On Leaving Home

I've been posting like crazy this month. Anyway, two poems about leaving home: the first is my most recent poem, and the second is one of my oldest from high-school days. Enjoy!

The State of My Room Before I Left Home

The door closed and sticky from blue

tack and poster tape; the fold-up chair

folded into the closet corner; the carpet

covered by laundered clothes, ready

to pack in my case, large as a coffin;

it gaped its black body on the bed.

The desk was clean of crumpled paper

drafts, pencils, and clocks (cleaner

than it had ever been, similar

to how they dress the dead in suits

they didn’t wear, and pay with their lips

the respect they didn’t receive.)

Old shirts hung limp in the wardrobe,

left behind, empty of my torso

for years; unused pants didn’t kick

from inside the wooden bureau;

instead the quiet thumping broke

from the stuffed animal on my pillow.

A foot pounded the hard empty case

in one last breath of rejection;

and draped over the large white bear

my brother handed down, my arm clung

across its fuzzy chest, its face only one

of a hundred dead expressions.

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This poem started with the last four lines that just popped into my head while I was at church today. Don't know why, but there they were (not exactly as you see them now, but the concept). So I started to think about why I would be clinging to a teddy bear in my room and I felt like leaving home was the most appropriate subject for that. And then, as I wrote the poem, all these other death images started coming to mind, but it worked out I think. I like it at least.

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Leaving Home

Leaning against the doorway,

I watch the shadows

            settling across the room.

I listen as the rain falls

            gray skies past my windows:

                        a strange and listless gloom.

Wish I could wait

            just a little bit longer.

Eyes lingering on my suitcase,

I want to turn on the lights,           

            to chase the shadows away.

I long to lie beneath my quilt,

            beside my empty desk

                        and memorize my room’s array.

Wish I could sleep

until I was stronger.

            

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It's funny how my two main poems about leaving home have been written large timespaces away from actually leaving home, as this one was written either junior or sophomore year of high-school, while the first one was written today (And I consider myself as having left home Winter 07). I don't think either poem actually captures the real feeling I had - for to me it mainly just felt odd and unreal, yet natural. Still, I do believe that both capture bits of emotion - the first, the feeling of the end of childhood and the passing of something important in life - the second, more the desire to linger in the comfort of the known and to not forget the past. I like them both and I hope you've enjoyed them too!

A Little Locura

These poems perhaps only a few will read, but from those who follow me regularly (i.e. my family) I'd like some comments on how to work with them. One is from months ago, one from a week ago, and one from yesterday. Let me know what you think. I'll also provide commentary, as usual.

Let’s Be Rebels

It’s Friday night; I said let’s

look up an exotic recipe to cook,

shuffle cards and deal a game we’ve never played,

while we wait for the seasoned meat

to become tender.

Tonight, we can chase fireflies across a dark field,

listen as cars howl behind a patch of pines,

chuck a ball around, or a disc, or words:

I’ll hear you in the alley between abandoned buildings

and you’ll find me beneath the brooklet bridge.

These days, the rest want a less memorable evening.

The herd squeezes into a smoky disco joint

and fill their mugs from the river Lethe.

Suddenly strangers in a room of strobe shadows, they forget

who they are, where they are, or why.

Let’s you and I remember this night!

Let’s pull the moon close.

Let’s learn to swing dance in the empty park.

There we can spin until our clothes flutter in the light

like flags of rebellion at midnight. 

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So I have this theory which says that I'm a rebel. It seems many people claim to be rebellious nowadays when in truth, they are just following the herd. The "rebel" without a clue is nothing more than a follower. So why am I a rebel? Because I'm against the actions of the masses around me - in the case of this poem that would be getting drunk or smoking their lives away each weekend. The best times I've had have often come from spontaneous fun and doing something new. So all that is a bit of what I was trying to get at with this poem, the only trouble is that I feel this poem gets a little preachy and perhaps sentimental. I like the image of the last line, but somehow I don't like how I put it. It feels a little forced. I don't know - I just feel like this poem needs some reworking but I'm not sure where to start.

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The Madman’s Room

It only looks like a door, white and wooden

face to my room, hinge resistant

and unblinkable. A stone before a tomb.

Who can enter? A moist must leaks like sweat

out the cracks, the odor of doom–

dead skin flakes, dust, and garbage stacks.

Even incense can’t mask the grating at dark:

the itching clicks or jolts of frr! gt! shh!

Silence! Fingers snap like an odd clock’s tick.

And I, I twinge at these sudden night jerks

beyond the wall, where the empty man glooms

a ghastly racket that shivers down the hall.

