You could chat with Jim Moose for a while and not find out that he’s a World War II veteran or a retired attorney, but you might be able to figure it out through his poetry. Jim uses regular rhythms and rhyme in his poetry – you can hear that classic lilt of iambic pentameter in much of his work. It’s bouncy and generally easy to follow. But Jim’s wide range of topics – old friends, war scenes, historical poems, mountain hikes and courtroom scenes – set him apart from most poets I know. Check out this selection of pieces from his new book Hotchpot – you’ll find humor and wisdom, sorrow and joy, and a unique look at the world in the poetry of James M. Moose.

Jim Moose, pere (James M. Moose) is a retired civil servant and Navy veteran of WWII, a graduate of UC Berkeley and its law school. He produced nothing in the way of literature, other than legal opinions and decisions, until he wrote his first poem after retiring in 1995. His poetry has been published in Susurrus, the Sacramento City College literary magazine, and he has recently self-published a collection of his poems he has entitled Hotchpot.

Reminiscence

I met a charming girl, and shortly moved away.
It was as though she’d evanesced; I neither saw
nor heard of her again. A thought of her, astray,
alit a time or two, then moved into the maw
of time’s recycle bin. All memory of her
was gone – for sixty years, at least – and then, by hap,
an anamnestic trick: a mental chorister
pronounced, “And now, your ken of Emalyn unwrap!”
She was a preacher’s kid, precocious, prim and plain
but not a Grundyist – a hayride proved her so.
She’d written in my yearbook in a friendly vein,
and it occurred to me that I could be her beau.
This shard reminds me, in my latter, happy lot,
that if I’d stayed, not moved, I’d be someone I’m not.

Oral Argument

A lengthy wait, in a snaking queue
of youngish lawyer-spectators,
with their several needs to watch,
to pass an elaborate security bar
(God Save This Honorable Court)
before entering the courtroom
to hear a functionary, finely-tuned
lay down for counsel, with apt
and market-tested humor and advice,
the rules for argument, before
the Court arrives (All Rise)
to hear their morning calendar;

a handsome courtroom,
wood-paneled and –pilastered,
a bench, raised and rampart-like,
fit for seven demigods,
and a ceiling almost out of sight,
designed to evoke awe and wonder
from all who enter here
to argue, or just to watch
the unrehearsed but stylized
ballet of question and response;

questions from the Court,
always interrupting counsel’s
argument and train of thought –
sometimes betraying a majestic
misunderstanding of the facts.

The Alpinist

I rose that day and climbed the lofty peak
with cloudy robes that filed the western sky,
and was exalted as I mounted there.

What was the potion there supplied to me?
What vasty notion filled my mind?
What strange vision was vouchsafed to me?

The granite rock beneath my feet rose up
and lifted me as if an ocean wave and I a
sleeping petrel resting on its bosom there.

The vastness of the sky enfolded me and
I was one with nature and eternity, and
knew I was a creature of the universe.