English 203 Poetry
As a creative writing major, I've finally completed my first creative writing workshop. Our final revisions are due for tomorrow.
Motherhood
In spring
Theophil leans his broad shoulders
against the barn door built from his brother’s hands;
the wife mother Laura watches keenly
from the upstairs window,
cupping the swell of her belly
as the children tend to their chores.
Beneath them the gluttonous kitten waits
to steal a drop of milk
when watchful eyes see not.
In summer
Peter comes home with a wife,
two sons and a baby girl.
Theophil leans on his cane, disapproving
until Laura bakes the grandchildren
warm bread, feeds them
fresh milk. The youngest of her sons -
Francis - comes home from university
and ignores the kittens waiting
earnestly for him by the door.
In fall
the funeral procession winds down.
The youngest granddaughter is too young to remember.
Later, Laura presses her thumbs over
the crack in her sternum
where the doctors placed that bovine valve.
She feels the ghost pain of the days and
a body that left her long ago.
Inside the leaning barn the cats curl together
in search of warmth.
In winter
Laura holds her great grandson,
thinks of warm bread, the dough
kneaded under tired hands.
When they leave, the house is empty.
One morning she cannot stand up.
The sons collect her mail for weeks
before shuffling her to the small town
where she and her friends grow restless - then arrested.
The snow mutes the cats soft mewling.
Babcia
To my grandmother
who I fear harbors great secrets from the rest of the Niedzweicki family:
The 500 hundred dollars came unexpectedly,
appeared in my bank account
the way Uncle Al unfurled rabbits in his palm
from the empty air.
My father and you both take to calling this
an inheritance.
Sometime earlier in the comfort
of your cool farmhouse kitchen
Mom and Dad shared stories with me of my grandfather
-- the snippets and scandal I never knew:
At the end of the Second Great War
-- during it or after, I’ll never be sure -
he was crippled, rested heavily on a staff.
I don’t remember the tilt, shuffle-thump of his gait;
Merely his sparsely matted scalp against a
fine lining of satin and mahogany.
He spent adulthood swindling from the government:
two social security checks
while refusing a full-paid orthopedic surgery
to continue the government’s compensation for
veterans with damaged bodies.
Too hides a distillery beneath the barn - a relic now -
but I struggle to conjure any other image of him than
as an old man.
I see now it is you -
who wed immediately after the War
-- who was whisked away to a dull little farm
you were convinced would be a ranch like in
black and white picture films
-- who lived the life of a wife -
that harbors the greatest secret of them all:
That you are actually dead.
Despite breathing and aching when you rise from bed
Despite that you will receive
my more gracious letter of thanks in the mail soon.
This feat you conquered is far greater:
to fake living so easily.
Wanting such seems to be enough
but in the night we lay silently
-- secretly wondering -
could our wanting outdo your desire
and bring you back to life?
Losing the Game
Starving for the downpour, our leaves brood.
The taunting sound of thunderclaps striking like pins knocking bodily together.
The achievement like a strike, we’d drink the sky if only we could.
The water rolls down the window pane
With the ease of soft worn shoes sliding over wood.
We watch hungrily as the summer night wanes.
We must rely on you to remember
To dote on our roots and our leaves that thirst.
Your neglect spins us down the stretch of black gutter.
Us forgotten, the coveted ground so full to burst
Nourishes Creeping Charlie and thatches of sweet clover.
But we stem up hidden from the rain - like a split - we are cursed.
Night turns to days to weeks; time hovers.
The frame frosts from the chill; our game is over.
“Red Self-Portrait”
Ed Paschke
I find it absolutely laughable
how painted on
and made up I have become.
Please step up -
admire my attempt to create in myself so many different things
if only I could bring you laughter.
My open mouth gapes - caught
motionless mimicking a mute bellow.
The wide berth of my entrance
to you silently conveys:
That I know you see how our
world is so blue,
But remember that on my carnival days
the hint of bubblegum lingers
in the dusty summer heat.
If you could only lick inside my mouth
to taste the
bitter lemon candy
tang I harbor just for you-
If your contrasted translucent skin,
stretched over the pure white bone of your knuckles,
curved over the flush of my face
as hot as flame-
If nothing else:
come look at me like I only
see and smell and wait for you
so that when I look through the glass
I see nothing and the lotus
wilts
in want and waiting silence.
** Or download the .pdf here. Let me know at any time if this link expires and I will renew it or just e-mail a copy of the .pdf file.
The first two: "Motherhood" and "Babcia" were inspired by my grandmother's recent bout of illness. I am thankful to say she has recovered. "Babcia" is "grandmother" in Polish.
"Losing the Game" initially was a persona poem about dead plants. However, for a fun revision exercise, a classmate made the rules that the it must be a terza rima and use bowling metaphors.
"Red Self-Portrait" is an ecphrastic poem based on Ed Paschke's artwork of the same title. The creepy thing the photo I use does not justify at all is that it's a hollogram, so the face follows you wherever you go. Currently, one version of this portrait is hanging in the Chazen Art Museum located on the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus.
