"Hill Country" by David Keeling; reviewed by Jefferson Navicky

Hill Country
-- David Keeling

All day long, the highway
whispers to the hills the myth
of cities. The patient,
voracious trees reach
above the blue fumes,
sifting molecules with flimsy
dealers’ fingernails.
The highway says Elvis lives
in Waukegan, that he sells
mattresses from a cinderblock shop
with the biggest neon sign
he could find. Meanwhile,
the hills keep their mossy eyes
closed, humming Ohms. They would prefer
to consider the high voltage lines,
also humming, and the exotic
grass islands of the cloverleafing
exits and on-ramps. At night,
the hills murmur, the green signs
glow like flattened ghosts,
their bright white teeth releasing
the same white answers
no matter what the question is.

-----

My first impression hits on the title – an appreciation of its simplicity, and a vague allure that encompasses the title’s multiplicity (as in “Here in Ohio, it’s Cow Country” or as in “Mountain Hill Country Stream”). The title brings to mind Nabokov’s short story “Cloud, Castle, Lake” in which the protagonist, Vasili Ivanovich, wins a mandatory “fun” trip through The Department of Pleasantrips; this turns out to be anything but pleasant. Both Nabokov’s story and David’s poem are, in Nabokov’s words, “impressed by the anonymity of all the parts of a landscape” though David’s poem has more of a irreverent reverence, somehow including both Elvis and Ohms. If I were to start a summer festival as a compliment to Naropa University’s Summer Writing Program, it would be called “Elvis and Ohmming: Breath and Hips.” Among others, I would invite David and the Elvis who emcees the open mic at Grandma’s Kitchen in Interlochen, MI. I also think Kevin Kilroy would make a good Elvis.

The end of the poem takes aim at the Hungry Ghost existence. We continue to ask questions to those ubiquitous green highway signs: Are we there yet? How many miles to Rockland? What’s Limon like? I imagine “the same white answers” to be: pay attention to where you are NOW, what the hills are saying NOW, not what they will be saying in 73 miles. You are here now, and now you are gone.

David Keeling lives in Chicago. His words and poems have appeared in lots of places (Ohio Review, and others). His blog, A Writing Year, details his year of splitting his time between a non-profit writing job and his poetry.

Jefferson Navicky lives in Portland, ME. He edits the Four Quarter Review. He just got a paragraph into and upcoming issue of Fringe Magazine. His goal for this year is to somehow get his play, The Anesthesiologist, on the stage in Portland.