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No real comment for this one other than to say that poetry is fiction; i.e. I don't want to worry anyone. I just want to know if it works well.

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Solidity

Punch your scrunched fist against me;

we could both fit on a pinhead –

the room inside each atom of your hand is barren:

           

            The edge sand whirls far

            away from the desert’s eye

            where cracked land stretches.

This is your yellow palm.

The electrons circle in thin lines stadiums from the core:

            Thick oceans revolve

            the top layer of earth’s onion

            never tasting depth.

Our eyeballs watch like this.

The nucleus is abandoned to watch the stars spin dizzy:

            The sky’s center flame

            burns and twists in a dead space

            we can’t hope to touch.

So smash your red fist against a table, a wall, a home.

Feel the emptiness reject you.

See how little of us exists.

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This entire poem comes from a mind-boggling concept that I was recently reminded of in astronomy class. In reality I'm not angry nor is anyone angry at me (so far as I know), but it was the example in the book to "Smash your fist against a table" and then to realize that because of all the empty space inside each atom, the truth is that all that matter (you and the table) could fit on the head of a needle if scrunched together. Yeah, it blows your mind to think about it. And so I started to write the poem and then I realized that I'd have to use some technical terms, but that I'd have to ground these terms somehow with images, so I opted to try the use of extended metaphors which I decided to put into haikus. A while back when I was reading the Iliad, I got inspired by his use of long extended metaphors that he would put , though all I've tried so far are short ones. Anyway, because the topic is a little confusing, I was wanted someone else's perspective and opinion.

Thanks! Love y'all!

The Train Yard...

The train yard is my backyard

Mostly, the train tracks are unused

except by red spray cans and the graffiti

artists dry of imagination. School boys

trapeze the thin rails; they practice their poise,

balance their cool, burn up their fuse

‘til its gone, and the bus rolls in.

Harry saw the deep metallic lines

and begged me to stop by the rusted tracks

to hear a train smoke its stack

if it ever chugged through town.

We waited 10 minutes. He whined

When, when will it come by?

It never passed us and I

saw them as skid marks that couldn’t slow down;

two black ruts where the government wheeled

us along until we didn’t ride.

Every week Harry plays awhile, then feels

the steely cold deepen and we slip inside.

Rare midnights the whistle blows,

but I gave up the black window long ago,

content to listen to high-pitch descend

like the wails of any other ghost

lost on a limited circular trail.

I wished it would end.

And then it came while I drove along the rail

in middle March; out from a teething tree

its cars drove in tandem beside me.

I became the train and we did not budge

from each other. It rattled like a toy

shaken by the violent curiosity of a boy

who’s found it sounds much

like blue rain. I was caught in the pull:

my old childhood hitched behind

that giant block, the iron cargo hull

packed with heavy gifts and we resigned

then to age, give, and be forgotten.

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One thing I love about taking a poetry class is that I'm constantly inspired. Oh, not always directly by a certain poem, but by words here and there, or a structure I hadn't considered or noticed. There've been several poets by now in the course who have had poems with 6-line stanzas, sometimes with consistant rhyming, others no.

I wrote this poem because of two things: the time I spent with my niece and nephew last weekend, and, yes, Harry wanted to see the train tracks all over town and wanted to see the train roll by (although it neve did). And then, it is also true that I was driving home one evening (and I do live next to the railroad tracks) and I found myself driving alongside the train at almost the same speed and I thought it was pretty cool. 

And then, I just started thinking about how I could put these experiences in poetry and what I could learn and eventually I wrestled the poem onto a page. I hope you enjoy! 

Sonnet#10 Homeward Call

Sonnet #10 Homeward Call

My Father said that faith is strength begun

by acts. The constant sift of dross refines:

a fire beneath the vial of siphoned years.

And I, a son, I’ve strolled away from home.

These days few static words come through my call,

and yet his voice returns, his song surrounds;

like subtle birds, he hears on cobbled streets

the patter, hears the rain of naked feet

and sings with heavy wings that prayerful sound

we chant each day to work, to graves; it’s all

the same. The vast with thunderous steps points home.

The anvil’s fire inside your covered ears,

refines the metal gold, and opens mines

left wrecked in cowered shafts of faith undone.

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There are many things I've accomplished in this poem that I've wanted to do for a while.

1. It's been a while since I've written in form, and of all the forms, the sonnet and the villanelle are my favorites. Writing a sonnet always feels like an achievement.

2. From what I've read in the Bible and the Book of Mormon, I've wanted to write a chiasmus within my poetry. I don't know how obvious it is, but this poem is a full chiasmus all the way.

