Susan Rich:
Whenever an overnight guest comes to visit, I inevitably need to rearrange my office to clear a space for them. This is when lost, unconsciously abandoned poems rise to the surface of my desk. “Midnight Run by the River Lune @ 21” is such a piece — a poem I‘ve revised for 5+ years, inspired by a place in Lancaster, Northern England, where I lived in my twenties. I’d dropped out of university to make my way in the world as a waitress at the town’s first pizzeria. During that year, I lived in a converted warehouse, right at the edge of town. Traditionally, docks of a city are not found in the safest neighborhoods, but they do possess a charged atmosphere all their own.
I adored everything about this river path: our lopsided, almost condemned house, the strong tides of the river named after the moon which rose and fell across the street, the evening mystique of drug deals and the death of the last resident whose room I had recently rented. I felt my life open its windows into new realms I’d never imagined. Daily, I walked along the river, often finding syringes and used condoms, animal carcasses and dirty brown bottles. I loved each broken and dead thing. I felt presences and hauntings that did not exist in the Boston suburb where I grew up.
I hope I’ve conjured a visceral belief in death as well as in adventure for the reader. I wished to link grit with the innocence of thrill-seeking. For me, this new world took on the shape of a decaying river path and a waitressing job. But outside that realm, there were sweet lovers and friends, weekly dance parties playing David Bowie and Bob Marley.
A riparian zone is a transitional space on the sides of rivers, streams, or other waterways. Often the land is extra rich, perfect for planting. I like to pretend that the riparian zone along the River Lune fertilized me with fresh language and metaphor, syntax, and an urge to pursue the sensuous. May this poem convey a mere fraction of what I want it to do to you. May you conjure up your own riparian zone on the outskirts of one waterway quietly touching your own growing self.
