Not Everyday is a Birches Day

This is what Valerie has said to me three times over three days. I've been writing poems. I've been knocking my head on the wall over this one. FOR THREE DAYS. And we're talking hours. 4 to 6 hours a day for 3 days.

I become obsessed sometimes. Even when I know it's not going well. Even when I know that the piece is going to turn out just par. It's something I read about Sylvia Plath. How she would just keeping work on a piece until completion. No matter how sucked it was.

Also, I've been obsessed with literary terms. So every break I took had me skipping from one term to the next.

Epizeuxis - when a word is repeated for emphasis such as: "No, no, no!" Or "The Horror, the Horror, the Horror."

Catachresis - when a mixed metaphor is introduced knowingly and on purpose to produce an effect

And the actual word I've been trying to find for three days:

Antimeria - when a noun is used as a verb

Alright, so here's the poem. It is what it is. I've trimmed it down. Rewritten, restructured. Written way too long to get this par piece of nonsense. On to other things.

Oh, and the reason Valerie says that to me is thus:

My favorite poem is "Birches" by Robert Frost. I think it's brilliant. It's all the things I want in my poems. Extended metaphors, human involvement, real feeling, childhood, innocence, spirituality, death, and humor.

I told Valerie that one day I want to write my "Birches". Of course, I'll probably never know when I wrote it. But I want to write something that good.

She's been telling me to lower my expectations for the day with this phrase. Every time she sees me pulling at my hair at my computer.

Is this done? No. Should there be an extra step before the ending and preceding stanza? Yes. Am I sick of this poem for now? Absolutely.

The Wayback

Somewhere in Iowa, the corn closed in
so close we high fived it from our windows
until our hands were mittened in tassels.

It was June. We called ourselves Vacationeers.
The rhythm of summer was a seamed highway.

If I had my choice, I opted for the Wayback.
That unique seat particular to the American station wagon.
A happy blip for our family.
We rode it right out of style.

I was a child. And children understand rules.
Handed down rules. Game rules.
Fingers in an L are a gun
you can point at other cars. Safely.
They don’t have to play. It’s the rules.
You can pretend to die. Bang is a magic word.
Magic words shouted outside guarantee your place.
Shotgun! Back! Wayback!
Choose your perspective.

I want to leave one time unbroken.
A little childhood clean. Sacrosanct.

If I say I saw the clouds in the Blue Mountains,
dropping around us like weary balloonists.
Believe me. Because I believe me.
If am the same age in these memories,
I am sure I was.

I get stuck in that seat.
Never a destination in view. Showing up last to anywhere.
You can get used to the past. This can become your window.

I only know I arrived when I leave.

The Kentucky of our minds rarely holds up.
Shotgun was where you could wear adultness.
Drink an extra coke, count the silver coins for tolls.
If your Mom was moodstruck, she would tell something
about your Dad, described with could of and was.
His face. Books. Your likenesses.
If you drove through his state, you’d never stop.

Why does every other here feel like vacation?
I am somehow still waiting for that wagon.
To honk the horn, tell me to call my place again.