Thanks for posting the Marvin Bell piece, which I hadn't seen. Wise words.
I've been on sabbatical this term and have produced a number of drafts as evidence of work during my time away from the classroom. They're all pretty rough, but I'm happy to post one or two whenever you see fit. Just let me know.
wonderful to see your post here, greg. why don't you be the first to share a poem and get things started. can't wait to read it. (rough? we like rough.)
I'm going to be a father in three days--my daughter Sasha and son David arrive on Friday by scheduled C-section. Over the past few weeks, I've been working on a series of drafts, all of which contain the word "First" in the title, and all of which constitute some inaugural communication with my kids. There's "Pardon the First," "Wish List the First," "Invitation the First," and so on. I randomly picked the following draft from the lot, and look forward to hearing your thought.
Take care, Greg
Permission the First
You who come naked as rain may push for the blood-stained light, may pass feet first through the oldest gate, and start to process the mother tongue, in which I can count to ten.
Soon, the full moon waves its flashlight on patrol. Boys reach down their pants to fondle pistols. Soon comes the gossip of salt. Don’t shy now from leaving behind
the inner sea, dark and rippled like bark. Go ahead and scream your hungers, ills. You needn’t behave in the silent way dust erects its empires. Wake us, soil
and soil, storm. Memory is the wet nurse of time, feeding and caressing. You have no hour, no blame. So press against the future, permeable and opaque as a window screen:
you can’t punch your hand through yet. I have put away the metronome with its wagging finger. I have locked up April and give you May, the most permissive.
You are released to become the student underlining textbooks, the broom pusher or the mattock--whatever your ultrasonic heart desires. Forget your bones and muscles
wrapped in a Caucasian flag of surrender. Just forge with reason as your anvil, nonsense your hammer, unaware that one dark breath makes of glass a mirror, unaware
God knows us, stumbling through doorways, down stairwells we don’t see, while every stain in the end gets burned away. Far-off cities rock at anchor. You may
visit every one. The poplars nod assent. Your dead Uncle Jon says travel, as he himself could not. Hear the crunch of tires on gravel, living rooms choked with laughter.
You will not be punished for feeling heat’s collisions. I have slid my hands inside my pockets and will make no threats, not before your forearm dreams a thicket in its crush
of sleep, before curses on the ear like rabbit punches, complaints about the dollar’s edge-- hatchet sharp. There are those obsessed with power, those with love. Later,
you’ll discover which you are. You will come to your senses, like all the rest, too late, and regret proposals made in loneliness and haste. For now,
befriend the split-eyed house cats I myself refuse to trust. Soon you will partake of platters, garish with beet salad, purple cabbage, the fried nests
of potato latkes. For now, you are invited to lurch like a seal, to fan the rumors of your royal birth. And if you like, my live one, feel free to call me “Papa.”
Hey Amanda,
ReplyDeleteThanks for posting the Marvin Bell piece, which I hadn't seen. Wise words.
I've been on sabbatical this term and have produced a number of drafts as evidence of work during my time away from the classroom. They're all pretty rough, but I'm happy to post one or two whenever you see fit. Just let me know.
Take care,
Greg
wonderful to see your post here, greg. why don't you be the first to share a poem and get things started. can't wait to read it. (rough? we like rough.)
ReplyDeleteHi everyone,
ReplyDeleteI'm going to be a father in three days--my daughter Sasha and son David arrive on Friday by scheduled C-section. Over the past few weeks, I've been working on a series of drafts, all of which contain the word "First" in the title, and all of which constitute some inaugural communication with my kids. There's "Pardon the First," "Wish List the First," "Invitation the First," and so on. I randomly picked the following draft from the lot, and look forward to hearing your thought.
Take care,
Greg
Permission the First
You who come naked as rain may push
for the blood-stained light, may pass feet
first through the oldest gate, and start to process
the mother tongue, in which I can count to ten.
Soon, the full moon waves its flashlight
on patrol. Boys reach down their pants
to fondle pistols. Soon comes the gossip
of salt. Don’t shy now from leaving behind
the inner sea, dark and rippled like bark.
Go ahead and scream your hungers, ills.
You needn’t behave in the silent way
dust erects its empires. Wake us, soil
and soil, storm. Memory is the wet nurse
of time, feeding and caressing. You have no
hour, no blame. So press against the future,
permeable and opaque as a window screen:
you can’t punch your hand through yet.
I have put away the metronome
with its wagging finger. I have locked up
April and give you May, the most permissive.
You are released to become the student
underlining textbooks, the broom pusher
or the mattock--whatever your ultrasonic
heart desires. Forget your bones and muscles
wrapped in a Caucasian flag of surrender.
Just forge with reason as your anvil, nonsense
your hammer, unaware that one dark
breath makes of glass a mirror, unaware
God knows us, stumbling through
doorways, down stairwells we don’t see,
while every stain in the end gets burned away.
Far-off cities rock at anchor. You may
visit every one. The poplars nod assent.
Your dead Uncle Jon says travel, as he himself
could not. Hear the crunch of tires
on gravel, living rooms choked with laughter.
You will not be punished for feeling
heat’s collisions. I have slid my hands inside
my pockets and will make no threats, not before
your forearm dreams a thicket in its crush
of sleep, before curses on the ear like rabbit
punches, complaints about the dollar’s edge--
hatchet sharp. There are those obsessed
with power, those with love. Later,
you’ll discover which you are. You will
come to your senses, like all the rest,
too late, and regret proposals made
in loneliness and haste. For now,
befriend the split-eyed house cats
I myself refuse to trust. Soon you will
partake of platters, garish with beet
salad, purple cabbage, the fried nests
of potato latkes. For now, you are invited
to lurch like a seal, to fan the rumors
of your royal birth. And if you like,
my live one, feel free to call me “Papa.”