Poetry: "Progress" and "Portrait of Two Elderly Brothers

Progress

Already, while you are reading,

you have gone

a billion miles into space

and I have followed;

the earth around the sun,

the sun around the galaxy,

and the galaxy, like a child,

creeps toward faint lights

in our tunnel of darkness.

How could we understand?

We focus on the sun –

our tether to the present

day. And night turns,

the earth restless in sleep,

to find us looking back

at the stars, the salt of our past.

They scatter in every direction,

as knowingly or unknowingly

we are dragged along in silence.

---

Portrait of Two Elderly Brothers

Their room is dim, dark gold,

with gas lamps and the gray flicker

of a TV box-set in the corner,

facing them like the past.

The tea is waiting to sing

like their mother, so long ago,

from the kitchenette of the trailer.

The brothers scrunch together

on a florid coach, no longer

the size of their childhood.

It is the older, taller one’s home

and he sits, forced by his back

to lean forward, as if to kiss

his lost wife’s forehead,

while the younger one settles in

beside the brother he hasn’t seen

for years, when both of them

stood straighter, unburdened

by old bones. They share a good

many things: glasses, wrinkles,

and forgetfulness. Remember?

they say, their voices crackling

like a radio into the 1940s,

war-torn London when first

they were forced to leave

home – bombshells dropping

into their lives, their parents

watching them at the train station

wave from a crowd of boys, each one

stretching hands out the windows.

Who knew that life would endure

beyond the haunting whistle

of a buzz bomb, ready to explode?

The sound meant your life

had been preserved a little longer,

enough to starve, enough to feast,

each day closer to a living room

in a sea-side trailer with a library

of experiences unsaid between brothers,

some things never forgotten.

--- 

The first poem, "Progress," attempts to both show the concept that we are constantly moving forward, literally, in space, while also attempting to relate this to our general progress – how we often see forward and back within a relatively short span of time, unable to see the larger picture of how progress is really going.

The second poem attempts to recreate a view of the time I saw my father and uncle together for the first time. Because my uncle lives so far away (in Tasmania), my father doesn't always get to see him and I have only seen him once. It is one of the few times I have seen my father be a "sibling" and I wanted to recapture him in that role while at the same time describing a bit of the past that they both come from.

Hope you have enjoyed! As a reminder, if you would like to see my other blog where I share other's poetry, comment, and give writing prompts, go to thebardofthemorning.blogspot.com

Reviews: "Knee-knock Rise" and "The Alloy of Law"

Well, I've read two books of late and am in the middle of another longer and slower one. Here are the reviews:

Knee-knock Rise
Natalie Babbitt

I've come to expect good things from this author. She is a children's writer and is perhaps most famous for her story "Tuck Everlasting." I also especially love her story "The Search for Delicious."

This story is about a boy who visits a town where everyone is afraid of the "Megrimum," a mysterious creature that no one has ever seen on the top of the mountain Knee-knock Rise, but whose roars are often heard during thunderstorms. What he discovers may change the town forever.

As usual with this author, there is the surface story, which is interesting and delightful, and then there are the more thoughtful undertones that ponder on real life situations. For this reason, this is a wonderful book to take with you on an airplane ride. At ~100 pages, it's easily finishable during take-off and landing when you aren't allowed electronics. That's how I read this book, anyway.

Either way, if you're looking for a quick and simple story, or perhaps something fun to read and meaningful to your child, this book is a recommend for you.

The Alloy of Law
Brandon Sanderson

This is my second time through this book, the last time being last Christmas, and I still love it. I think it might be best to first read the Mistborn trilogy as it would help you to be familiar with the majority of the terminology and would help you appreciate the incredible world-building that Sanderson has done. That being said, this novel is capable of being read without said trilogy and it should still be incredibly enjoyable.

Set in a time-period that feels like the wild west, this story follow law-keeper Waxillium Ladrian as he moves from the Roughs back into the city. Here he tries to give up his "rough" past, but it may just be that the city is the more dangerous place. Soon he is caught up trying to solve the case of "The Vanishers" before time runs out.

