View Cover Order a Copy

Price: €12.00

And There Is Many A Good Thing

Jon Tribble

ISBN: 978-1-910669-62-4

Page Count: 82

Publication Date: Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Cover Artwork: “The Blue Leaf” by Allison Joseph © 2016

Click to play audio Jon Tribble reads "The Divine" from 'And There Is ... play
Click to play audio Jon Tribble reads "Midnight Rainbows from Devil's ... play
Click to play audio Jon Tribble reads the title poem from his collecti... play

About this Book

And There Is Many a Good Thing explores that idea in its title by opening the reader to a world as varied as the talents of Monty Python and Sarah Vaughan, Peter Gabriel and St. John of the Cross, and Hans Christian Anderson and C. S. Lewis. The book takes the reader from the Great Rift Valley to Queens, Mexico to Vietnam, from the south Texas shoreline to the western Libyan Desert. Ostriches, plaster lions, burning flags and religious protests, riverboat gambling and the Rapture are all subjects for these poems that find good things in surviving loss, pain, and separation as well as in the love, joy, and celebration the world gives us to enjoy.

Author Biography

JON TRIBBLE’s poems have appeared in print journals and anthologies, including Ploughshares, Poetry, Crazyhorse, Quarterly West, and The Jazz Poetry Anthology, and online at The Account, Prime Number, and storySouth. His first collection of poems, Natural State, was published by Glass Lyre Press in 2016. He teaches at Southern Illinois University Carbondale, where he is the managing editor of Crab Orchard Review and the series editor of the Crab Orchard Series in Poetry published by SIU Press.

Read a sample from this book

The Divine
for A. J.

I cannot sing but I can listen—
the voice of notes reaching and stretching,
testing the muscles of what sound can be,

should be if we were only ear, only hearing
clear and transcending the clamor of city streets’
rough malodorous push and shove, the traffic

of life’s be there-should have been-yesterday-
tomorrow morning,… but if the night
were the warmest cave, the primal blanket

to layer and comfort our tired feet, to feed
a flame of shadow and light together,
then pure, yes, pure tone would be the echo

and resonance, the neverending claim to live
in the lasting growl and coo of her voice
as “My Funny Valentine” fades and never disappears,

as the final note possesses Sarah Vaughan, possesses us,
documents the sound we should define as pain,
as regret, as love and loss, as human.

Midnight Rainbows from Devil’s Kitchen
for R. G. J.

The lantern dims and sputters the little light
we need to wait in the dark for the lines
to pull, release, pull, and—taut at last—

set the hook and play the catch around
the other four lines waiting, their purpose
to weigh the night in against our careful

measurements and patience.  A constellation
of baitfish scatter like some new universe’s
primordial moment, the crappie and shad

bumping the nearest poles slink into green
shadows beyond us, and now the headlight
floating in its foam ring illuminates the flash

and run of this twenty inches of muscle
straining against its life’s breath burning
up the blood.  We’ll net and ice the fish

soon, cut the length and spill out what’s in
back to dark shelf of oxygen layered cold
below us in the table of the lake, but now

the splash and dash, the leap of color
our eyes can only hope to prism holds
us here until the limit, and brings us back.

And There Is Many a Good Thing

I went back to Dagger Point Trail
after she moved to Baton Rouge.
A plaque at the point says the sea
takes back five inches a year,
but the sand and shells, the same
live oak still crowned the hills.

I remembered the redtail tearing the rabbit
on the path before us,
wings half-spread, eyes
like sunlight.  Linda stooped for a stone,
but a finger to my lips
and a short nod stopped her.
We sat in the dust until the hawk finished.

She drew circles within circles,
leaving only room for a point, like a target.
She laughed when I said she was working against
infinity, and asked me if I thought the rabbit
was the beginning or end of the cycle.
I said, Neither, and Both.

At the top of the hill
live oak thinned and we saw buzzards
descending on what little the hawk
had left.  A collared lizard
stretched on a stone.
It scampered into shade as I stepped toward it.

Tilting the canteen, she splashed water
into her mouth and over her face.
She shook drops from her hair
and arched her head back,
eyes closed, smiling at the sky
like she’d broken surface after diving deep.

All poems copyright © Jon Tribble 2017

Salmon Poetry Home Page The Arts Council Salmon Poetry Home Page The Arts Council