“of headlong minutes that sweeten the taste
of berries and the dark juice suspended
with the seeds of what becomes of us”
--Michelle Boisseau, “The Height of Summer”
The cold is tolerable for July but gray
there are streaks in the sky,
he reads much of the day about magic
She speaks of children in a wistful way
trapped in the box dressed somberly
these are the days that try men’s souls
the tiger turns to butter round the kitchen table
she eyes Ezarra seriously with the upwise eyes
as though Mother was mad at the old man
standing at the top of the stairs refusing to come down
The poet lit a Winston in the vortex dumping the dice from his shoe,
an expensive illumination which Mr. Nixon deplored
preferring instead the cold dead word of the easy stand
the smooth feel of elastic mahogany from a distant land
the sweet feel of her numbers on the edges of his hand.
Mr. Emerson gone this Sunday for the trade show in London
spoke in expansive tones of young girls with curled toes
richly deserving of such prizes that Mr. Nixon dispensed
with such pride as to give a minister pause,
much of that which was rent was lost in the storm
that wrenched the chimney from its mooring
he carries the large stuffed tiger from room to room
hoping she, in somber summer clothes, will remember
after the tea and coffee is removed the dishes cleared away
the chairs replaced the upwised eyes soothed.
In a list
A contest entry
- challenge. by Hermit Risin.
300 points, ended August 28, 2007, 10 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 14 of 14
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This is a very interesting poem...great work on it...it was well written, you did a very great job on this poem....GREAT WORK!
becca
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I forgot how much I like this one. -
i surprisingly liked this, even with extreme distaste for the title. good work
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Hannah would like that .. I think I have to show her. She's upstairs banging on the keys right now - novelist, her.
the sweet feel of her numbers on the edges of his hand.
is that by chance, filthy? or maybe holy as it is Sunday, in your poem that is. I think that is a horse therefore, this goes with the White Stallion.
It is impossible for the past not to be present in its own very present way lots of people don't get that. They want everything NOW but if everything is NOW there would be no Forever (which of course is Now, which of course is where poets dwell).
I love this because it is written in symbols I understand.
Good luck in the contest.
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god I sound like a flipping moron down there. It's strange because I love names in other ways in poom like Cohen's Suzanne or Ed's Mona or your Lisa or Nursie's Angeline but sometimes you get all tricky and it makes me huff
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Hmmm. I wonder if it's bad to read some of your plumes and ignore the names. I don't know. I feel like I definitely don't know enough about transcendentalism to understand a poom which mentions "Mr. Emerson" and then I feel it might not be Ralph Emerson anyway because you've got this way of being specific and definitive with names and characters sometimes, and places, then sometimes other names crop up and it seems they're more ambiguous this time and it's kind of unsettling. It probably just means I'm fucking lazy, but I don't want to read poetry with wikipedia open or emailing someone way cleverer like a lecturer or someone to go - ummmm what's this name got to do with this name? I find it so hard to read the names it just makes me feel "bugger I really know fuck all about watergate and it's probably another Nixon anyway" or "Is that a typo on Ezra or what or is it just another person or does it matter who it is or did he spell it like how the girl's saying the name or what?" and it confuses me a lot and I don't have the knowledge or the patience and it makes me a bit sad and frustrated because in a way I think I kind of mislay your poem worrying about the characters who might be there or might not. So I kind of try to ignore the names or substitute them anyway which might be wrong, I don't know. I think it's like in history classes some people get tied up with dates and names and logistics and other people kind of just want the feel of everything and the story and the brutality. I don't know if I mean I'd like the poem better if it was just Mr. Someone and Mr. someone else - just I think it'd hurt my head way less. The poem's so brilliant, I wish I wish it didn't have the names. The last stanza's beautiful. Mostly what I've said probably sounds like utter bollocks, I just think if the writing's good enough, and yours is, sometimes maybe the names can get in the way - kind of like if Orwell called Snowball "Trotsky" and old major "Marx" - that would've been shit The names just hurt my head a lot and I don't want to think about the names I want to think about the plume and its stuffed tigers.
