I hate spinning saws. I will never own one. I'm going to have to be in a life or death situation before you ever get me to use one. I have frequent nightmares about cutting fingers or arms or face flesh with one. I WILL NEVER watch an amputation. I hate surgery shows, I hate the thought of people cutting themselves.
Having said that, I wrote a poem about cutting yourself. And it rhymes! This is loosely based on Brant Wadsworth's experience with a skill saw and then his ride in a pick up truck bed to the hospital. The story is sick, I'm still cringing.
I don't know why I wanted this poem to rhyme but if felt like it needed to and so I went with it. I played with exact, slant, and internal rhymes to vary it. Sometimes a solid exact rhyme just feels good. It gets a little unclear towards the end but it's just a first draft.
Unconstruction
Dipping blade, humming moon,
find no purchase in this dune,
below your set. Pale veldt,
a river rent. The spring swells and overruns.
My hands cannot stem the flood
of darkly aquifering blood.
Under skin, my roots untwine,
the muscle’s skein, quickly shreds.
Move me or lose me,
I’m hefted upon the pickup’s bed.
Any speed is not enough,
tough loved and rough shod
the road is roughing me to sleep.
They try to yell me back to wake, but
the farther we go,
the farther I’m gone.
In my frame, I feel building flight—
as I lighten, as I whirlpooling drain,
an estate sale of my domains.
And fever conjures slow belief
I’ve become a brimming cup,
set upon a rocking boat
breakers dash me, I top and slop,
and all the flooring drinks me up.
And when we dock, the wind arrives
I’m lifted down, I’m floating out,
my speed is such, the sun speeds up,
and runs in white bars overhead
until Night treads on the scene,
from some dive he’s been day-wasting in,
and leans a masked face over mine,
asks me for my name and I gasp it,
like a password into an underneath,
where I’m lullabyed by my own continuing breath.
Wow, the imagery alone in your poem is enough to make me refrain from using a Skillsaw!
ReplyDeleteBloody good.
ReplyDeleteAlso, I recommend not teaching Creative Writing at a residential therapeutic boarding school. It's 75% poems about cutting yourself. I have a room full of girls who would understand that last poem on a whole different level. I hope that isn't too blunt for me to say.......*gulp*
Blecgh. I'd totally forgotten about Brant's saw incident. Excellent idea. I love the line 'I whirlpooling drain,' or whatever that line was.
ReplyDeleteJames... I really appreciated your comments on Christine's blog. You painted a new viewpoint and picture for me and hopefully for others as well. I feel you taught a valuable lesson that pro-choice doesn't mean that you WANT abortions, but it's merely providing an avenue for those who don't believe the same way we do (as opposed to back alley abortions, as you said).
ReplyDeleteThe only problem I potentially have with being pro-choice is that it could be potentially encouraging women to get abortions. As a high school teacher, I know that my girls are callous with sex and pregnancy because they know that there are methods to rid themselves of unwanted babies. I've had students who have received abortions. It happens. I think if we're going to allow abortions, then those people who receive them need to be educated on safe-sex precautions and the potential effect on their bodies of an abortion. Girls need to know.
Emma says to me today, "Mom, have you read James blog lately? There's this poem about getting cut and bleeding. It RHYMES and it's AMAZING!!! Mom, you just have to go read it. I wish I could write like James."
ReplyDeleteSo after I tell her she just has to keep practicing I of course check out your latest, and some how you evoked that metallic bloody flavor in my mouth as I read. Bizarre! Or does that mean Em is right and it's just plain amazing?
Well done Sheamus. Well done. I really like the line "My hands cannot stem the flood
ReplyDeleteof darkly aquifering blood". You really have a talent for imagery. I like you poetry more than anyones, except of course for myself. I think we both know I am the superior poet ever since Hungus began to grow in my belly.
So when will you write a great(but less superior poem to my own) poem about your irrational fear of livestock. Thats right, I said irrational, because that's what it is James.
Oh, yeah, Shiloh, like Andy's fear of Zombies makes perfect sense.
ReplyDeleteOh, and good poem, James.
I think i passed out reading this, but I am not sure. I just remember waking up on the floor.
ReplyDeleteSarah,
ReplyDeleteI'm glad I've dissuaded you. Now just 6 billion more people to reach.
Gillz,
Yeah. I'm sure. I also had a little bit of Sylvia Plath on my mind as I writing it. How do those girls like ol' Sylvia?
Liz,
Yeah, my pet thing is still co-opting nouns for verbs. It can get distracting though so I try not to overdo it.
Lavender,
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you dug it and that's very flattering that Emma liked it so much. I'll have to tell her thanks on her blog.
Shiloh,
I will write that poem about livestock! Just for you! That poem is on it's way. I just have to wait for my brain to mail it.
Valerie,
Thank you for standing up for me.
Bryce,
Thank you for falling down for me.
James,
ReplyDeleteYou make it sound so much more exciting and artistic than it was. I like your version better. From now on whenever anyone asks me about how I got that scar on my leg, I'll refer them here. One final direct comment, it was intriguingly emotional and engaging for me to read. Well done.
Brant