Guess what, friends?! We’re officially halfway to meeting our pre-order goal for Gina Hietpas’ forthcoming, debut poetry book, Terrain! Since we launched the pre-order campaign back in January, we’ve raised half our printing costs for the book! We are incredibly grateful for your show of support through pre-orders and social media love, and we’d like to say: Thank you, truly. This book would not be possible without your support, especially during this emotionally and financially taxing time.
We still have a few months left to go before publication, which is now set for September 10, 2020, and we’re hoping you, dear readers, will continue to support Gina’s work (and the press) by pre-ordering a copy of the book if you haven’t already. If you have, please consider sharing the pre-order information with folks you think would enjoy it.
In the meantime, here are a few poems from Terrain, by Gina Hietpas, to get you through this Monday morning.
Coyote Speaks to Me
by Gina Hietpas
So you want to know this place? Be up at dawn,
when first light brushes the sky beyond the grove
of madrones you call the seven sisters.
Don’t whine. Learn by exposing yourself
to the dark and cold.
I sleep in the blackberry tangle edging the hayfield,
my thorn fortress warmed by southern light.
Every fall, glossy fruit hangs outside my door. Breakfast.
There’s the pioneer orchard, trees gnarled,
apples like knobs, but I tell you – nothing like a feast
of field mice and fallen apples.
It’s a quick lope along the fence to the ravine.
Good mousing by the cedar posts
bunched with grass and ragged leaves.
Listen. The water, eighty feet below,
roars with yesterday’s rain.
Stick with me!
I’ll show you persistence and the art of pounce.
Watch me shrug off disappointment.
In solitude you learn your story.
Only then can you riff on the moon.
I Take My Chances with a Seasonal Man
by Gina Hietpas
There was a time, your green shirt ripe
with herring roe was pungent comfort.
You, gone again for the salmon run.
Me, city bred, newly wed
plunged into cold water living:
prime the pump, lime the privy, sliver kindling.
I polish the cook stove’s blue porcelain door,
such a fine Wedgewood,
tidy the drawers of the kitchen hutch,
first date receipts, errant buttons, string too short to save,
a clutch of mismatched dice.
Shake for luck and roll.
Stuck, I scour the sour whiff of mushrooms,
grey decay crouched in corners.
I must not cower.
Alone. Trim the wicks, light the lamps.
Feed the fire. Listen to coyote chatter.
Riffing on the Moon
by Gina Hietpas
A full moon rides the scruffy sky.
Restless as incoming tide, I wander,
room to room, in raw pursuit of sleep.
Led by mosaic light, I step into the yard
to breathe frost and stars
and expanded space.
A coyote yips an opening chord.
The pack jubilates – howling tremolos,
braided barks, a high descant.
Across the valley another band accepts the challenge,
riffs with alto warbles, solo yelps,
a running keen.
Echoing pitches volley, a call and response
of boundaries and bonds.
As the canticle fades, final alpha barks
dissolve all illusion of aloneness.
Gina Hietpas is a self-taught poet, born and raised in Tacoma, Washington state. Nowadays, she lives outside Sequim, WA, on a small farm with her husband, a few cows and a passel of chickens. Her land is a habitat for elk, deer, coyotes and an occasional bear. It is, for the most part, a peaceful coexistence. The opportunity to be a back-country ranger for several seasons shaped her connection to wilderness. Professionally she was a middle school teacher for twenty five years. Now that she has retired, she focuses her efforts on writing. She has studied with Kelli Russell Agodon, Alice Derry, Holly Hughes, Susan Rich and Kim Stafford. Hietpas’ work has appeared in Minerva Rising, Tidepools, Spindrift and New Plains Review.