My first ten winters were spent barefoot and
fat on California sunshine.
My eleventh winter crammed my feet
into boots that leaked,
starved for vitamin D.
Isolated by cold and snow,
thousands of miles from friends or
anything familiar, and
the sled ride down the hill
was not worth the trek up it.
I collected wood to burn
after my step-father cut down the tree
and cut it into sections.
With frozen fingers and runny noses,
we’d stack damp hemlock on a flatbed trailer
pulled behind a rusted Impala.
After it was chopped, we burned the wood in a
55 gallon drum with a door cut in its side,
pumpkin cans for legs, and
a stove pipe connecting it to the chimney.
That drum got red hot
and melted my favorite records,
from the other side of the room.
My sister once fell against it,
and two layers of skin peeled off her hand
like a flour tortilla.
Food was often scarce as
dry wood in the winter.
Sometimes I’d wake up freezing,
snow coming through cracks under windows.
If the stove went out,
it took a lot of time and kindling
to get the house warm again,
so I’d wake up
soon as I felt the house chill.
I’d feel my way downstairs
to the big black barrel,
stir white hot ashes,
throw more wood in,
wait to make sure the fire caught.
Upstairs I’d slide back under four blankets
and an antique quilt
until the house started to chill again.
A contest entry
- Origins by saartha.
300 points, ended May 23, 4 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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I'm typically fan of more abstract language, but you pulled of the story-poetry form pretty well =) The contrast between the first and second stanzas was striking, and the imagery was consistently interesting. Thanks for the submission!
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This is a good childhood story poem. I think it's a good look at your life and some of your vantage point from that age. I found the fire to be symbolic to you in other ways as well. Or, at least, I took it to mean more than its surface.
On the more critical side, I found most of the beginning to be good and fairly smooth. I liked the first two lines alot. They were a good start. However, when you reached this stanza:
~~I collected wood to burn
after my step-father cut down the tree
and cut it into sections.~~
I found the change of tone to be overly obvious and caused me to stop on it and reread it. In going over the whole thing, I felt that if this is your transitioning point, you might wish to reconsider the wording. I felt like the third line didn't really have much to do with it and doesn't really do it's job. And while I can see the need to have the second line... eh, I would consider altering it to be more symbolic or perhaps show why that matters. I know it's a fact of life, but it doesn't progress your poem, so far as I can see.
The stanza following it, is solid. But after that, it becomes much more wordy than the first half. I think a little of your touch here and there, would balance it out nicely. It's definitely worth the effort.
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Yeah, but weren't those the good ol' days?
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Great
this whets the appetite for more - possibly a short story. your words transported me right there and I felt a chill and its sixty degrees where I am! Bravo!
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