Tell me it’s wrong the scarlet nails my son sports or the toy
store rings he clusters four jewels to each finger.
He’s bedecked. I see the other mothers looking at the star
choker, the rhinestone strand he fastens over a sock.
Sometimes I help him find sparkle clip-ons when he says
sticker earrings look too fake.
Tell me I should teach him it’s wrong to love the glitter that a
boy’s only a boy who’d love a truck with a remote that revs,
battery slamming into corners or Hot Wheels loop-de-looping
off tracks into the tub.
Then tell me it’s fine - really - maybe even a good thing - a boy
who’s got some girl to him,
and I’m right for the days he wears a pink shirt on the seesaw in
the park.
Tell me what you need to tell me but keep far away from my son
who still loves a beautiful thing not for what it means -
this way or that - but for the way facets set off prisms and
prisms spin up everywhere
and from his own jeweled body he’s cast rainbows - made every
shining true color.
Now try to tell me - man or woman - your heart was ever once
that brave.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Poem Ending With Hands on Handlebars by Clay Matthews
Scared means knowing your name is written
in a book somewhere, knowing the wasps
will return next summer for another round,
that the feeling you get on a cliff’s edge is not the fear
of falling but jumping—of taking one step
and not even leaving a crumpled excuse.
My mother said to be scared was ever to know
you are alive. You can imagine what it was my father said.
Every time I sit on a motorcycle I know before
I crank the motor something terrible is going to happen.
Such easy things to lead in the wrong direction.
Such easy things on which to wave and say
Goodbye and I’m not coming back.
~
What I wanted was a cold pillow. What I got
was one memory after another, lining up at the front door
of my head and asking Do you have time to talk?
In 1922 my great-grandfather and his brother rode double
on an Indian Scout from the southeastern corner of Missouri
to the center of New York city. One month of that engine’s buzz
on gravel and dirt roads that wound around the country
like a loose-fitting belt. I wanted to see what America was
he said. I wanted to see the tallest buildings in the world.
For three days they looked up, ate steaks each night,
and then decided to come home. You can grow to love moving
he said to me one night, after we’d finished dessert.
You can also grow to love standing still.
I saw him only once in the hospital before he died,
held his small purple hand and stared at a dinner roll
torn in half. Tell me again about the trip to the city, I asked.
He looked out the window, hacked on his napkin and said
On such a long trip the hardest thing was holding on.
~
The photograph of a man falling from the sky
is the same photograph of the same man flying.
The picture of me on a two-bit Kawasaki is exactly the same thing, too,
regardless of what happens when I leave the frame’s edge.
Before my brother died he could park a truck between
two hills and jump it with his dirt bike on every try.
Jumping between two places is the same as flying
or falling to whatever comes next.
A two-stroke engine’s whine is meaner
than any other engine ever made.
In the picture I had grit in my teeth.
Wearing a helmet was the same as wearing a seatbelt.
Not wearing one the same as wearing old black leather.
Every Sunday in a small town not far from my home
the bikers roll in and eat hot wings and fried livers in mustard.
A gang is like a family without table manners.
The heart of the Midwest thumps like a bible on an empty pew
but no one can afford to rest on the Sabbath.
What we keep holy are engines and afternoon drives.
What we believe in is not so different from a journey.
Any story of loss must begin with a disaster
like Uncle Charles who lost three teeth crashing into a street light,
two fingers when he was working on the chain.
~
Before the first time I wrecked a bike I believed
that I was becoming what I’d always envisioned
I would. After I crashed I believed my arm wasn’t right
and that blood was coming from a warm and unknown place.
To give up is ever to say you were always defeated.
To turn your back means you’re of the yellow brand.
My brother could ride a wheelie for three blocks
and not even use his hands.
In some places not using hands is the opposite of magic.
Here it’s the same as making things disappear.
Common sense is the same as saying find a better way.
History the same as saying stand up and get back on.
Both are caught somewhere between being ridden
and handing over the keys and growling: Ride.
Great-grandpa would eat a mint chocolate and say think about it.
My brother would stand back and say Let ‘er rip.
I would say I’ve been down this road, and it looks like I’m going again.
In the end the clutch will grow soft and slip, the gas tank
will take in the tall grass and give it back.
In the end there will be the brake and the throttle,
and the steady moan of the engine will make you numb.
in a book somewhere, knowing the wasps
will return next summer for another round,
that the feeling you get on a cliff’s edge is not the fear
of falling but jumping—of taking one step
and not even leaving a crumpled excuse.
My mother said to be scared was ever to know
you are alive. You can imagine what it was my father said.
Every time I sit on a motorcycle I know before
I crank the motor something terrible is going to happen.
Such easy things to lead in the wrong direction.
Such easy things on which to wave and say
Goodbye and I’m not coming back.
