greenmountaineer's thread

[greenmountaineer]

I like the way you used the POV of the child to wrap the seriousness and hurt of the situation. Each stanza is so spare, a quick sketch that says everything we need to know, building to the inevitable question.

Thanks, Mer. I think one of the most challenging things a poet can do is write in the voice of another and make it sound like poetry and something that person might actually say. It's probably even more difficult in the case of children. I'm not suggesting "R-Nani" does that effectively, but I do enjoy the challenge.

Here's another if you're interested. I must have re-done this a dozen times to try to achieve that effect.

The Commies

The Pope? How many divisions has he got?
Josef Stalin

Sister Mary Judith said,
"The Commies, Children, count my fingers,
told one two three Roman Catholics
to curse Our Lord in Commie Russian
snow to where your tummies are.

Two, Children, did; one didn't,
and after all of them froze to death,
two went to hell and one to heaven,"
Sister Mary Judith said.

After Commie story time ended,
Sister screamed like a fire engine
and said to hide under our desks,

but I looked into my ink hole instead
and whispered to Janey Crocodile Tears,
"Sister looks like the Queen of Hearts
White Rabbit's gonna pee-pee on
with Dennis's sister's fountain pen."

If you have any suggestions to make either sound more genuine, feel free to share them. Both are still works in progress as far as I'm concerned.

 

[legerdemer]

Thanks, Mer. I think one of the most challenging things a poet can do is write in the voice of another and make it sound like poetry and something that person might actually say. It's probably even more difficult in the case of children. I'm not suggesting "R-Nani" does that effectively, but I do enjoy the challenge.

Here's another if you're interested. I must have re-done this a dozen times to try to achieve that effect.

The Commies

The Pope? How many divisions has he got?
Josef Stalin

Sister Mary Judith said,
"The Commies, Children, count my fingers,
told one two three Roman Catholics
to curse Our Lord in Commie Russian
snow to where your tummies are.

Two, Children, did; one didn't,
and after all of them froze to death,
two went to hell and one to heaven,"
Sister Mary Judith said.

After Commie story time ended,
Sister screamed like a fire engine
and said to hide under our desks,

but I looked into my ink hole instead
and whispered to Janey Crocodile Tears,
"Sister looks like the Queen of Hearts
White Rabbit's gonna pee-pee on
with Dennis's sister's fountain pen."

If you have any suggestions to make either sound more genuine, feel free to share them. Both are still works in progress as far as I'm concerned.

On my first read, I am having a lot of trouble on The Commies, gm (and not because of the ideas behind it). I'll try to be constructive, but I need to let it sit and simmer awhile. I'll come back to it. One factoid, mildly relevant - I was a Red Pioneer growing up, in one of the Eastern Bloc countries. It has definitely left marks on me. For five years I must have sat at a desk very much like the one in your last stanza, using a nib pen or hands behind my back and waiting for the teacher to tell us to relax or acknowledge my held-up hand.

 

[greenmountaineer]

On my first read, I am having a lot of trouble on The Commies, gm (and not because of the ideas behind it). I'll try to be constructive, but I need to let it sit and simmer awhile. I'll come back to it. One factoid, mildly relevant - I was a Red Pioneer growing up, in one of the Eastern Bloc countries. It has definitely left marks on me. For five years I must have sat at a desk very much like the one in your last stanza, using a nib pen or hands behind my back and waiting for the teacher to tell us to relax or acknowledge my held-up hand.

Interesting. I'd like to hear more. I'm a babyboomer who was actually told this story as a 10 year old in parochial school by a nun in the 4th grade. The local fire station sounded its siren every day at an appointed time as an air raid drill so school children could practice hiding under their desk in the event of a nuclear attack. The paranoia was very abundant. I know there were Eastern Europeans in the Soviet bloc countries who were good people. As a 10 year old, I was made to believe there weren't.

http://youtu.be/89od_W8lMtA

 

[greenmountaineer]

"Josie's a December Bride, Daddy"

I whispered dancing with brother Bobby
when the band sang To Sir with Love,
and a spotlight fell on an empty seat
at The Spuyten Duyvil Ballroom East.

