Storybook Colonial

I realized today that I have to pay a little bit closer attention to the comments you guys are leaving me. There were a bunch that I hadn't even seen yet and I want to make it a point to respond to all of your comments because I appreciate everyone who reads this blog and your comments mean a lot to me. So, thank you all for reading. I hope you keep on doing so. Anyway, on to today's poem...

My father's parents had an incredible house. It was an old Civil War era colonial, one floor with an attic turned into bedrooms and an old cellar with a dirt floor. We used to go there every Christmas Eve. When I think about Christmas, that house is the first thing I think about, really. It was always warm and bright and loud. Sad country Christmas songs played on the radio, there was football on the television, a big pile of presents under the tree. And everyone just told stories and laughed, talked about buying cars for fifty dollars and smashing them up out in the fields in the sixties, how my aunt Carol used to put her jeans on in the bathtub so that they'd dry skin tight, about the time that Boompa (that was my grandad) knocked the wall out of the living room without telling my Nana he was going to do it. Those were the nights that I really learned about my family, and I liked them. They were crazy. They were interesting.

And there was food, delicious food. Homemade pasta with my Nana's signature sauce, meatballs and italian sausage, garlic bread, lasagna, and homemade apple pie for dessert. People would come and go all night. We usually wouldn't leave until maybe midnight, maybe later. So many of my favorite moments in life happened in or around that house. Simple things like the time it started snowing on the way home with my dad and we pretended we were flying through space or the year we all got remote control cars and had a demolition derby in the kitchen. Maybe it's because I was young still when my Nana had to sell the house, but those Christmas Eves were one of the few things in my life that never, ever once let me down. And I feel like if I live my life right, whatever that means, my grandkids will feel the same about going to my house on Christmas Eve.

Storybook Colonial

The storybook colonial

on South Street West,

just over that last gentle

rise, I'll never forget.

Star of Bethlehem

shining

above the peaked rooftop.

Glistening icicles

hanging

from the eaves. Snow

blown

up against the

clapboard

siding.

And those old

fashioned Christmas lights,

the big fat kind,

glowing

in the maple trees.

The storybook colonial

on South Street West

just over that last gentle

rise. Long as I live,

I'll never forget.

This poem is really just about the anticipation I felt driving up to the house. Seeing the house all distilled and glowing from outside in the cold was one of my favorite parts of the night. The rest of the night would just fly by, but that moment coming over that hill felt like it lasted forever. Truthfully, I don't think most people will get much out of this poem, but sometimes I don't really write them for anyone else but myself.

Let Them Creak

This is another attempt to use a voice that isn't necessarily my own. I'm also trying to work in the concrete rather than the abstract, to create a scene and narrative with this poem. Drafting of this one came relatively easily, especially the ending portions. It might be a little heavy on repetition right now, but I tried to use repetition as a key into my character's thoughts, the idea that by thinking about the steps, he's distancing himself from what he's really doing or maybe coming to terms with it in a material sense.

It's a sad poem, too. I borrowed some Neil Young albums from my mom and I was listening to those while I wrote it. He just writes these achingly sad country songs, so desolate and warm all at once. And there's something really fragile about his voice that strikes a chord with me. I tend to gravitate towards singers that can't really sing all that well; they seem more honest.

Let Them Creak

Six flights of stairs, up

to the creaking hinges.

That's forty eight steps 

to turn the tarnished 

handle. Whiskey glass

sweating next to a burnt

out candle; the armory's 

been emptied, out 

in the silver alleyway.

Now you're sleeping

fitfully

and the brass is cool

against my finger

tips.

Take care to let them

creak,

so you know that

I came back.

Six flights of stairs, up

into the morning light.

That's forty eight steps

toward the breaking

dawn. Whiskey eyes

sweating next to 

a burning streetlight,

jaws come unhinged.

Let them creak. 

The armory's been 

emptied; that's

forty eight steps

I'll never take again.

The road is dog

eared in my pocket,

I took it from the

night stand while you

pretended to sleep.

Its witless eyes and

battered faces light

my way. That's forty

eight steps I'll never

take again; 

so let them creak.

The "road" referred to in the last stanza is a book, a copy of On the Road, I think. The speaker, despite his ruthlessness about leaving, can't bear the idea that the version of himself that existed in this place that he is leaving will be gone forever. More importantly, he wants her to feel it. That's kind of why the title is what it is.

