansas. He was a ranger for many years at nearby Hot Springs National Park, and his M.A. is in Anthropology. His poems (and a few translations from Spanish) have appeared in 100+ magazines, such as Better Than Starbucks, Bindweed, The Borough, Ezra, Grand Little Things, The HyperTexts, Lighten Up Online, The Orchards, Passionfruit Review, Pulsebeat, Susurrus, Ultramarine Literary Review, and Wales Haiku Journal. His collections are Fragments of a Nocturne (Kelsay Books, 2014) and Surfacing Below (SurVision Books, 2025). He’s also written a couple of history books: Didn’t All the Indians Come Here? (Eastern National, 2007 [out of print]) and Baseball in Hot Springs (Arcadia Publishing, 2016).
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