Later a midnight after the bliss
Micky says, "glad we got hitched
up in the Bronx instead of Queens.
Tomorrow it's Vegas, Baby,"

but I dream I'm a sugar plum fairy
a December night down by the Duyvil,
dancing with you in hockey skates
and two pairs of bobby socks on.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Witness

Thích Nhất HạNh while drying his dishes
as if they were a charnel ground,
wouldn't know who Kitty was,
wouldn't know she no longer was

a nameless name on Austin Street
and, as if it mattered,
Kew Gardens in a borough named Queens.

But Thích Nhất HạNh, if he knew,
while standing there drying his dishes
would have grown wings to bear witness
for Kitty Genovese.

 

[ishtat]

Interesting. I'd like to hear more. I'm a babyboomer who was actually told this story as a 10 year old in parochial school by a nun in the 4th grade. The local fire station sounded its siren every day at an appointed time as an air raid drill so school children could practice hiding under their desk in the event of a nuclear attack. The paranoia was very abundant. I know there were Eastern Europeans in the Soviet bloc countries who were good people. As a 10 year old, I was made to believe there weren't.

http://youtu.be/89od_W8lMtA

For those not old enough to understand the degree of paranoia about "the red menace," I suggest they read almost any old copy of the 'Readers Digest' between about 1949 to 1954 - even later.

I cleared out a house a few years back and found lots of old 'RD's. The propoganda was as outrageous as anything the Russians could have produced about the West. But it was what ordinary people thought and believed at the time.

 

[greenmountaineer]

For those not old enough to understand the degree of paranoia about "the red menace," I suggest they read almost any old copy of the 'Readers Digest' between about 1949 to 1954 - even later.

I cleared out a house a few years back and found lots of old 'RD's. The propoganda was as outrageous as anything the Russians could have produced about the West. But it was what ordinary people thought and believed at the time.

I also remember advertisements for backyard bomb shelters.

 

[todski28]

For those not old enough to understand the degree of paranoia about "the red menace," I suggest they read almost any old copy of the 'Readers Digest' between about 1949 to 1954 - even later.

I cleared out a house a few years back and found lots of old 'RD's. The propoganda was as outrageous as anything the Russians could have produced about the West. But it was what ordinary people thought and believed at the time.

It just goes to show how indoctrinated some things become a simple example and I mentally slapped myself as soon as I thought it, we had a new delivery driver arrive at work he had a Turban on, a thick beard and looked like a Muslim my first thought for no reason at all was totally racist and inappropriate, it took me by surprise as to where it came from. My immediate thought was "terrorist" I haven't even met this man, nor spoken to him.

I gather that in that era with it all more prevalent and the government adding fuel to the fire it would have been insanely paranoic and stressful for no reason

 

[greenmountaineer]

Charles Bukowski as a Metaphor

Chinaski says Fuck you!
Fuck you, Charles! and fuck
our dirty dish rag clothes
10 years ago in South Central

when Father's dirty verbs
made Mother fry more eggs for him,
and we just there with our apple,
splotchy red as we were then.

It's enough to drive a man-boy to drink
at ten o'clock in the morning,
enough to make a man-boy think

there should be a deus ex machina,
that library love child phrase we found,
to take us to Olympia

but left us there to grow up hungry
and make up chillbane words with wine
next to the soup in the kitchen
with finally a strangled chicken in it.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Visit the Sins of the Mother

"Hey Boy," Big Mama used to seethe,
clenching her teeth because she hated
any name starting with Genesis,

making him cook meth in her kitchen
all those years until Surprise!
they're both in the State of Missouri prisons.

Now in the Chillicothe Women's
morgue she's waiting for Aryan heaven
because she had given seventy reasons

times seven to devil dust women
whose Daddies will visit Big Mama's sins
upon the son in Bonne Terre Prison.