3. I feel like I have really condensed and compact lines here. I'm trying not to waste words, especially dealing with a sonnet where wasting words would just sound terrible.

Anyway, it took me a couple edits to get this far, but I'm certain there's plenty of tweaking I could do. Let me know if there's anything in particular you liked, didn't like, or didn't get and I'll see what I can do. Thanks!

The Thomas Experience

Thomas

While you were busy sleeping, the door you left unlocked creeps open

to let in a stumbler, a midnight alcoholic smoker who could be

a rager, coals on his fat tongue and a brown bottle ready to break

against the wall.                                   

                                     You could die.

Instead you wake up, shower,

the day to day routine. Only when you step into the living room

do you find him snoozing on the rental couch, your TV and computer left

where you left them.

First you think of police, and then no.

He curls like an abused child.

He didn’t even use the cheap blankets.

His phone alarm sounds, and he sits up, asking you

what time is it? can I use the bathroom?

Nothing of where am I? or who are you?

Subdued, you oblige his set of requests,

then you walk him outside

to the parking lot where he first becomes confused,

before discovering that single side street

he recognizes.

His name is Thomas.

How many of him are there?

An ugly force of nature, docile this time,

harmless how many times?

   A homeless god with divine luck.

   a night spirit with a touch of wind.

   a trickster djinn with a weary mask,

   or a derelict demon taking a break.

            Though his presence lingers,

            build no shrine.

It could all be undone in a burning wisp of faith.

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If there's one name of a stranger I'll never forget, it's Thomas. For those of you unfamiliar with the experience, I forgot to leave the door to my apartment locked one evening. The next morning, I casually, lazily even, woke up, took a shower, got dressed and all, before wandering out into the living room to find a random guy sleeping on my couch. So what's the first thing I do? I post it on facebook. It doesn't even cross my mind to call the police, though that's what everyone recommended as soon as they saw my status. For some reason, I felt pretty calm about the whole thing. Part of that is because it was obvious he hadn't touched anything in the room. Anyway, the real story goes that I had somewhere I was going that morning with a friend of mine, so I just called up my friend for him to come over earlier. A little after he got here, the stranger's phone alarm went off, he asked me what time it was. I told him. I also told him that he'd probably ended up in the wrong home and I asked him if he lived around here (I thought he was a drunk who had mistaken this apartment for his own). He said no that he didn't live here, but he had driven here. He told us his name was Thomas and he offered us some gum and then asked if he could use the restroom (we accepted the gum). After that we all walked outside. When we got to the parking lot he looked for his car and then turned to us and said "Wait... where AM I?" And then he noticed a street across the road and recognized it and went off in that direction. That is the story of Thomas.

I always knew he'd end up in my poetry one day, an experience like that. I almost hope that he'll be a recurring character, someone who finds his way into many poems. But either way, this is the first poem about him. I hope you enjoy it!

Apple Days

Apple Days 

Thus he names the season,
my nephew, riding on the back
of the bike, a red helmet wrapped around
his tiny head, full of growing seeds.

When his father takes him
down this bowl-shaped road,
he knows the destination is a field
of fallen fruit, free to pick,

and so he presses against my back,
as if feeling for the bruises
and tells me these are apple days,
not knowing what I don’t know.

When his mother kneels with him
beside the green apples innocently
strewn like his three-year old toys
over the newborn grass,

does he know that the tree
also kneels with him, shades him
with the end of summer leaves, before
casting away the heavy fruit?

I took the branches leading home,
and learned that I was already
a tree, still budding white flowers
the pink tinge of spring now fading.

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            So this last Sunday I was riding a bike with my 3 year old nephew in a kid's seat and we were having a heart to heart talk. Really, it sort of surprised me how in depth our conversation was considering the boy's age. But anyway, on the course of the ride, he started telling me about his apple days, when he would go and pick apples with Mommy and Daddy. I couldn't help but be reminded of the famous Shakespeare quote "My salad days, when I was green in judgement." I almost considered putting that line in with the poem as an epigraph (should I?). Later, I found out that he was talking about that because he's used to his parents taking him to pick apples whenever they go on a bike ride together (I didn't know, so of course we didn't go pick apples). Later, while I was thinking about the experience, I decided I ought to write a poem about it, and so I did. Hope you've enjoyed it! Does it end too soon? If you have any comments on that or anything else about it, let me know :) 

Twenty-One Birthdays (plus two)

Okay, so today is my 23rd birthday, so leading up to it, I wrote a bunch of birthday poems. The poem ends with number 21, because that's a more poetic number to stop at. That being said, a quick read will show that I've skipped several in the middle because I JUST CAN'T REMEMBER! Mom, you can help me out with this maybe? Anyway, I may repost this once I have more parental input. Still, I hope you like at least one of the poems within, if not the poem as a whole (there is an overall theme in some sense). If you'd like to comment on which poems you liked best (or any other comments), I'd also really appreciate it. Enjoy!

