Photo by Norbert Blei
GARY C. BUSHA
Editor’s Note: Most writers tend to have certain obsessions when it comes to subject matter, which they either realize and accept or believe they’re continually writing something new, different—which may also be the case, as time lends a different perspective to everything we experience in life.
Busha, to me, in the many years I’ve read him, seems to have an obsession with one of Wisconsin’s small lakes (Winnebago) and, in particular, that once old-time, weathered, wooden dock that creaked and groaned and moved almost poetically under one’s footsteps, as it led, jutted out over the water, and brought, especially a young boy, (land-bound) closer, ever closer to the source of his great growing-up love: being a part of it all—if it just staring into the water blue of it all, or confronting the mystery of it with a fishing pole, or mindlessly running and jumping off the dock, into it on a hot summer’s day in an almost religious rite akin to baptism—but beyond.
Here’s Busha at his best in a tiny book (held together by a single staple, “4 ½” by almost “3 ½”), of 10 tiny pages (including the inside covers), 6 tiny, 3-lined poems per page, which comes to a grand total of 60 tiny poems of Basho-like resonance—the meaning of a dock in a boy’s life…an image that won’t fade in a man’s memory. — Norbert Blei.
Walking on the dock
the pine posts shudder as a
red-winged blackbird calls
with that boy on the dock
Off the dock
east wind laughing through willows
a boy fishing
Sitting on the dock
no thoughts for now—even the fish
in the livebox silent
On the dock scaling fish
the ol’ man knows I lost the pliers
the scales fall like tears
On the dock with pencil and pad
the boy tries to write much
between the lines
[from ON THE DOCK, Wolfsong Publications (2012), 3123 S. Kennedy Dr., Sturtevant, WI 53177 –no price, query author at: firstname.lastname@example.org