The warden says "Hey, Boy, whatchu been doin',
fingers tattooed with HATE?" on the right
while LOVE, what's left of it, bleeds

on cinder blocks in segregation
where he's eating shit on a shingle,
pushed through a slot by Handyman Spade

he otherwise could give a rat's ass to
why, when he's asked, his time bomb mind
ticks it's Ben. Goddammit! It's Ben!

 

[todski28]

"Hey Boy," Big Mama used to seethe,
clenching her teeth because she hated
any name starting with Genesis,

making him cook meth in her kitchen
all those years until Surprise!
they're both in the State of Missouri prisons.

Now in the Chillicothe Women's
morgue she's waiting for Aryan heaven
because she had given seventy reasons

times seven to devil dust women
whose Daddies will visit Big Mama's sins
upon the son in Bonne Terre Prison.

The warden says "Hey, Boy, whatchu been doin',
fingers tattooed with HATE?" on the right
while LOVE, what's left of it, bleeds

on cinder blocks in segregation
where he's eating shit on a shingle,
pushed through a slot by Handyman Spade

he otherwise could give a rat's ass to
why, when he's asked, his time bomb mind
ticks it's Ben. Goddammit! It's Ben!

I remember an earlier version of this and noticed you added an addendum at the bottom,

Such stark gritty reality. I remember visiting my parents in prison and you've managed to capture the feel of it. I don't always connect with your writing (reader fault I.e. missing too many links to the work) however when I get one of your poems it really strikes me at how I get lost in the story and how real to life your characters feel, even if only for those few moments.

This poem reminded me of so many people I no longer associate with.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I remember an earlier version of this and noticed you added an addendum at the bottom,

Such stark gritty reality. I remember visiting my parents in prison and you've managed to capture the feel of it. I don't always connect with your writing (reader fault I.e. missing too many links to the work) however when I get one of your poems it really strikes me at how I get lost in the story and how real to life your characters feel, even if only for those few moments.

This poem reminded me of so many people I no longer associate with.

I spent a career, Tod, working in prisons, probation, and parole. I've seen the whole spectrum of human existence, including death. It's played an important part in my writing, particularly some of the darker poems, as is the case here. That said, I've seen the noble side of people too.

 

[todski28]

I spent a career, Tod, working in prisons, probation, and parole. I've seen the whole spectrum of human existence, including death. It's played an important part in my writing, particularly some of the darker poems, as is the case here. That said, I've seen the noble side of people too.

I spent life with people that deserved to be in prison and most of them went on and off, two of my immediate family are there for life for murder it's just is what it is.

Do you ever ponder the whole nature vs nurture debate? I now can't spend too much time with most of my family as we are world's apart. Most of them are on welfare, have multiple children to multiple partners both male and female. They are the cliché of the bottom rung, I remember some things and think to myself, did that really happen.


And yet amidst all that there are redeeming features and they do love each other.

The contrast of dark and light is often the essence of poetry. Those flashes in the dark that either resonate a memory in a reader or shock someone who has never seen it.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I spent life with people that deserved to be in prison and most of them went on and off, two of my immediate family are there for life for murder it's just is what it is.

Do you ever ponder the whole nature vs nurture debate? I now can't spend too much time with most of my family as we are world's apart. Most of them are on welfare, have multiple children to multiple partners both male and female. They are the cliché of the bottom rung, I remember some things and think to myself, did that really happen.


And yet amidst all that there are redeeming features and they do love each other.

The contrast of dark and light is often the essence of poetry. Those flashes in the dark that either resonate a memory in a reader or shock someone who has never seen it.

Some "experts" wrote about "the criminal child" back in the nineties, but their popularity didn't last long. There are some cases, just as there are for some other disorders, eg, schizophrenia. I think "nurture," or rather the lack thereof, is far more frequent.

 

[legerdemer]

Enjoying both the poem and the discussion.

"Hey Boy," Big Mama used to seethe,
clenching her teeth because she hated
any name starting with Genesis,

making him cook meth in her kitchen
all those years until Surprise!
they're both in the State of Missouri prisons.

A tiny quibble, gm - I would take out the red 'the' above - unnecessary, and the line sounds better (to me) without it.