Twenty-One Birthdays

I.

Once I had a memory

that I didn’t know was darkness

until I fell into the light.

I’m told I cried,

shaking every appendage

and gasping air

I had never yet breathed.

Today, nobody sees it, but change

is still a tunnel I should not resist.

II.

The unknown last year

cradled in my lush vale. Then

home slipped east downstream.

III.

The home was building

stairs to replace steep ladders

to hidden attics.

We dwelled on an edge island,

and I didn’t know by then

what to remember.

IV.

Three little piggies

and I was pink plump

watching the puppets

with my playmates

beside the prizes

by the fireplace,

there was even a fireplace

playing within me.

V.

We were ninjas, jumping down rolling green hills,

spinning through the uncut hay grass,

dizzy between the flitting sky and dirt,

but mostly with our eyes closed.

We were turtles, diving in a green pond,

dodging the algae and the dying yellow leaves,

then scattering tadpoles at the narrow beach,

that strip of sand too small for all of us.

VI.

We all had shimmering skin

having slid down water slides

all day. Summer Waves, the park

was full back then with remnants of summer:

adults bustling and children swimming

in the undulating wave pool, sinking beneath

or staying afloat with plastic yellow donuts.

I guess that was the last of the late autumns;

I find that place strewn with emptiness

and the shadows of stray kids grown older.

VII.

Or was this the year of the water park?

My family gathered beneath a white gazebo, beside

a round table and a round cake, to squeeze

icing through design nozzles and plastic

white sheets. Even a mess can be a work of art,

and this dessert sucked us in, much like a vacuum

searches for anything to replace the empty space,

even memories.

VIII.

An east coast Huntington Beach,

I was drawn to the ocean,

drawn as well as

the green eight dollar bill cake,

filled with pennies, nickels and dimes,

that my mother laid before us

to sink our teeth in.

IX.

Like bright wrapping paper,

bursting with yellow and orange circles,

I wanted to save this until I

grew up, as a reminder of

fruitful days.

If only I could rewrap this

head, and make it new,

nothing would be wasted.

X.

My sisters baked a cookie, so large

it filled the square pan,

every inch now

crust and chocolate,

hot and crisp,

ready to served.

But they let it cool, and drew with icing,

basketball hoop and netting,

well weaved by their hands

to toss a ball inside,

a point to make,

a goal to achieve.

XI.

This time we slid down the backyard hill, nothing like

the mountains of Vermont, but then again,

we weren’t trying to slide through time,

like I am, today.

The purple plastic slide, the hose, the bubbles, nothing

could make us go so fast. Even so we leapt

forward, and didn’t mind the mud at

the bottom of the moment.

XII.

New school year, new school, no new friends,

the curse of autumn birthdays.

And yet,

without trying,

I know of two friends

who would’ve been by me.

Though the flame burns quickly,

the candles on the cake grow slowly

each year.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

I still have the picture we took on the back porch,

filled with brown leaves, my friends, and I

heaped around the green ping-pong table,

like the piles of leaves,

before they dried out.

XVII.

This was the year it began,

the sense of years leaving me behind,

and the birthday a monotony of back and forth,

like the game of ping-pong

we played, the four of us.

two friends,

and the friend of a friend.

XVIII.

A quiet family affair,

my best friend also, and his mother.

We sat around the dining room table

where once we played underneath,

and giggled as we pasted stickers to the table legs,

we now kept our legs crossed,

and our laughter visible.

XIX.

My brother and sisters had left home

and though we celebrated early

my new year, I was also leaving

to Japan; the turnings of the sun and moon

past midnight happened somewhere

over the deep Pacific ocean.

I also was continually sinking

in and out of sleep

within a pressured darkness.

XX.

And then a smell rustled me awake in Spain,

in a ancient town of La Mancha,

four windmills stopped on the local hill.

Cinnamon and Maple syrup,

my friend made me French Toast,

took me out for pizza,

and bought me New York Cheesecake.

I’ve been around the world and found

warmth at the core.

XXI.

I didn’t care that nothing

special happened

and no one noticed.

Then, I went about doing good

and forgetting myself.

In truth, I didn’t wear a smile for show.

Then, it felt like I was growing older

at the turn of every week

and growing in family.

I've understood by now; my new years

begin with autumn.

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(P.S. This is 800+ words, enough to be a two page paper)