All Right

This poem took me approximately two hours to write. While one part of me feels like I should have never spent that much time on one poem, another part of me feels like this is the first time in a long time that I did it right. Why shouldn't a poem take two hours? Why shouldn't it take its sweet time?

Anyway, I don't have much to say about this one. I've never been to a place where the sky was really huge. Only the top of a mountain, but that's different because when you're up high like that, you can't help but focus on the ground. At least, I can't, anyway. But I want to see the desert. I want to see the plains. I want to stand on level ground beneath a sky that goes forever. I've never done that.

All Right

Life under big skies

goes on and on. Down

on the ground, like

all the cogs and clock

work, little tumblers

rolling around, and it's

small and it's dirty.

Autumn blushing,

summer dust, I don't

ever mind the sun

shine, and I'm not

bothered by the rain.

I don't have

a single thought

about

nine numbers

or

the bottomless pools

of great blue sky.

Let it be.

Let it remain.

I want to stretch

my arms out wide, any

way. I want to make

them go

as far as they will

go.

There are bright

eyes and dandelions

down here

in the summer dust,

where time flies

single file and our

breathing turns

to rust.

But I see fireflies

when I close my eyes,

miles and miles

of great big sky,

and I think it's gonna be

all right.

One thing that resulted from taking my time on this one was a more discrete rhyme scheme. To call it planned or even a pattern would not be accurate, but there is a kind of rhyme structure working here.

It Gets Hard

As with yesterday's poem, I just kind of let it go today. Pretty obvious that this speaker isn't me, it's a character and probably not a very good one, yet.

I like rough people, people who talk rough and talk about things in an honest straightforward way. People who will take a dig at you for being naive, but don't grudge you for it. People who make a joke because it's funny, laugh at things because they deserve to be laughed at, not to hurt anyone's feelings. The speaker of this poem is one of those people, I think. In a way, I wrote this poem as though I was interviewing him. I wanted the ambiance of the moment to come across without actually describing anything.

It Gets Hard

It gets hard
believe me.

You hear that, Skip?
Doesitgethard? he says.
Does it get hard.

You seen the Hud
son River freeze?

I heard of a man, once,
a man by the name
of Terrence Whitford.
Now, I never met him,
but I heard he set

right here,

this very street corner,
for three days straight.

No,
you know that's
true.

Three days, three
nights, singing this
song his grandma
used to sing 'im
when he was a boy.

Them's got ears,
let them hear.
Them's got eyes,
let them see.

Sat on a bucket, mid
dle of January. Three
whole days. Does it

get hard?

Terrence had
a sweet little daughter,
you know. A darling
girl with them kinda
big blue eyes
that look like crying
all the time.

Yeah.

This concrete
doesn't treat your
head nice,
but if you ask
me,

and you did,

the hardest part
has got to be
the forgettin'.

There's some tricky stuff going on here with the identity of the speaker. See if you can guess who he is. Also, I used some words from another Woody Guthrie tune. I hope he doesn't mind, but he also used to perform with a sticker on his guitar that said, "This machine kills fascists..." So, something tells me he doesn't.

Uh Huh

Today I just kind of let the words come. What happened was something very lyrical and musical, to my ear at least. You may feel differently and you may be correct. But I've had this character in my head for a long time now that I want to write an epic about. I call him the Kid Messiah, he's been referred to in the past by the name Judah Gates (a very poor Biblical reference) and I really like him, but I don't know what to do with him just yet.

The idea behind the Kid is that he was born to a sweet girl from New England and a maniac father who abandoned him just hours after his birth, against his mother's wishes. The Kid is raised in Texas by a humble man who introduces him to rock and roll, but just the crazy old stuff, the raw rock and roll that was fueled by blues and country. Eventually the kid strikes off on his own, picks up a girl (Vera, a child violinist prodigy who's been abused by her daddy) at a soda fountain in Wyoming. The Kid then assembles the world's most kick-ass rock band ever and saves Rock and Roll with one incredible show, only to disappear back into the wilds of Texas without ever recording a note.