Now in the Chillicothe Women's
morgue she's waiting for Aryan heaven
because she had given seventy reasons

times seven to devil dust women
whose Daddies will visit Big Mama's sins
upon the son in Bonne Terre Prison.

The warden says "Hey, Boy, whatchu been doin',
fingers tattooed with HATE?" on the right
while LOVE, what's left of it, bleeds

I don't quite get the punctuation and flow of this stanza - is it the warden who asks, specifically about the fingers tattooed with hate, or is he noticing it and comparing with the 'love' on the right hand? As it stands, I don't quite understand the sense and whose tattoos we're looking at. I may be being dense.

on cinder blocks in segregation
where he's eating shit on a shingle,
pushed through a slot by Handyman Spade

So VIVID!

he otherwise could give a rat's ass to
why, when he's asked, his time bomb mind
ticks it's Ben. Goddammit! It's Ben!

I really like the poem and the imagery - but I still am missing a sense of exactly who is doing the musing in the last stanza(s) - is it the 'boy' or is it the warden?

Like Tod, I like that you've taken on such an uncomfortable subject, about something which I at least (and I'd venture to say, very few of us) know anything about except, largely, from the possibly biased media and certainly biased TV shows. To have someone with your direct experience address the topic in poetry is quite special.

Ugh, sorry about the run-on sentence. Oh well....

I am also following with interest the exchange between you and Tod, who has an equally personal but very different perspective on the topic. The combination of your two takes is fascinating to me. Especially given the rather sheltered life I've led (sheltered from one point of view, not from others, of course).

In short, I'd like to really understand the poem, but find that, despite a real like of it, it remains somewhat opaque.

I spent a career, Tod, working in prisons, probation, and parole. I've seen the whole spectrum of human existence, including death. It's played an important part in my writing, particularly some of the darker poems, as is the case here. That said, I've seen the noble side of people too.

 

[Trixareforkids]

Some "experts" wrote about "the criminal child" back in the nineties, but their popularity didn't last long. There are some cases, just as there are for some other disorders, eg, schizophrenia. I think "nurture," or rather the lack thereof, is far more frequent.

I just watched a very interesting video on this a couple of days ago.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47Svhwohyco

I love how the discussions here are not strictly about poetry but what drives us to write and the ideals that we hold that inform our poetry.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I just watched a very interesting video on this a couple of days ago.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47Svhwohyco

I love how the discussions here are not strictly about poetry but what drives us to write and the ideals that we hold that inform our poetry.

Very interesting, Trix. Seeking answers easy to understand, we tend to be very dualistic in our thinking, ie, "the reason is either this or that." I'm not suggesting that Tod was of that mind in raising the "nature vs. nature" question in the first place. Anyone who's read some of his work with its dark complexity would know otherwise.

I was an adjunct professor of criminal justice for about 10 years before I decided to take work easier prior to retirement(and start to study and write poetry.). My favorite course was criminology. In its inception during the 19th, the common belief was you could predict criminal behavior by measuring the skull, something we would laugh at today.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I really like the poem and the imagery - but I still am missing a sense of exactly who is doing the musing in the last stanza(s) - is it the 'boy' or is it the warden?.......

Neither, Mer, i.e., the poem is in the third person in which the poet is talking about the son, turns briefly to the first person talking, quoting the warden, and then returns to the third person with the closed quotation marks, further describing "Ben." Given that, I'm comfortable with it written as is. However, your comment made me think about how the syntax wouldn't work if I were reciting the poem. So I'll definitely re-work it for that reason.

Regarding the tattoos, it occurred to me the image which is so clear to me may not be for others. Anyone working in the "business" during the seventies and eighties would recognize it too. A common practice then among mostly juvenile delinquents, male and female BTW, was to have a friend carve a "homegrown" tattoo of LOVE and HATE, each with 4 letters, on the 4 fingers of each hand, excluding the thumbs. I was promoted in the late eighties and became one of those "central office types," so for all I know the practice died. There's not much worse IMO of inserting an image in a poem that doesn't resonate. I'm seriously thinking about deleting it.

