[Untitled]
A pair of hands, gone metronome, directs a smattering of brass and cloth,
The green and white colors tuned to a surgical precision.
Snares quake and tubas wheeze in the sweltering mosquito heat,
The matted canvas etched with yardage chalk.
Lost in their murmur, the brick of my generic pastoral apartment simmers against my back.
Their footfalls thump my chest. As I watch them, my Marlboro peters to nothing.
Understand them, or their guttural practice? No. I’m thinking of you,
Your flat above the grocery in that London street I’ll never see again,
With its swollen door jambs, and stalwart window frames.
That TV ten years my senior, always blaring the BBC.
I remember you, shadowed down the back stairs in bare feet and the midnight of my t-shirt
For chocolate and Kents after a night out with the staples from Marketing.
Heavy with Bitter, I said that you sounded like Julie Andrews.
You labeled me drunk as the teen garageband in the corner wailed some Kinks anthem I don’t want to remember.
I smiled at their fascination with America, the land of cowboy politics and pioneered grease wrapped in wax paper.
Later, I stumbled on those stairs, your fingers sunk in my shoulder blades, guiding my rubber knees through the door.
We emerged two weeks later, my love for the Queen nailed down beside those aching wooden floorboards.
I wonder sometimes, if it’s still there, rising with the heat, against the husband and wife who quiver, lost in their eyelids, in the soaked fish-eye lens twilight.
Sorry about the delay everyone. Check Courseden as I've posted it there as well. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteBilly,
ReplyDeleteI know this your workshop piece, but I thought you might like a "global critique" to go along with this evening's class workshop.
Obviously, this piece has tons to admire: the unique illustrations of both setting and character and its attention to detail, all paint a rather vivid and textural picture.
I'll tell you what continues to stick with me after reading this piece:
it's that "smattering of brass and cloth" "sweltering in the mosquito heat." In short, that marching band the speaker watches through his window, captures this really unique moment in the piece. Firstly, the language, while largely imagistic and figurative, paints a pretty distinct picture. Secondly, its a moment that is decidedly removed from the action in the rest of the poem. The speaker watches the band out of his window and remembers this profound, yet fleeting moment in London.
However, after those opening passages, the band is gone and we are in London and never return to that initial scene. I wonder if that shift is too abrupt? In Writing Poetry, there's a helpful discussion of the so-called "juggling" method. It illustrates how to 'juggle' between opposing images (or themes, settings, ideas, etc)--in other words, it helps to 'break apart' the tendency to 'write down the page' which promotes linearity, and a sort of obviousness.
Now, I'm not yet an expert on re-organization, but it might be helpful to "juggle" between the speaker's present situation ( in that swealtering apt, the band outside, smoking cigs, etc) and that fleeting love affair.