Honoring the Late William LMH Clark

William L. Clark

William L. Clark, a longtime contributor to the Peninsula Pulse’s literature section, passed away Jan. 5, 2015 in De Pere at the age of 76. Clark, born in rural Dunn County, was a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-River Falls.

From 1969 until 1995, he taught English Literature at UW-Stevens Point and after retirement, moved to Algoma, where he served in many capacities at St. Agnes Episcopal Church.

He was a prolific and consistent contributor of poetry to the Peninsula Pulse and a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. In November 2007, Clark released a collection of poems appropriately titled Pulse in honor of their publication over the years in this newspaper.

In honor of Clark’s contribution to our publication, we dedicate this issue’s literature page to three of his poems, originally published in 2008.

E-Bay

I’m going on E-Bay to see if I can

Find a poem, anything to fill this

Empty page which has been staring at

Me, now, for more than a week.

There must be something out there.

Never mind condition or age, any

Verse will do, brand new or antique,

Even one with a hair-line crack.

But, I’ll start the bidding low,

Just in case my muse comes back.

Kite Flying: A Ritual for March

Glue all of your ex-lover’s letters to a

Balsa frame. Should you so desire, over

Lay the juiciest bits with a yellow high

Lighter or underscore them with a Magic

Marker in the color of your choice.

Tie on a generous length of tail which

You have calibrated with commemorative

Postage stamps carefully steamed from the

Corresponding envelopes.

Wait for a gale-force wind to carry your

Kite higher than your wildest fantasies.

When its flight has taken it all but out

Of sight and the string is as taut as your

Heart’s hate, let it go.

The Note

In the room which he once had alone,

A roommate now – a cousin of his late

Wife’s first husband, both long gone.

But still, resentment rose like bile in

His dry throat. They would not get on.

And so, they counted the tiles on the

Floor until they found dead center and,

From there, each took up residence in

His own half, and waited for things to

Come to a head, which they did, a month

Or two along, when acrimony lead to

Confrontation over a nightlight he had

Switched off. The other, switched it on,

Then blows and one black eye which was

Shamefacedly garnered in the affray.

And then, the note, scribbled in the

Old man’s palsied hand – to tell them

If they found him, strangled, in his

Bed, who it was to blame, “that s.o.b.

Across the room” is what it said.