Good catch on the "the." Long story short: it was part of an earlier version and fell off my editing radar. It should have been deleted.

 

[legerdemer]

Neither, Mer, i.e., the poem is in the third person in which the poet is talking about the son, turns briefly to the first person talking, quoting the warden, and then returns to the third person with the closed quotation marks, further describing "Ben." Given that, I'm comfortable with it written as is. However, your comment made me think about how the syntax wouldn't work if I were reciting the poem. So I'll definitely re-work it for that reason.

Regarding the tattoos, it occurred to me the image which is so clear to me may not be for others. Anyone working in the "business" during the seventies and eighties would recognize it too. A common practice then among mostly juvenile delinquents, male and female BTW, was to have a friend carve a "homegrown" tattoo of LOVE and HATE, each with 4 letters, on the 4 fingers of each hand, excluding the thumbs. I was promoted in the late eighties and became one of those "central office types," so for all I know the practice died. There's not much worse IMO of inserting an image in a poem that doesn't resonate. I'm seriously thinking about deleting it.

Good catch on the "the." Long story short: it was part of an earlier version and fell off my editing radar. It should have been deleted.

I encourage you to keep the tattoos, gm - the images are both vivid and significant it's the syntax that threw me. I look forward to the next iteration.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I really like the poem and the imagery - but I still am missing a sense of exactly who is doing the musing in the last stanza(s) - is it the 'boy' or is it the warden? .l..

On second thought, Mer, you're right. The transition from the third person narrative to a first person quote and back again was "clunky" in the earlier version. Thanks again for your comments.

Visit the Sins of the Mother

"Hey Boy," Big Mama used to seethe,
clenching her teeth because she hated
any name starting with Genesis,

making him cook meth in her kitchen
all those years until Surprise!
they're both in State of Missouri prisons.

Now in the Chillicothe Women's
morgue she's waiting for Aryan heaven
because she had given seventy reasons

times seven to devil dust women
whose Who's your Daddy? will visit her sins
through grape vines in Bonne Terre Prison

where a right hand has HATE carved on its fingers
and LOVE, what's left of it, calls his name
with a fish pole somewhere deep in his dream,

but a light bulb turns on to start his day
for breakfast of shit on a shingle,
pushed through a slot by Handyman Spade

he otherwise could give a rat's ass to
why, when he's asked, his time bomb mind
ticks it's Ben. Goddammit! It's Ben!

 

[legerdemer]

On second thought, Mer, you're right. The transition from the third person narrative to a first person quote and back again was "clunky" in the earlier version. Thanks again for your comments.

Visit the Sins of the Mother

"Hey Boy," Big Mama used to seethe,
clenching her teeth because she hated
any name starting with Genesis,

making him cook meth in her kitchen
all those years until Surprise!
they're both in State of Missouri prisons.

Now in the Chillicothe Women's
morgue she's waiting for Aryan heaven
because she had given seventy reasons

times seven to devil dust women
whose Who's your Daddy? will visit her sins
through grape vines in Bonne Terre Prison

where a right hand has HATE carved on its fingers
and LOVE, what's left of it, calls his name
with a fish pole somewhere deep in his dream,

but a light bulb turns on to start his day
for breakfast of shit on a shingle,
pushed through a slot by Handyman Spade

he otherwise could give a rat's ass to
why, when he's asked, his time bomb mind
ticks it's Ben. Goddammit! It's Ben!

Yes! This one flows smoothly and inevitably to the end. Stark, harsh and beautiful.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Thích Nhất HạNh while drying his dishes
as if they were a charnel ground,
wouldn't know who Kitty was,
wouldn't know she no longer was

a nameless name on Austin Street
and, as if it mattered,
Kew Gardens in a borough named Queens.

But Thích Nhất HạNh, if he knew,
while standing there drying his dishes
would have grown wings to bear witness
for Kitty Genovese.

I liked this one. I always go for an ironic twist. Of course, I'm old enough to remember her. I wonder, though, whether the middle stanza is necessary?