~
What I wanted was a cold pillow. What I got
was one memory after another, lining up at the front door
of my head and asking Do you have time to talk?
In 1922 my great-grandfather and his brother rode double
on an Indian Scout from the southeastern corner of Missouri
to the center of New York city. One month of that engine’s buzz
on gravel and dirt roads that wound around the country
like a loose-fitting belt. I wanted to see what America was
he said. I wanted to see the tallest buildings in the world.
For three days they looked up, ate steaks each night,
and then decided to come home. You can grow to love moving
he said to me one night, after we’d finished dessert.
You can also grow to love standing still.
I saw him only once in the hospital before he died,
held his small purple hand and stared at a dinner roll
torn in half. Tell me again about the trip to the city, I asked.
He looked out the window, hacked on his napkin and said
On such a long trip the hardest thing was holding on.
~
The photograph of a man falling from the sky
is the same photograph of the same man flying.
The picture of me on a two-bit Kawasaki is exactly the same thing, too,
regardless of what happens when I leave the frame’s edge.
Before my brother died he could park a truck between
two hills and jump it with his dirt bike on every try.
Jumping between two places is the same as flying
or falling to whatever comes next.
A two-stroke engine’s whine is meaner
than any other engine ever made.
In the picture I had grit in my teeth.
Wearing a helmet was the same as wearing a seatbelt.
Not wearing one the same as wearing old black leather.
Every Sunday in a small town not far from my home
the bikers roll in and eat hot wings and fried livers in mustard.
A gang is like a family without table manners.
The heart of the Midwest thumps like a bible on an empty pew
but no one can afford to rest on the Sabbath.
What we keep holy are engines and afternoon drives.
What we believe in is not so different from a journey.
Any story of loss must begin with a disaster
like Uncle Charles who lost three teeth crashing into a street light,
two fingers when he was working on the chain.
~
Before the first time I wrecked a bike I believed
that I was becoming what I’d always envisioned
I would. After I crashed I believed my arm wasn’t right
and that blood was coming from a warm and unknown place.
To give up is ever to say you were always defeated.
To turn your back means you’re of the yellow brand.
My brother could ride a wheelie for three blocks
and not even use his hands.
In some places not using hands is the opposite of magic.
Here it’s the same as making things disappear.
Common sense is the same as saying find a better way.
History the same as saying stand up and get back on.
Both are caught somewhere between being ridden
and handing over the keys and growling: Ride.
Great-grandpa would eat a mint chocolate and say think about it.
My brother would stand back and say Let ‘er rip.
I would say I’ve been down this road, and it looks like I’m going again.
In the end the clutch will grow soft and slip, the gas tank
will take in the tall grass and give it back.
In the end there will be the brake and the throttle,
and the steady moan of the engine will make you numb.
We Should Talk About This Problem by Hafiz
There is a Beautiful Creature
Living in a hole you have dug.
So at night
I set fruit and grains
And little pots of wine and milk
Beside your soft earthen mounds,
And I often sing.
But still, my dear,
You do not come out.
I have fallen in love with Someone
Who hides inside you.
We should talk about this problem---
Otherwise,
I will never leave you alone
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Sonnet by Neil Gaiman
I don't think that I've been in love as such,
Although I liked a few folk pretty well.
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch,
For brave men died and empires rose and fell
For love: girls followed boys to foreign lands
And men have followed women into Hell.
In plays and poems someone understands
There's something makes us more than blood and bone
And more than biological demands...
For me, love's like the wind, unseen, unknown.
I see the trees are bending where it's been,
I know that it leaves wreckage where it's blown.
I really don't know what "I love you" means.
I think it means "Don't leave me here alone."
Although I liked a few folk pretty well.
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch,
For brave men died and empires rose and fell
For love: girls followed boys to foreign lands
And men have followed women into Hell.
In plays and poems someone understands
There's something makes us more than blood and bone
And more than biological demands...
For me, love's like the wind, unseen, unknown.
I see the trees are bending where it's been,
I know that it leaves wreckage where it's blown.
I really don't know what "I love you" means.
I think it means "Don't leave me here alone."
A Very Short Song by Dorothy Parker
Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.
Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.
Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Crickets have Arthritis by Shane Koyczan
It doesn't matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesnt matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who's faith tells him God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I'm either always too hot or too cold. Doesn't matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas, and he's 9 years old. His name is Louis, and I don't have to ask what he's got.The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The gameboy and the feather pillow booms like they're trying to make him feel at home because he's going to be here awhile.
I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"
But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."
And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."
He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."
The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?
People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practise. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.
I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."
I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"
But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."
And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."
He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."
The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?
People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practise. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.
I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."
Wishes For Sons by Lucille Clifton
i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
i wish them no 7-11.
i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.
later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.
let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
i wish them no 7-11.
i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.
later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.
let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.
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