Ruffed Grouse
Sam Monroe Olson | Poetry, Fall 2024
In a fly shop newsletter, I learn that now’s the time of year to listen
for grouse along rivers. Distant tumble, guttural pocket, one day,
says the fly guide, we lose our ability to hear it, a call too deep
for ears over-watered. Today is Friday. I read that male grouse
make their songs from low places—nurse logs, boulders, stumps.
I read how hunters poached them up this gully before they made it
a suburb. In sixty years, NPR says, there might not be cold enough
water here to catch trout. My grandmother can’t remember our names
but can speak Polish like the war never happened. She takes my hand
as I say all I can—ty jesteś piękna, babcia, you are beautiful. If there’s another
language to learn, if there’s a way to pass on what future kids won’t
have—please, please, I’d give up this tongue. I’d give my ears. I’d forget
my name if it made enough room.
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Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“What do we do when we can no longer hear those around us? What if we can't remember their names? How will we reach each other? This poem explores the relationship between our senses and our collective memory: if our ears can't pick up the low, guttural register of the ruffed grouse, rumbling off in the woods, will we ever know it's there? Will we forget what it's like to find spawning salmon in our creeks? What happens when our loved ones can't remember our names? Often, I get to a place while writing poems where I don't know what else to say but please. Please, help us hear each other. Help us find each other in these woods.”
Sam Monroe Olson (he/him) is a candidate for the MFA in Poetry at Oregon State University. Raised in Portland, Oregon with family roots across Montana, he calls both states home. Prior to undertaking the MFA, he taught environmental science, managed wilderness trail crews, and facilitated creative writing workshops in Montana's schools. His writing can be found or is forthcoming in Camas, Cutbank, River Heron Review, and Heartwood.
Ruffed Grouse
Sam Monroe Olson | Poetry, Fall 2024
In a fly shop newsletter, I learn that now’s the time of year to listen
for grouse along rivers. Distant tumble, guttural pocket, one day,
says the fly guide, we lose our ability to hear it, a call too deep
for ears over-watered. Today is Friday. I read that male grouse
make their songs from low places—nurse logs, boulders, stumps.
I read how hunters poached them up this gully before they made it
a suburb. In sixty years, NPR says, there might not be cold enough
water here to catch trout. My grandmother can’t remember our names
but can speak Polish like the war never happened. She takes my hand
as I say all I can—ty jesteś piękna, babcia, you are beautiful. If there’s another
language to learn, if there’s a way to pass on what future kids won’t
have—please, please, I’d give up this tongue. I’d give my ears. I’d forget
my name if it made enough room.
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“What do we do when we can no longer hear those around us? What if we can't remember their names? How will we reach each other? This poem explores the relationship between our senses and our collective memory: if our ears can't pick up the low, guttural register of the ruffed grouse, rumbling off in the woods, will we ever know it's there? Will we forget what it's like to find spawning salmon in our creeks? What happens when our loved ones can't remember our names? Often, I get to a place while writing poems where I don't know what else to say but please. Please, help us hear each other. Help us find each other in these woods.”
Sam Monroe Olson (he/him) is a candidate for the MFA in Poetry at Oregon State University. Raised in Portland, Oregon with family roots across Montana, he calls both states home. Prior to undertaking the MFA, he taught environmental science, managed wilderness trail crews, and facilitated creative writing workshops in Montana's schools. His writing can be found or is forthcoming in Camas, Cutbank, River Heron Review, and Heartwood.