Whatver whatever I shhh, I am being selfish, I just pretend the names not there for myself then the smarty pants peoples can whip out their biographies and say "frankly it's obvious this poem is reffering to that time when..."
I just thankful Lyra's not named Eve mostly. That would hurt by brain even more. Blergh.
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This is very nice and interesting... I really like it, good job! keep up your good work!
Crimson -
Hmmm.
Would God's Sunday be a month of Sundays or more likuh gahillion.?
Nixon intrudes so -- but thats prolly my age -- he sheds his stanky reputation and water fouling ripples with no little effort.
There is a disconcerting disjointment that rattles my teeth when I read
unease permeates the poem
I can't say i like it
but i do love it.
Peace.
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From my previous interactions with you, my impression is that you don't like the ass-kissing I am no good at to begin with, so I will just dispense with that entirely. This is an intriguingly arcane write, to be sure. I agree with Nicole that the fluidity of it does make it seem like a one-sitting work (which is not an insult)... sort of like a well-read muse run amok.
Despite that I took a pretty good whack at it, I don't think I'm good for much subjective criticism of your work this time around. Hopefully, you will find something useful in here somewhere.
Try as I might, I (i.e. Google) could not find the text to "The Height of Summer" anywhere on the Internet; I only know that I might be more enlightened, had I subscribed to Southern Review in 2002. Therefore, in no special order, here are a few simple observations and one request, some or all of which might be utterly meaningless:
1. Tone. Love it.
2. Love the sneaky way you shift perspectives.
3. A+ imagery.
4. I can't tell which "he" is which when you wield your pronouns, and I don't have a clue who Mr. Nixon is. (Tricky Dickie seems far-fetched.) I'm usually pretty good at (and enjoy) interpreting challenging work, but that really confused me a lot here. My best guess at "He" would have to be Shiva (who slew a tiger, and who is commonly depicted as seated in lotus position atop a tiger skin ... and who is husband to Kali, whom I will mention shortly).
5. Grammar, etc.:
S2L1: I think "soul" should be plural.
S3L3: Was "word" meant to be "world" or "wood?"
S5L2: "it's" should be the possessive "its."
S5L5: "remove" should be "removed."
6. I really liked the way you re-referenced the tiger, the upwise eyes, and somber clothing. I saw "Mr. Emerson," and thought, "Ralph." You've quoted one poet, so perhaps you've referenced another. [?] I share some of Ralph's taste in literature ... so, without ruining this work for everyone else, is any of the following significant here?
- Shakti
- the Hindu goddess Durga (who rides a tiger ... which represents fecundity, prosperity, and the feminine force ["she?"] ... and one of whose aspects is Kali - bringer of death, destruction, and the unexpected [storm? wrecked chimney? stuffed tiger?], and mother of, like, everything)
I can't really say why, but I kind of think that what you're saying here is something along the lines of, "The cycle of life keeps spinning 'round, and [mortal] man likes to come to the conclusion that he 'gets it'; but we all die, and so we'll forget what we know, and even that is just the proverbial view of the forest from the trees."
OK, that's all. Maybe I've just babbled a bunch of meaningless nonsense. If so, I'm fine with that. I quite enjoyed your poem.
~Morgan
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tea and coffee is removed... ... it is the end then, yes? ... like, now you can go...
you've read this, you've partaken in this, this poem, this pride, these thoughts and repast... now buggeroff and go...
upsided chairs, very formal... must be because God is watching
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Okay Lute . . . what gives with italics? You're not fooling anybody . . . this is a good poem, what the hell are you doing?
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OMG! Splendid...this is so deep and vivid, heart felt and expressively rich...well done..best of luck!
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Wow, totally amazing...I think that you've done a wonderful job and I wish you the best of luck in the contest!
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Holy crap. You did this in five minutes? lol. Remind me to avoid quickie contests that you've entered because this has blown me away. Lie to me and tell me you cheated, and it's an old poem you've had stashed somewhere for years, and finally posted. lol
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