Poem: Minnow Bay by Tim Stouffer

Minnow Bay

Ahead, light pours out over water so clear

that every rock is bathed in sunlight;

afternoon’s gift of warmth 

to native Minnesota minnows:

Bluntnose, Creek Chub, Fathead, Golden Shiner

and Northern Redbelly Dace.

Minnows, not just smallish fish.

Like abandoned  jewels encrusting the bottom,

their scales capturing shadows bouncing

from agate, quartz and granite gravel.

Pushing off the canoe with my foot in the cold water,

I don’t drag, don’t bang, don’t make a sound,

yet they scatter in schools from the over-large shadow

of the craft, giant and banana-like above,

my second summer skin,

gliding out of the bay.

How can these waters still be so clear?

How can silence still be the musical score?

How have you waited so long?

Underneath, untouched by travelers,

another world reflected.

Another chance at

freedom.

©Timothy James Stouffer 04182018

All Rights Reserved Ely, Minnesota

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Moments in Polaroids: Lines from the Boundary Waters and Beyond

Moments in Polaroids

Remember when you’d stand there
shaking the film as it developed from a grey
ghost slipping through the shadow world,
like a walleye
rising up through
tannin stained waters,
desperate to stay
hidden but
pulled uncontrollably
towards the surface that
tensioned between
you and I.

Little by little the granular
surface would appear
underneath colors
that couldn’t quite
be explained. Then we’d
shove our eye into
that rubber socketed
viewfinder again and
shift the sun to the
left while crossing
our fingers. While missing
the larger, contagious
beauty?

If only this touches
the memory of this moment
just a fraction, sets the hook,
I can reel in the rest of
it years from
now when we dig
through a dusty box
forgotten in the attic.

Remember when we spent
more time making the
memory than recording it?
Let’s do that again.
Let’s do
that now.

©Timothy James Stouffer 06082017
All Rights Reserved Ely, Minnesota

Poem: Separation Lines from the Boundary Waters and Beyond

Separation

There’s a line that the wilderness
draws behind each of us
a little distance from Ely.
Whether by stream, river or lake
as our canoes slip
over it,
pulled by paddle stroke
and the desire to find more than
our own reflection in the
Boundary Waters.

This line when crossed can
never be returned from,
can’t be uncrossed.

Though it is invisible, almost everyone
I know can recall the moment
they entered the other side.
The side where our previous selves
began to fade and our
canoe camping self began to pulsate,
like the oldest coals of our
campfires.

The afternoon sun burnt off the rest of the shadows
as we paddled on,
not stopping until we blended into
the darkness and the branches
of the pines and cedars
reached out over the water
to welcome us home.

©Timothy James Stouffer 06052017
All Rights Reserved Ely, Minnesota

If you like the poetry we publish here and on social media you might like to check out a recent Zine created by Simon and Tim Stouffer who work at Piragis Northwoods Company.  Pronounced "ZEEENE" like Maga-zine, a zine is a self published, small run of artwork and/or prose.  This particular zine was actually printed locally at Ely Design Works on high quality paper to showcase the 20 black and white photos taken by Simon.  Accompanying the photos are original poems by Tim Stouffer.  The content was inspired by their day together along the North Shore early this Spring.

Here's a link:  https://www.boundarywaterscatalog.com/tim-stouffer/day-one-a-zine-by-tim-and-simon-stouffer-159648

Poem: Grandparents Lines from the Boundary Waters and Beyond

Grandparents

(Poetry from the Boundary Waters and Beyond)

This day ending with its sentinels
of pine pointing towards the
setting sun could have
meant anything,
anywhere,
to
anyone.

But,
to you and
I under the tarp near
the glowing coals of the fire,
it meant sore muscles, blistered
hands and one of the best tasting
dinners I've eaten out of a
pouch in forever.
Well, what
wouldn't
taste

Fabulous
when paired with
lake trout picked up while
trolling towards this point on
the island that gifted us a view of
our own private lake?  This
moment is why I wish
I would have
listened
to you
be

fore, when you told me that we could still find ourselves in the boundary waters canoe area wilderness, even at our age, even having forgotten more about camping than most young people ever imagined they'd learn thank goodness for the air mattress and the forty four pound kevlar canoe.

It is never too late
to remember.

©Timothy James Stouffer 05252017
All Rights Reserved Ely, MN

Poem Silhouetted by Timothy James Stouffer

Silhouetted

Against the last of Winter’s 

remnant, pines strike

a pose familiar.  When 

the skies wouldn’t stop

weeping but couldn’t

agree on flakes or tears,

the sun, brief and frustrated,

settled the matter.

A signature on that first

day of May that fleeting

formed a question mark

in the second morning

and inquiried of us all.  What

do we think

the shadows keep?

Who might the 

light reveal with

its brush under the boughs?

Sifting through the slush

of sunrise, my fingers grow

cold and numb

searching by feel in the thick darkness

for the words to our song

that began with Spring

but has lost itself

against the reflection

of the reaching

Red Pines.

Where is it that the path

leads us two from here?

Like some darkened maw

swallowing the borders

marked so carefully

on the map we hold.

©Timothy James Stouffer 05/02/2017

All Rights Reserved Ely, Minnesota

A Boundary Waters Poem: Driftwood

Driftwood

Sometimes, through the mist,
I can see the lichen advancing.
Creeping across granite slabs
greening in the shadows,
transposing the hours and
years into
moments
lost
in

the changing
of the guard
where dawn leaves the
deepest, thickest darkness
behind and lifts the blanket
off the tree tops.

The lake waters
come for us
at
first
with slow unassuming
ripples,
rippled,
then in earnest.
Rising in gaseous form,
tendrils reaching into
camp like fingers
of the wilderness
itself, searching
for you and I.

We sit squinting at bobbers
blurred to nothingness,
far out on the edge
of the lily pads,
Our trepidatious touch
with the bottom
and yesterday balancing
on the edge
of what’s plausible
and lost sleep.

It’s too early for sunfish
but the big pike are sight
hunting through the
weeds that climb up
from the sandy bottom
in feathery forests.

Your bobber disappears
and I’m reminded
of what this place
will look like when the
sun burns off all
the mystery and
the two of us
are real
again.

Behind me in the
forest, a twig snaps
and it occurs
to me
that
we may not
have much time left.


©Timothy James Stouffer 05262016
All Rights Reserved Ely, Minnesota

Poem: Low Water Mark

Steve Piragis went out paddling into the early evening yesterday. His picture reflected some of the most subtle afternoon light we've seen so far this year.  It is hard to believe that November is already upon us.  This poem came to mind.  Enjoy.

Low Water Mark

Rising from dark water;

spires climb,

the green trees of years

gone by.  Now like 

bannerless flag posts

rooted in the wetland soil.

Sentinels of the lake

silent, watching.

Reaching through gray.

blue and pink toward

the retreating sun.

Arms entreating dead

grasses to join in the dance.

Canoe bow splits

reflection’s perfection.

Abandoned wood duck

house rocking slowly

to the rhythm of the 

dead wind.

Redwing blackbird

calls from the cattails.

Beaver tail slaps to 

the North.  Pileated beak

strikes home and keeps

the beat, hidden in the 

dark, jagged line of pines.

The colors deepen.  No

one is home, or,

are they?  Paddle pushes

us into the night.

© Timothy James Stouffer, 11/04/2015

All Rights Reserved