Week 14 (or 15) - Revised Poem

Lov*

Here, in this now-after, I think of my family dogs with their Turkish names,

the guns that hung in my father’s glass case,

and how we honored the Samurai mounted on stones

above my head. Knives, in my family, were like vodka:

expensive and chilled. I’d like to think I’m not that cold

and simple, yet, as I stare at this plot of ground to which I’ve been summoned

I admit I’ve always been wary of my superiors,
in particular, my parents.

It began when I was small, this uncertainty, with my father’s large hands

instructing me to find the hidden truths among the leaves

of the Grimm Brothers and Homer with the moderation

of a skinner lurching over a fresh kill.

Always hunt for the purpose, my son, no matter what task you perform.

As I grew, he delivered Nietzsche, Sun Tzu, Adolf,

and Nabokov. I was commanded to learn

from the white spaces of the text: That is where the true life

of a man is lived, my son. You must never forget.

My father’s voice continues to track my path of flight,

his shadow rising from Tartaros melding

with the slung rocks of my youth.

Occasionally, he would ignore my education

to sit with my mother and toast the clear distillation

of their shared life. He would call her Catherine, and she would laugh

each time the freshly bound tobacco tinged her favored

leather chair. Her hair and skin glowed around him, the pale fire

of an ancient Nordic goddess.

On those nights she hummed, a song unlike herself,

but on nights without his presence, she could dismantle a palace

with her Thomas Mann handshake.

She reveled in her fights with the Northern Wind,

proclaiming him to be the true warrior of her soul.

It was a passion I never understood.

Even now, as I stand before their two statues,

remnants of ash frozen in time, plaster castings of a Herculaneum disaster

I can still hear her scraping cough. Love, she used to say, my son

love is like a steel wire.

It will hold a beautiful painting just as easily as it will slice through a man’s neck.

* In Croatian, Czech, and Slovakian the word lov means “hunt.”

New Draft - Week 13 (I think)

*This draft evolved from a long forgotten calisthenics we did at the beginning of the semester. I wanted to write something new. I was becoming frustrated with the other drafts I have been working on. And, yes, the title is supposed to be spelled that way. I was experimenting with another language. I thought it was interesting that the title sounds like our word "love" but in a few Eastern European languages it means "hunt."*

Lov

I sprawl myself across the roof’s slope

stare at the Saturn,

the one I was told to monitor.

“Oi, you need to hurry the fuck up you know!”

and so I did, and so I sit, and so I watch, and so I wait.

Thinking of my family’s dogs and their Turkish names,

and, the guns that spoke Korean,

and how the Samurai were honored in silent bows.

Knives, in my family, were like vodka. Best served expensive and chilled.

I’d like to think I’m not that simple

but I’ve always been wary, constantly, of my superiors.

Including my parents. They are to be trusted

the least. Particularly, my mother.

With an insatiable appetite and scraping cough,

she could dismantle a palace 

with a Thomas Mann handshake.

The road below me drizzles as some tourists

pull fruit from their pockets,

meager rations for the already tipsy.

They stumble and slide, unprotected

indexes and thumbs galvanizing skins

and I find I can see the seeds

clinging to the white spaces of their texts.

Nabokov and my father would be proud.

Week 13 - Poem

This is the third revision. Not sure what to do with it anymore.

Gabriel
Despicably handsome he dimples,
illuminates when she’s around.
The young American woman
with whom he swaps innocuous smiles.
Droplets of snow in her honey hair
pause the roving wind
of his cerulean eyes – typical.
And so…he tempts with a smooth Rauchbier voice
promising discos and drinks,
a night of vacationing fun.
Until…she catches a flash
of momentary gold on his right ring finger.
Ignoring the darkening grin
she points to the halo
wrapped around a long ago forgotten vow,
left on the shores of some distant flussufer:
“In my country that means something,” she tells him.
Shouldering his eyebrows,
he moves the ring.
Right. Left.
Then right again,
and settles it on his left to rest.
Ambered sincerity drips with perfection:
“It’s just a ring.”

Week 12 - Rewrite of Week 11

Taking everyone's commentary into consideration, this is what I came up with. ~ Laura

When I was fifteen, she slurred,

a withering smile was all I could supply

to a world where two hills –

the last lumps of terrain –

started and stopped in the courts

of Madame Alexander, Ashton Drake, and Franklin Mint.

With their genteel faces painted,

organized by height and expense,

they ruled in a land

where flypaper horses stung

propelling steers across rivers of asphalt and creosote.

Before I could be reported a phony

by 358 pairs of marble spies,

I chose the pasture beyond the main house.

The stale incense of manure

on a frayed bridle and leather bound hay

offered the only escape

to the annual week of expected resignation.

Duty obliged. Honor called.

Still,

allowing the heat to slither

through the irises and saran wrap the lungs

in dust was preferable

to the frozen image of porcelain

I knew I was never going to be.

I was too much my Brooklyn mother!

I wanted to careen through the bottled tourmaline

and, like a phone line

under duress...

snap.

Workshop Draft Rewrites - Week 11

* This is the initial rewrite after the poem workshop. I wanted to repost so the class could see where I went from here.*

The first night I considered love,
you dropped me
on a ring of campfire stones
your jester's hat tripping
across the 2 A.M. October.
I might have known then
but I was too busy listening
to the sound of laughter - ours –
breaking the night.
Nimblewill Creek defused
the alcohol as easily as we shivered
away from boots, jackets, and apologies.
On an air mattress,
the makeshift bed of your truck,
we traced the bony shadows of trees.
Reticence stopped all conversation,
eventual and blurred.
We pressed our eyes shut
warmed by flannel cocoons
and woke, I fear, to the smell
of trout, bulging filmstrips of rainbow
frying away the afternoon.



*After reviewing all the notes and inventories from class, this is the second rewrite (so, the third draft) of my workshop poem. I'm still not sure what to title the draft, and the form is bugging me. Any suggestions?*

You dropped me on a ring
of campfire stones
the first night I considered love.
As your jester’s hat tripped
across the 2 A.M. October,
I might have known then
but I was too busy listening.
to the sound of laughter – ours –
breaking the night.
Nimblewill Creek defused
the stale beer and cranberry vodka
easily as we shivered
away our boots, jackets, and apologies.
On the air mattress,
a makeshift bed of your truck,
we traced the bony shadows of trees.
Ash and elm, maple and pine,
stopped all conversation.
Reticence, eventual, blurred,
pressed our eyes shut.
Warmed by flannel cocoons,
we woke to the smell of trout
bulging filmstrips of rainbow
frying away the afternoon.