There are several poems in this series already. I've got one I wrote a few winters back about the Kid appearing to a friend one night after his disappearance and leaving by the morning, one about his birth, a couple sketches of him bumming around upstate New York, and a long lyrical poem about his wife (Vera, the girl from Wyoming) playing fiddle in a whiskey bar while he hides out in the back alley, listening. There's also a whole sub-plot where the lyrics to his songs, the greatest poems ever written, are buried in a field across the highway from that whiskey bar but nobody can ever find them. This is Vera's wish because she knows that Rock and Roll will kill him (you know, the whole Jesus thing).

The cool thing about the Kid is that he has no time; he just exists. So I can write about him, really, any way that I want. It's like a whole different world. Anyway, the reason that I'm telling you all this is maybe this is one of his songs, maybe it's not. It needs work still, and I've abandoned this Kid Messiah project a million times over already, but I keep coming back to it out of the blue, usually when I just let the words come...

Uh Huh

Three-three-three,

swingin' sweetly

in the trees, singin'.

I'm not a man, not

a man who'll do you

harm. I'm just a soldier

out on leave for an

evening in the city

and it's just three-

three-three singing

sweetly by the sea.

Uh huh

All the men and the

beasts beat their

chests in with a fist,

a fist that's wrapped

around a precious beating

heart. And when they

shout-shout-shout

they cry for love and

survival. And they

shout three-three-

three swingin'

sweetly in the trees.

Uh huh

Normally, ending a poem without punctuation would drive me up a wall, but I'm going to start trying more things that drive me up a wall.

Ray

This poem stayed short. I was tempted initially to make it longer, even after I finished both stanzas. But I think, it says all it needs to say. It's about the character I "played" in a short Christmas film today. I say "played" because you can't really count what I did as actual acting. But it was fun regardless, to be someone else. What was really interesting, though, was the trouble I had being someone else. It's not as easy as I thought it'd be to get outside your own head.

Ray is kind of a sad-sack. He's just gotten dumped by his girlfriend and he's pretty sore about it. He buys a picture of the Eiffel Tower for his ex for Christmas, but winds up meeting a new love interest through a magical Christmas stocking. While we were shooting, the two writers had a lot to say about Ray, and not much of it was good.

Ray

Simple, sweet, they're

all gonna hate you,

with your stupid beard

and your whiskey eyes.

A picture of the Eiffel

Tower was the best

you could do; facsimile

thereof, Je veux ton amour.

Stole a Lady GaGa lyric for the ending there. Thought it fit nicely.

At the End

This poem is about this blog. I thought today about how long it's been since I had instruction in poetry. It's been just about four years now and I can't help but feel like, until starting this blog, I was at a major stalling point with the medium. This blog has pushed me to try new things, to look at poetry differently, to tackle subjects I hadn't tackled before, and I think to mature a little bit in terms of the overall construction of my poems. But I still feel like I need a teacher. 

That said, this will definitely not be my last attempt at this Poem 365 thing. I think that when I reach the end, I'll take a breather, maybe for a month, and dive right back in with a handbook, maybe a mentor, and a more clearly defined purpose. 

You see, I've always felt like I have something to say and I've always felt like I was capable of saying it in a really profound way. The older I get, and the longer I spend trying to pry this whatever it is out of my mind, the more I realize that I need to study. But regardless of whether this Poem 365 ends up being the experience I imagined it to be or not, I do believe that I'll be better for it in the end.

At the End

At the end of this road, 

I know I will be different.

I'm so close that I can

feel you breathing, but

I can't hear your words.

I've been told they ring

like silver bells on snow

covered mountainsides.

So I walk in silence;

watch the sun rise over

a hillside. See it so close,

that trembling light, your

guiding hand, a lantern 

to my wandering sight.

At the end of this road,

I know I will be different.

Stronger, maybe. Or more

unhinged, swinging like

a crooked shutter beaten

by the wind. Ragged 

traveler stumbling under

moonlight or humble

prophet who has seen

the holy surface of the sun.

Oh, God your lips 

are so close

I can feel you 

breathing, but I

still can't hear 

your words. I've

heard they buzz 

in your stomach

like mosquitos 

in the summer, so

close to your heart,

they make your

hands shake

and your lips go

dumb, dumb, dumb.

At the end of this road,

I know I will be different.

This poem was inspired by Arcade Fire's Antichrist Television Blues from Neon Bible. It's supposed to read like a prayer.