“This is beautiful country.”
John Brown commenting on the hills of Virginia riding to the gallows, sitting on his coffin.
My father sits outdoors enjoying an evening breeze off the Delta. I see only a red dot, the glow of his cigarette, and wonder if God was taking a cigarette break when a similar breeze wafted across Eden in the early days of creation. Dad’s attention is on a portable short wave -- the marine channel; scratchy sounds of men talking to other men about depths, fish, tides. His aluminum chair rocks softly on concrete meant for a gazebo that will never be built. It would hide the stars. The man is happy, knowing how to savor the smallest pleasure. His wife will speak ill of this about him to anyone, will say that he never does anything large, seldom proposes anything more than a ride in the Dodge on a Sunday afternoon. I have met other men like him, men content with the lot of their cracker-barrel lives. I imagine they recognize one another by sight; men who want no more than a simple meal, an afternoon nap, a second cup of coffee; men who, if they were to be shot at dawn would savor every puff of a final cigarette, the flash of the match, the soft light of first sun peeking one last time over ochre hills.
Judge’s comments:
While science confirms that reading builds empathy, I look at the world and meet “avid readers” with determined cruelty and I’m not always convinced. But then I read a poem that does it so well that it is hard even for my cynical nature to deny. “Small Pleasures” builds that empathy with its progression from the single father with his lit cigarette, to Eden, to the other men “content with the lot of their cracker-barrel lives.” Cracker-barrel lives! What a phrase! The final movement towards the end of life—a violent end in this poem—is met with the deep appreciation of the titular small pleasures in a way that is not overly saccharine or sentimental. I would place this poem in the same place as the work of the late poet, Jim Harrison (who is one of my favorite poets): down-to-earth, removed of artifice, and still haunting and beautiful. The poem is aided by the visual look of prose in that sense, like these salt-of-the-earth men, there is nothing flowery in its look though it has the precision of poetry. Additionally, this is a brilliant use of the epigraph—adding both haunting imagery and importance to the poem in a way that elevates what is already written, rather than distract from or overtake the poem. The use of epigraph is an artistic practice of its own, and it is wonderful to see it used so expertly here in the description provided with the quote.
Scott Dalgarno
Scott Dalgarno counts himself fortunate to have seen two of his poems in the January/February 2015 issue of APR, six poems in issues of The Yale Review from 2006 - 2017, one poem in The Antioch Review, one poem in The Bellevue Literary Review, two poems in Pilgrimage, plus other poems in America, Cagibi, and The Oregonian. He lives in Lake Oswego where he works for issues around peace and justice.