Reading Number Two for Vince

Today’s reading is from the ever changing and growing series I call “The School Bus Poems.” This is the completely rewritten number one. I think I like it. I hope you enjoy.

1.

Weekday mornings on Bald Eagle Street
I’d wait for the bus. On winter days I’d hide
at the side of the house, by the dryer vent,
cupping damp warmth with woolen gloves as mom
in the cellar washed socks and jeans and sheets.

But Saturdays I would sit inside, close my eyes,
lean back against the machine. My feet tucked
in an empty laundry basket, I huddled up
to the hum and heat, soothed by the beat
of its rocking cycle, safe in my little cave.

These moments my world was my own
and small enough to see it all, the narrow
walk between our house and Aunt Cindy’s,
a slice of the street, a glimpse of the promise
of my back yard, even though the swing

was covered in ice. There were tunnels
in the snow back there, colder than my basement
cavern. I could defend behind white walls, gasping
dragon’s breath, from ledges lined with snowballs,
solid ammo to defend my fort from any foe,
the young hero, stirred and ready to emerge.

A Reading for Vince

Alright, sir, for you, I am breaking my rule of not posting my poems online. Well, ok, it’s also fun to get some feedback, so I hope you enjoy this. The poem is printed just below the video.

A Response to Billy Collins

Kayaking on the Susquehanna,
now that’s something I’m quite likely to do,
in July or any month, as long as there’s no ice.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a painting
of someone kayaking on the Susquehanna,
or any other stream or river in Pennsylvania.

My own body feels it now, the ache, the pull
of muscles as I row this pushing, pumping
rhythm, the meter of my stroke a little off–

two beats to port for each one
at starboard. This little sit-on-top is made
for ocean waves, not upstream track.

But it’s all the kayak I have, so I row
on the Susquehanna, my backyard fountain.
This far north of Harrisburg where west

meets main, the water’s deep, at least
when the dam is up. It’s inflatable, you know,
like the ego of poets who don’t know

of boats and bats swooping past,
fishing poles, and calloused hands,
curved paddles that dip and scoop

and drip the Susquehanna into your lap.
It’s dusk; two ducks, then a loon flap past,
wings nearly tip the waves. I tire and drift

the way we poets do when we’ve pushed
the pen too hard, and need to let the stream
find us again, take us where it will.

The slow current spins me facing downstream
toward a low waxing moon, and even the rise
of countless mayflies doesn’t hide the glow

of pink sky above a jumbled bank of trees.
I imagine, as I glide toward docking,
a man in a museum, mind adrift,

gazing at a picture of a stranger
kayaking on the Susquehanna.
Somehow he senses something missed,

and he thinks to write of his regret,
fleeting as a Pennsylvania rabbit,
remorse for a euphoria he’ll never know–

shoulders sore, a setting sun,
the moon and first few stars over slow
roving water. Up ahead a bass jumps

for the day’s last mayfly. From far away
I feel his gaze, rub my neck as I clamber
onto the dock, and sigh a little for his loss.

Talking About Style with Carl Sandburg

In my renaissance poetry class last week we talked about how mankind really only has so many stories. I mean, we seem to think they are endless, but truly we often tell the same stories over and over. We change the names, a few details, but honestly, there are no new stories to be had. What is unique is the style, the way the tale is told. That’s what makes it interesting.

This discussion had me thinking of this Carl Sandburg piece from the Chicago Poems. It reminds me why I am no longer in a workshop with teenagers questioning my technique.

Style

STYLE—go ahead talking about style.
You can tell where a man gets his style just as you
can tell where Pavlowa got her legs or Ty Cobb his
batting eye.  

    Go on talking.
Only don’t take my style away.
      It’s my face.
      Maybe no good
          but anyway, my face.
I talk with it, I sing with it, I see, taste and feel with it, I
know why I want to keep it.  

Kill my style
            and you break Pavlowa’s legs,
            and you blind Ty Cobb’s batting eye. 

- Carl Sandburg

A Poem Yet to be Entitled

Well, I normally don’t post my poems on my blog, but this one is probably more therapy than poetry anyway. And if I do ever submit it for publication it will have gone through multiple edits by then and have been removed from this page and hopefully from google’s memory. Sigh…

In the meantime, it’s only fair for you to see a glimpse of my work, especially as it relates to the recent changes in my life that I talked about in the last post the other day.

It still needs a title. I’m curious what your suggestions might be.

This yellow, three quarter moon
feels familiar, so bloated
and heavy it cannot stay afloat,
slowly slumps behind
the garden of our old home.

This glass of chardonnay
hanging from my hand,
half full and swirling,
is dry and cold, but rich
as our history.

I stand here in the dying light
empty yet full of memory,
sinking, with the wine
in my glass, with the moon
behind your house.

I too have lost some part
of me, or find it darkened
as a passing decade blocks
reflections, and the wine fails
to show the sparkle of even a single star.