Thank you for taking the time to read!
Motherhood
In spring
Theophil leans his broad shoulders
against the barn door built from his brother’s hands;
the wife mother Laura watches keenly
from the upstairs window,
cupping the swell of her belly
as the children tend to their chores.
Beneath them the gluttonous kitten waits
to steal a drop of milk
when watchful eyes see not.
In summer
Peter comes home with a wife,
two sons and a baby girl.
Theophil leans on his cane, disapproving
until Laura bakes the grandchildren
warm bread, feeds them
fresh milk. The youngest of her sons -
Francis - comes home from university
and ignores the kittens waiting
earnestly for him by the door.
In fall
the funeral procession winds down.
The youngest granddaughter is too young to remember.
Later, Laura presses her thumbs over
the crack in her sternum
where the doctors placed that bovine valve.
She feels the ghost pain of the days and
a body that left her long ago.
Inside the leaning barn the cats curl together
in search of warmth.
In winter
Laura holds her great grandson,
thinks of warm bread, the dough
kneaded under tired hands.
When they leave, the house is empty.
One morning she cannot stand up.
The sons collect her mail for weeks
before shuffling her to the small town
where she and her friends grow restless - then arrested.
The snow mutes the cats soft mewling.
Babcia
To my grandmother
who I fear harbors great secrets from the rest of the Niedzweicki family:
The 500 hundred dollars came unexpectedly,
appeared in my bank account
the way Uncle Al unfurled rabbits in his palm
from the empty air.
My father and you both take to calling this
an inheritance.
Sometime earlier in the comfort
of your cool farmhouse kitchen
Mom and Dad shared stories with me of my grandfather
-- the snippets and scandal I never knew:
At the end of the Second Great War
-- during it or after, I’ll never be sure -
he was crippled, rested heavily on a staff.
I don’t remember the tilt, shuffle-thump of his gait;
Merely his sparsely matted scalp against a
fine lining of satin and mahogany.
He spent adulthood swindling from the government:
two social security checks
while refusing a full-paid orthopedic surgery
to continue the government’s compensation for
veterans with damaged bodies.
Too hides a distillery beneath the barn - a relic now -
but I struggle to conjure any other image of him than
as an old man.
I see now it is you -
who wed immediately after the War
-- who was whisked away to a dull little farm
you were convinced would be a ranch like in
black and white picture films
-- who lived the life of a wife -
that harbors the greatest secret of them all:
That you are actually dead.
Despite breathing and aching when you rise from bed
Despite that you will receive
my more gracious letter of thanks in the mail soon.
This feat you conquered is far greater:
to fake living so easily.
Wanting such seems to be enough
but in the night we lay silently
-- secretly wondering -
could our wanting outdo your desire
and bring you back to life?
Losing the Game
Starving for the downpour, our leaves brood.
The taunting sound of thunderclaps striking like pins knocking bodily together.
The achievement like a strike, we’d drink the sky if only we could.
The water rolls down the window pane
With the ease of soft worn shoes sliding over wood.
We watch hungrily as the summer night wanes.
We must rely on you to remember
To dote on our roots and our leaves that thirst.
Your neglect spins us down the stretch of black gutter.
Us forgotten, the coveted ground so full to burst
Nourishes Creeping Charlie and thatches of sweet clover.
But we stem up hidden from the rain - like a split - we are cursed.
Night turns to days to weeks; time hovers.
The frame frosts from the chill; our game is over.
“Red Self-Portrait”
Ed Paschke
I find it absolutely laughable
how painted on
and made up I have become.
Please step up -
admire my attempt to create in myself so many different things
if only I could bring you laughter.
My open mouth gapes - caught
motionless mimicking a mute bellow.
The wide berth of my entrance
to you silently conveys:
That I know you see how our
world is so blue,
But remember that on my carnival days
the hint of bubblegum lingers
in the dusty summer heat.
If you could only lick inside my mouth
to taste the
bitter lemon candy
tang I harbor just for you-
If your contrasted translucent skin,
stretched over the pure white bone of your knuckles,
curved over the flush of my face
as hot as flame-
If nothing else:
come look at me like I only
see and smell and wait for you
so that when I look through the glass
I see nothing and the lotus
wilts
in want and waiting silence.
** Or download the .pdf here. Let me know at any time if this link expires and I will renew it or just e-mail a copy of the .pdf file.
The first two: "Motherhood" and "Babcia" were inspired by my grandmother's recent bout of illness. I am thankful to say she has recovered. "Babcia" is "grandmother" in Polish.
"Losing the Game" initially was a persona poem about dead plants. However, for a fun revision exercise, a classmate made the rules that the it must be a terza rima and use bowling metaphors.
"Red Self-Portrait" is an ecphrastic poem based on Ed Paschke's artwork of the same title. The creepy thing the photo I use does not justify at all is that it's a hollogram, so the face follows you wherever you go. Currently, one version of this portrait is hanging in the Chazen Art Museum located on the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus.
Thank you for taking the time to read!