This book has action, suspense, romance, philosophy, and more. It's a shame the sequel isn't out yet because I would love to continue reading this story. The characters are compelling and human and the world in which they live is incredibly well imagined. I highly recommend this novel for those who like a good fantasy novel with a mixture of suspense and mystery.

For my previous review of the same novel, check this out.

The End of Spring

The End of Spring

With rustling fig leaves
through the glass windows
and sheaves of shuffling papers
across classroom desks,

the teacher sings like a swallow
and the children shift like pebbles
in their slippery seats.

They whisper and imagine
the stern door sweeping open
with a flood of feet.

Soon, they know; they watch
the clock shave the seconds
with its glacial sliding.
So cold, yet it burns.

How can we forget summer –
the music in our fingers,
the sizzle on our tongues
waiting to scream?

Even before the bell rings,
winds rush like a hurricane,
lips buzz with held breath,

and we hear in everything
the shiver of change.

---

A couple nights ago I got an idea for a poem. In the past I've written some poems that focus on one image, one type of imagery, or a certain color, or the idea of sound-based images. This poem is a sound-based poem, but I also tried harder this time around to add the sound that I was using in the images to the words in the poem itself - in this case lots of s's, z's, and some f's. I hope you enjoy!

Poetry: June Challenge

Well, my friend and I tried to challenge ourselves again this past June to write 30 poems in 30 days. We didn't quite make it, but we still wrote poetry, which is more the point. Here are, in my mind, some of the better ones (8 in total). Read one, read all, or anything in between! Hopefully you find something you enjoy!

To Rock a Baby to Sleep

Make him believe
he’s returned to the womb,
arms wrapped up
in the green blanket,
that old rag you
used to suck on.
Even as his arms fight,

so also they resign
themselves at his side
like a soldier.
You want peace
as any parent,
who, sleepless, wants
sleep for everyone.

Hold him. Now,
imitate the ocean:
its swelling motion
in your knees,
its whispers slipping
through teeth, lips,
and hair on his head.

Be that gentle noise
he heard once
inside his mother
who climbed stairs
daily to work.

Take those steps
with him now cradled
in your arms. Steady
now, climb with him
up, down until his eyes
get lost in a memory
of darkness and warmth,
whispers and struggle.

---

The Surface at Dusk

At this time, the reflection is the clearest.

Here, the wind has stopped pushing us
and the white lake shaped like half-a-lung
is caught in a cage of black maples
like the clouds, now solitary islands
sending roots into the shadowed reeds.

I won’t leave like a breath in Winter.

The thin calm surface of its face
reminds me how hard it is to go
home after weeks of independence,
of being suddenly indescribably new.
It’s true; water seeks the deepest valleys,

and cuts through my dirt and my stone.

Once, I couldn’t sleep for lack of a name
for the feeling, but I watched and listened
as a friend half-hid himself on the corner
of our cabin and cried. There are no words
to describe absence of a place, only pictures

like sky being lake being men at night.

---

The Falcon

Above the bruised stones of the plaza
where I am watching children play –
teasing, talking, chasing each other down –
a falcon planes, solitary in the sky.
On cobbled stones, we are a swarm,
buzzing when we hear the grate of silence,
but the bird is calm, wings barely moving
in the wind; it chooses its own course
and by slight twists, mastered over time,
will not be carried away. It stays
a moment more motionless before rising
higher above us, searching for a path
invisible to those of us not watching. Everyone
continues playing, eyes shifting side to side,
but not upwards; and it goes, soaring away
like a spirit unnoticed in a white sky.

---

Caminos como relámpagos

Por sentarme aquí, el día
se alarga como un relámpago
bifurcado en nuestro cielo.

La llovizna sin parar
cubre la ventana oscura
y al ver brillar rayos blancos
de sol, mi alma se despega
de su pesadilla gris
y se escapa por la entrada
cerrada.
             Mi cuerpo inmóvil
sabe el fin de estas historias:
como la luz se tragará
y no se verá detrás
del techo manchado de agua
y nubes.
          Más tú no crees,
alma perdida en tu gozo,
que el momento te pasará.

Las gotas dulces atrapas
en manos sucias; mis manos
tú limpias con inocencia
y te veo y no me pierdo
por el camino brillante
de un día largo de lluvia
sin guía ni tierra estable.