Unlike the moon’s memory,
your absence is not a phase.
Unlike the wine there are no more
bottles of your vintage left
to fill me. I let the wine go
and stars reflect in the shattered glass.

Palm Readings, Reflections and Projections

Turn Over Your Hand

Those lines on your palm, they can be read
for a hidden part of your life that only
those links can say– nobody’s voice
can find so tiny a message as comes
across your hand. Forbidden to complain,
you have tried to be like somebody else,
and only this fine record you examine
sometimes like this can remember where
you were going before that long
silent evasion that your life became.

A poem by William Stafford from his book An Oregon Message.
Harper and Row, NY © 1987

Now, why that poem is significant at this point in my life could be easily guessed at by many of my friends and colleagues. But please don’t think that I mean that my entire relationship of ten years was any kind of total loss. That’s not at all what I mean. I think if I have come to understand anything in these many months (six since the break up; five since I moved out), it is that I truly did love that man.

Surprising? Well, no. At least not to me, though that second-guess-over-analyze-it-all tendency I have does find it a bit of a relief, as if some kind of argument was settled. He’s a good man. There is a lot he doesn’t understand, but I’ve come to realize that the same can be said of me. I think we both made some mistakes, and part of the after-sadness is thinking about what we might have done better. But it was never a question of whether I loved him. It was a question of why we couldn’t seem to solve our problems, why we couldn’t seem to understand each other, or connect… why both of us were so very lonely.

I suppose there could be many reasons, other than love, that influenced my willingness to stay together for entire decade. Financial stability (a two income home is one practical thing I miss), companionship (even if it was often sparse), familiarity, a history, and honestly often times, despite it all, we really did like each other. I do still care about him, respect him and wish him the very best. He works so hard for it. I do wish that we could be friends, and had even hoped for a time that we could repair what was broken, but I understand that being best buds is just too difficult for him. Still I wish we could at least say hello, or that he would answer the door when I drop things (pictures, etc, things that ended up in my moving boxes by mistake) off at his home.

So why did my blogging come to a halt back in December? It just became too difficult. My other projects, GayFatherhood.com, my poetry, my participation in the local group Gay Men of Faith, all suffered, and most fell to the way-side all together; I felt I had only enough energy for me and my sons. An honest assessment is that I was depressed. And when I am hurt I tend to do one of two things that I am ashamed of. One, I retreat into myself, the old turtle in his shell analogy. It often becomes so bad that my sister or a good friend will finally call and ask, “Just checking; Are you dead?” The second way I deal with the pain is to lash out at those close to me, well, usually those close, but occasionally some unsuspecting bystander who pisses me off at the wrong moment ends up feeling the shocking full blast of my fury.

I have stories to tell about all of this. I couldn’t tell them for some time, but now looking back, perhaps it would help me to go over things a bit, see what I’ve learned and what I could do better in the future. But honestly if it would have served any purpose for me to vent my pain in the moment, I am sure it would have either bored or drowned my readers in it’s maudlin flood of emotions. And in the end would have only been embarrassing for me (“Oh no, you mean I wrote that?). So be thankful for both of us that we dodged those angry bullets and skirted those deep waters.

Better that I write something productive now as I look back and gaze forward. And if you care to follow along, maybe what I write will help you too. I doubt it, but hey, hope springs eternal, right? So the next several entries, maybe the next several months will probably be me working out the details of this journey I’ve been on and seeing where I’ve come, and (cross your fingers) hopefully getting a clearer glimpse of this path I’m laying out before me.

Thanks for reading, friend. Thanks for caring. And you people know who you are, I cannot speak the thanks owed to you for being there for me through all of this. I don’t deserve it, and I love you for wanting to disagree with that statement.

OK, more about that palm reading by Stafford and what I mean about that long silent evasion next time. We’ve gone deep enough for day one.

Inside the Mind of a 15 Year-Old Boy, Part 2

In the words of Jonathan:

“Dad, you know that statistics indicate far more accidents result from texting while driving than from drinking and driving.

But the greatest danger of all is drinking and texting.”

Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes

Micah records me reading to Miranda a poem by Billy Collins.

A Good Day for Lady Liberty and Steve Perry

It’s been a good day in so many ways. The inauguration of the nation’s new president; the 92 Jonathan got on his mid term; the knowledge that Steve Perry is now eligible for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (hey, that’s what Jonathan said when defining his criteria for a good day).

To celebrate we actually turned around and pulled the car over for this unprecedented photo opportunit.

What’s Morally Wrong with Homosexuality?

I am posting this pretty much everywhere today. It looks like this lecture embodies so much of all of the little discussions I’ve had with folks lately. I’m tempted to buy the video and force my brothers and sisters to sit and watch it. Check it out at The Gay Moralist

What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?

Happy New Year

From David
and the Boys!

Happy Christmas and Merry Holidays!

From Drop Box