new work
Sorry it has taken me so long to get back to blogging, but i have been busy answering the loads and loads of comments i have recieved. I think i have finally gotten through most of them, and so now am free to post some new stuff. This is a piece i think April worked on, that i have since upgraded and expanded, though it is still not done. I think there is a lot of fertile ground in and around the concept of "knowing what you know and keeping it mostly to yourself". I dont know just how much that betrays the poets contract with the reader...and if it does maybe its time for a renegotiation of that contract...
anyway, like that makes any sense :)
Flowers for Gabriela
I forget if it was tulips or roses
we threw on Victor’s sinking coffin.
I like to remember it as spring:
Great handfuls of pastel tulips.
I remember a plane ride,
coming home alone,
thinking all the time of our tenements,
stacked side to side, high and human.
Deep green and orange honeysuckle vines
along and between the buildings,
sucking out their sweetness from the bitter red brick. .
Your Great Grandfather beat his pregnant wife.
He hoped, if she just bled enough,
he could excuse himself from the revolution.
She did not bleed for long, nor did her child.
When he went off to fight,
she eased the three-headed pain inside with a tea
brewed from lemon and Hibiscus petals.
Before a high school dance
my small blonde date-slight shouldered wisconsin girl-
pinned a Carnation to my lapel.
Her hand trembled all the way
and fumbling, pricked herself on the pin.
Looking at me below my eyes,
she left her pale hand on my chest,
still trembling.
Your Great Grandfather died at Torreon,
going down under his horse after the first volley.
When the dust and hooves had past,
all quiet in his heart,
open eyes staring on a patch of nearby daisies:
(he thought last of his wife and child, like daisies)
white petals, yellow center,
roots that grew strong and deep and red.
When we saw Van Gogh’s Sunflowers
lilting in their vase like forgotten royalty,
we suddenly left that place.
In central park we stretched ourselves
it seemed, to the heatless winter sun
and lying, said nothing for a very long time.
Casablanca Lilies, heavy headed in the vase
pull on their stems and quickly bow.
The burden of their fragrant heads always too much
for a sudden lack of roots.
My mother used to say,
if I pulled the pollen off their pistils
they would live longer.
I could never bring myself to do it.
When your mother threaded orange blossoms
in your hair, her hand also trembled.
You didn’t notice, you were a child,
and refused to come in at dusk when she called.
She told me once,
walking through the orchard
And looking at the pebbled, fallen fruit
that she mourned you even then.
anyway, like that makes any sense :)
Flowers for Gabriela
I forget if it was tulips or roses
we threw on Victor’s sinking coffin.
I like to remember it as spring:
Great handfuls of pastel tulips.
I remember a plane ride,
coming home alone,
thinking all the time of our tenements,
stacked side to side, high and human.
Deep green and orange honeysuckle vines
along and between the buildings,
sucking out their sweetness from the bitter red brick. .
Your Great Grandfather beat his pregnant wife.
He hoped, if she just bled enough,
he could excuse himself from the revolution.
She did not bleed for long, nor did her child.
When he went off to fight,
she eased the three-headed pain inside with a tea
brewed from lemon and Hibiscus petals.
Before a high school dance
my small blonde date-slight shouldered wisconsin girl-
pinned a Carnation to my lapel.
Her hand trembled all the way
and fumbling, pricked herself on the pin.
Looking at me below my eyes,
she left her pale hand on my chest,
still trembling.
Your Great Grandfather died at Torreon,
going down under his horse after the first volley.
When the dust and hooves had past,
all quiet in his heart,
open eyes staring on a patch of nearby daisies:
(he thought last of his wife and child, like daisies)
white petals, yellow center,
roots that grew strong and deep and red.
When we saw Van Gogh’s Sunflowers
lilting in their vase like forgotten royalty,
we suddenly left that place.
In central park we stretched ourselves
it seemed, to the heatless winter sun
and lying, said nothing for a very long time.
Casablanca Lilies, heavy headed in the vase
pull on their stems and quickly bow.
The burden of their fragrant heads always too much
for a sudden lack of roots.
My mother used to say,
if I pulled the pollen off their pistils
they would live longer.
I could never bring myself to do it.
When your mother threaded orange blossoms
in your hair, her hand also trembled.
You didn’t notice, you were a child,
and refused to come in at dusk when she called.
She told me once,
walking through the orchard
And looking at the pebbled, fallen fruit
that she mourned you even then.
posted by Aaron Allen at 4:40 PM
2 Comments:
I hate posting about poetry. There. I said it. I'd much rather talk to you in person, if I could ever get you to sit down and chat for two minutes.
That being said, I have one thing to say: em-dash.
Alllll Right, you whiner! I am posting. A real life post, even. I think that this poem is making some real progress -- although I don't remember precise details of the first draft (aside from the murderous tea) -- I like the tone of this poem, and I like the fact that more of the stanzas feel like they belong together instead of a random conglomeration of floral paragraphs. That said, I think that you are perhaps a bit too chatty. Some of it feels prosy. This is all I have to say at 1:00 am.
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