I could always triple-tongue my trumpet
and with a flick of the trigger
make the higher Fs and Ds
waver like a gentian in the breeze
my fingers running an alpine rill
over the rotary valves
I was proud and stood like a pine
when papa came to see my solo
I made the notes
a swooping flight of summer swifts
a rooftop chattering mockery of starlings
a bobbing of long-tailed tits borne on the apple tree
good child
you played well today
the reward of a smile
and ten euros
sometimes our house would fall still
I would catch a moment
between my last note and
the ebbing prattle of my brothers and sisters
it seemed there was something more
beyond the spoken things of family
I would hold my breath
letting it go when a dog barked outside
or the radio jumped into life
but I was always an upstairs child
and was numb when the cellar creatures
came blinking and howling into the world
lucky to be elsewhere and alive
my hands
still hold the memory of a trumpet
my fingertips
feel the ghost-valves
and larks
still fly where I remember
a shred of melody
Author notes
Option 8. His wife living upstairs continued to take in his children by their daughter over the years so that some of them came to be known as "upstairs" children and attended school and band practice regularly, conducting a seemingly normal life without knowledge of their mother and siblings imprisoned in their own home downstairs.
A contest entry
- Josef Fritzl - the Austrian Dungeon Dad by ea.
600 points, ended May 20, 6 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 35 of 35
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Really, really amazing...
Wonderfully said, fine poetess.
You took me upstairs where I sat transfixed by your music and smile. 
Sweetly said with just the right touches of poignancy and brilliance. 
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Damn, I hate being clueless!
I looked at this and saw great poetry. Your word choice especially the playing of the trumpet was fine tuned and esquisite. My first question was, is she a musician? After I looked at the comments and the premise I see that it was much more than the surface value. Oh well, you know I just plain like your work.
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I just picked up on the words "... band practice..." and took it from there.
Glad you liked it.
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I am in awe of your work which makes me wonder why it took me so long to get you to my favs. list??? That has been remdied now!!! And this poem is a haunting treasure...
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A wonderful poem, you have combined mastery of language with an incisive look at the status of victims, and the strange nether-world of incest and imprisonment, with a rare courage. The evocations of the flight of birds, and their implied freedom, marks such a contrast that I am stunned by the power of your poetry.
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smiling
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It's a sad poem, but I know why you're smiling.
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Congratulations
As marcy admitted, this could have been Gold! A 'lousy' Silver may still be treasured. Eh?
Lots of best wishes, Mairi, from Ron.
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It's a good poem. I know it's a good poem no matter what sheen is on the trophy. It expressed exactly what I wanted to express, exactly as I wanted to express it, and it reached and touched people. That's good enough for me.
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A very lovely poem. If there is a God he's bestowed on you the gift of vers. Happy trails
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Thank you, David.
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I knew this was a winner when I first read it, you have imbued it with such lyrical beauty, such sadness for those things lost. Congratulations on the silver.
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A wonderful piece, emotional and totally captivating. Powerful imagery, a beautifully heart wrenching write. Hugs, Bunny
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The intensity and power of this poem pierces the readers heart not really with pain but with horrified shock. I think what made this poem so strong is the fact that you penned it in the first person. You are so diverse in your poetic skills you should never wonder why I follow you.
Love,
Amera
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Thank you Sis. I do have a bit of a knack with persona poetry, I have been told.
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The horrors of this world are hard to imagine, not even in our darkest thoughts..for you to write from the perspective of the upstairs child brought the reality crashing out into the light, when those poor children began to open up to the world, how can they ever hope to live normal lives..death would be too kind for that father.
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You have written superlatively
It is a challenge to reel off a fine poem on this or related prompts and you have done so exceedingly well. You explored the whole situation while centring upon the prompt. What is taboo with incest and wicked imprisonment seems to cross the bounds of all societal limits. Your poem sheets home this fact and feeling. Ron.
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Glad to know you have read and understood this one, Ron. Thank you.
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I got this far
but I was always an upstairs child
and was numb when the cellar creatures
came blinking and howling into the world
And the whole poem changed for me, until then the upstairs child was the victim. Missing out on life. Then bloody hell.
I refuse to type my usual words.
This time
BLOODY HELL!
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You got it exactly, Jeff. Thank you.
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the "good child" is so very German.
I'm most affected by the last two stanzas, as I reread this, knowing that everything has changed in this upstairs child's life now - that the music will only haunt. -
This is wicked!
No sorry wrong word because it really was wicked. What I mean is your poem is so brilliant. So haunting, so horror full. It has to be the winner.
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Now you put the kybosh on it, Paula! It's the only entry so far, and a lucky hit.
Honestly though, this was a difficult subject to handle. I wanted to give something that was accessible, something that a reader could relate to. It needed to convey the horror, but with a light touch, or it would not have worked. This is why I chose simply to skew the ordinary slightly, and imply the damage, rather than to be explicit.
I am glad you appreciated it.
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When I can do that, I will think I am starting to get poetry.
This poem
changes thing
makes you think
and see the world
in ways your world
can never be
This poem
changes me
makes me think
makes my world
seem to be so
simple
This poem
shows me
what poetry
can do
This poem
is
poetry. -
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I think you are beginning to see poetry in its true light, Paula, and what we, as poets have to strive towards. We try to add an extra dimension to expression, to say things which perhaps are difficult to say with "ordinary" words. Of course not all poetic impulse is that high-flown; the best poems are often ones which start off without the intention of doing any such thing, and only hit the target serendipitously.
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"but I was always an upstairs child
and was numb when the cellar creatures
came blinking and howling into the world..."
Powerful! A brilliant look inside the mind of one of the victims. For the upstairs children were victims too. Excellent!
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I can't imagine the horror of this, finding out that you are a product of incest and that your mother and siblings were being held captive beneath you all your life. There are medical ramifications, as well, of course. The older daughter's epilepsy may be due genetically to the incest.
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This makes me choke and tear up. Incredibly moving and well done. It does and will stand alone here, I am sure.
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I am glad you appreciate it, Marcy. Thank you.
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For anyone who doesn't know the story of Josef Fritzl, this poem stands alone without the prompt.
Your words portray a sad child who had to endure a strange existance.
A beautiful poem about a horrific story.
All the best...Sue
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Sue, what ea says is true. The last thing on my mind this morning was Josef Fritzl, nor even writing a poem.
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There must be children who do live upstairs and are only allowed down for meals, this to me in some ways tells their story as well.
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It wouldn't exist without the prompt, though. Just think about that for a moment, would yoù?
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If there is anything more worthwhile than the satisfaction of a poem turning out exactly how I want it, it is when a discerning reader appreciates exactly what I was trying to convey. Thank you, Sue.
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