 

[greenmountaineer]

Thích Nhất HạNh while drying his dishes
as if they were a charnel ground,
wouldn't know who Kitty was,
wouldn't know she no longer was

a nameless name on Austin Street
and, as if it mattered,
Kew Gardens in a borough named Queens.

But Thích Nhất HạNh, if he knew,
while standing there drying his dishes
would have grown wings to bear witness
for Kitty Genovese.

I liked this one. I always go for an ironic twist. Of course, I'm old enough to remember her. I wonder, though, whether the middle stanza is necessary?

Fair point, AH. My reach may have exceeded my grasp here. The poem is an attempt to introduce contrast through inconsistencies in sound and images.

Most readers would probably mispronounce the Buddhist monk's name. Some wouldn't know he is a Buddhist monk, but deduce such from the poem. Most would pronounce Kitty's surname the American way ending in "eez," others the Italian way "azy." Some would recognize Queens as a borough in New York City and deduce Kew Gardens as a real estate development. Some would see Kew Gardens as the home of the British Botanical Gardens; hence no mention of Kitty as Genovese until the last line.

Some, like you know who she was; some would not. Some would see "growing wings" as an absurd image. Someone interested in Buddhism might see it as a metaphor, but of what?

I'd to think the poem showed Thích Nhất HạNh, halfway around the world at the time in Vietnam, was a compassionate man. Of course, you and I know the story how on the other side of the world 37 people who heard her screams that night were not.

The images are just too oblique. Even when you put them together, there are still pieces missing from the puzzle. I'll probably post a more fully developed work at some point. Thanks for your comments.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Fair point, AH. My reach may have exceeded my grasp here. The poem is an attempt to introduce contrast through inconsistencies in sound and images.

Most readers would probably mispronounce the Buddhist monk's name. Some wouldn't know he is a Buddhist monk, but deduce such from the poem. Most would pronounce Kitty's surname the American way ending in "eez," others the Italian way "azy." Some would recognize Queens as a borough in New York City and deduce Kew Gardens as a real estate development. Some would see Kew Gardens as the home of the British Botanical Gardens; hence no mention of Kitty as Genovese until the last line.

Some, like you know who she was; some would not. Some would see "growing wings" as an absurd image. Someone interested in Buddhism might see it as a metaphor, but of what?

I'd to think the poem showed Thích Nhất HạNh, halfway around the world at the time in Vietnam, was a compassionate man. Of course, you and I know the story how on the other side of the world 37 people who heard her screams that night were not.

The images are just too oblique. Even when you put them together, there are still pieces missing from the puzzle. I'll probably post a more fully developed work at some point. Thanks for your comments.

I would not have known nor deduced that he was a Buddhist nor a monk, nor that he was in Vietnam. In fact, the mental image I formed was of a simple Vietnamese immigrant, working at menial labor in New York. That he has the compassion that was found lacking in so many New Yorkers is what comes across. The wings are suggestive of angels (being Vietnamese, he could of course be Catholic) and also suggests that if he could, he would fly to her side, perhaps unable to aid her, but to reach out to her.

I must confess that I don't get what you are saying about the various vowel sounds in the poem.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I would not have known nor deduced that he was a Buddhist nor a monk, nor that he was in Vietnam. In fact, the mental image I formed was of a simple Vietnamese immigrant, working at menial labor in New York. That he has the compassion that was found lacking in so many New Yorkers is what comes across. The wings are suggestive of angels (being Vietnamese, he could of course be Catholic) and also suggests that if he could, he would fly to her side, perhaps unable to aid her, but to reach out to her.

I must confess that I don't get what you are saying about the various vowel sounds in the poem.

That was my intent. When the reader discovers Thích Nhất HạNh is a Buddhist monk, the poem hopefully takes on a different meaning. One of the better examples I can think of is Angeline's "Chagall's Bride:"

https://www.literotica.com/p/chagalls-bride

I knew Chagall was a painter from the context of the poem. When I discovered who Chagall was, the poem took on a different meaning.