Paths like Lightning

Because I sit here, the day
extends itself like lightning
forked in our sky.

The drizzle, without stop,
fogs the dark window
and seeing bright white rays
of sun, my soul unsticks itself
from its gray nightmare
and escapes by the entrance
shut tight.
          My body, motionless,
knows the end of these stories:
how the light will be swallowed
and won’t be seen behind
the roof stained with water
and clouds.
          But you don’t believe,
soul lost in your joy,
that the moment will pass you by.

The sweet drops you catch
with dirty hands; my hands
you clean with innocence
and I see you and I don’t lose myself
on the brilliant path
of a long day of rain
without guidance nor stable ground.

---

Summer Festivals

How often have I loved
a memory, only to touch it
and watch it blaze bright
like happiness in summer
into ashes and morning air.

Memories that take shape,
memories that grow fingers,
long hair, legs, and lips,
in the end slip into autumn
like rockets after the fireworks.

First the reds and blues fade
then the gray afterimage.
What remains of the beauty
is the desire to touch it again
like a dream after waking.

How much longer can I live
holding on to mementos:
festival prizes, mirrors and masks?
I’m weighed down and I’m afraid
to touch what may crumble.

---

A Response

Today, across the street, I heard you
calling for your child and at that moment
a satellite sent a message into space.
I heard the silence after you called
like the hum of a hive buzzing louder
in its wax cells and I remembered
the cicadas song waking me in May
to an empty house. Where did the child go
that you can’t find her? You called again
and dogs barked from across the ocean.

The world was full with your voice
and where it was night, wolves howled
at the sun’s replacement, battered and full
with reflections. A searchlight swept the sky
above the chatter on an old county fair,
an attraction so crowded, it’s easy
to get separated from the ones you love.
As if from a child, a red balloon rose
inside my throat and I wanted to say,
I hear you. I hear you. I hear you.

---

Shaken Loose

Today, the leaves fell harder.
Perhaps it was the late winter yawning
or the summer stretching its newfound fingers,
but the wind carried wide-handed oak leaves down
and the maple seeds soon followed, curious,
by the thousands until they lay broken across the sidewalk.

Too often I believe I’ve found it:
a place to put down roots and open up
the knot that twists through my throat
and around my ribcage. But I can see
the birds point away again. Their shape, a shovel
sweeping over the pit they’ve left, this nest, the solid ground –
or an arrowhead flying blind, without a shaft.

---

The Price

Five-hours out of town,
the nearest one with an airport
to where my family sleeps
in a home with an empty bed,
the covers, perhaps, still drawn,
I am weighing in my hands
the price of a starry night,
clean of the midnight oil
cities spill across the sky,
against the home dinner
conversations that revolve around
a wooden table, not a world,
and what is work worth
when it pulls me so far
into a forest without guideposts.

Review: Haroun and the Sea of Stories

Haroun and the Sea of Stories
Salman Rushdie

Mom was right, this book is my kind of book. It reminds me of one of my favorite books of all time "The Phantom Tollbooth" in that it elevates the imagination to a new level and makes you think about reality in a new light.

The story deals with Haroun Khalifa and what happens when his father loses his Gift of Gab, his ability to tell stories. In truth there are two stories here - the story about Haroun and his family and the story about the sea of stories that parallels in many ways the situation with his family.

Similar to "The Phantom Tollbooth" that I mentioned earlier, this book takes real words and plays with them; it takes imaginative ideas that seem impossible to us and makes them real. In this way, it takes us away from the way we normally contemplate the words, the ideas, and the real situations that they represent. Where we land is, literally, out of this world.

All I can do for you is recommend that you (all of you) read this. The language is rich, the characters are compelling, and the ideas are fascinating. I leave you with some quotes from the book:

“He knew what he knew: that the real world was full of magic, so magical worlds could easily be real.”

“Believe in your own eyes and you'll get into a lot of trouble, hot water, a mess.”

“I always thought storytelling was like juggling [...] You keep a lot of different tales in the air, and juggle them up and down, and if you're good you don't drop any.”

“Nothing comes from nothing... ; no story comes from nowhere; new stories are born from old--it is the new combinations that make them new.”