I will put in verse all you need to know, my mind spinning free, detached of things I long let go. This is the lie I tell myself, which I know is not true. Helps me sleep and see the day when I question who. And so Trev began the beginning of the beginning and Em listened to tales as foreign as the lands her father occasioned. Translated from the original Hynerian.
I lived in a small house
humble so we said
Yet within her walls
was the center of the frailing universe
or so it seemed
by the arguments we had
His skin
river creased
and filled with sun
His eyes
cloudless
infinite and cold
with what could have been;
bitterness
coursed his veins
for he knew enough
to know
he didn't know enough
She
like a ghost
transparent to the hurt
survival necessitated
letting go
not attaching
a protecting it seemed
of a heart that didn't deserve this
I watched with magnifying eyes
as only children borrow
sounds recording
thunder and lightning
inside
to match that without
one sounding much like the other
and helpless to stop either
and truth be known
I never bothered
Caves
we created
not of the eye seen
but have them we did
and as surely as the house
in the storm
we took refuge
to the rain within
I did the things I did
the things children do
I did them with eyes one
not two
Excuses were not given
and I did not ask
for the wound of No
heals slowly
and I was already
bleeding enough
7 comments:
The scene ends with Trev's voice fading to something sung by Priscilla Ahn (I would be say Rain, but I've already used it--LOL). We hear the music as Trev and Em sit across from each other in the bed, indian style. He is still talking, she still listening, the camera rotates 360 before fading to black.
How strange is that, more than likely something within, the same something that meant this scene ending was added here in commnets, in this scene were words and I had not imagined the two of them in very much detail at all, the chapter coming from inside Trev's memory, that is where I was, imagining that house, imagining his father, his mother, the sounds as described in and out and the weight of no, and so as I read of how they sat, how they were still sitting as the music and scene fades it became incorporated instantly and so they had sat throughout only now were the eyes to see them, when the ears had heard what they were going to.
In a Small House - I am reminded of stories that used to be read to us in the first grade of school, they were my favourites at the time, and always began the same way, along the lines of On a dark, dark street, in a dark, dark house, there was a dark, dark room and so on until the story began. The introduction, simple yet very effective, created hush, created anticipation, created an enclosed circle of story and listening. It is for this reason that I was reminded of those, not for the words, but for the less is more, the entrance, the drawing in of I lived in a small house as it follows the introduction written above. The layout of the first six lines, for their shortness, I am reminded of yet something else, this time from within the story and the chapter where Yul in on her way to see Rog in the ward and the two parts of the chapter have been swapped in a manner of speaking so that what we see does not occur chronologically but rather after seeing the second part of the scene one gains through seeing the first second new information, new understanding, after rather than before, as though now, looking back, at the end of the chapter as it stands, we are able to see it in full. A little of the same occurs here, although one cannot have expected it would be any different, the last line added at the end, and not before the end, gives the rest its appropriate colour. Very nicely done.
The two descriptions of his parents are similar in one particularly noticeable sense namely the change within, here a tea for two and two for tea set up, as they mirror each other, and yet the meanings of these reflections do not coincide, as unharmonious in this respect as the rest of the poem suggests their relation to be. The sun has connotations, evokes associations that have not much room to fill here as it advances, and likewise with the description of his mother, as it reveals words of heart, it is barely breaking surface, pulled back below by the current of the other revelations, in short through both these stanzas one believes initially as one begins to read that there is a shift in slant, in viewpoint, that there will be heads and tails, but soon one sees, from young Trev's eyes, with both father (individually) and mother (individually) they are but one coin. Even shorter, every part of them is this in an all roads lead to Rome sense. Superb writing hereto, these first three, and beyond to the next, infinitely moving are the words of watching, of recording, of being helpless, helpless in a way that does not even summon the hopefullness to try, of taking refuge, so incredibly moving and the last part, what can I say except to express relief, gladness that Em is listening to these words as they are poured from him, listening with eyes, ears, shoulders, arms, heart and soul.
With reference to a recent comment, his words imprint I did not ask
for the wound of No
heals slowly
and I was already
bleeding enough and the heart aches, sincerely, in receipt.
I was outside on my back deck the other night and I looked back over the roof of my home, which is a small home, humble as I would say, and I thought of just how small it was as my mind telescoped out to my neighborhood, my town, my state, my country, the world, the solar system and so forth. And my mind went to what happens within that very, very small piece of the universe, and, for whatever reason, it just seemed completely out of proportion. And of course, I looked to the other houses and then thought of all the houses and all the conversations and all a universe within themselves and I felt the distance between homes and then the distance within homes.
This poem, like almost all of them, started with just that idea (above). I had no idea that it would be more than the six opening lines. These things flow, and I'm not sure I could tell you how or why. This poem, as all the rest, are written in a single go, five minutes tops and once written, and often posted without me even reading them (not even to proof), I have almost no desire to read them again--or perhaps visit them, or look at them. They are like thorns to me that I throw up, my throat burning in the purge, bleeding within, the taste of blood fresh and I feel ill.
There are some songs that just fit too many situations appropriately, aren't there...
I love "river creased". That is such a great descript! You have the best descriptions of anyone I know Tree!
--snow
Thanks Snow. Means more to me than you know to read your verbal hug. :-)
I was trying to think of a unique way to describe a "red neck." The image I had in mind was the back of my father's neck, which I remember very, very clearly. The creases in his aged skin that looked like an eroded landscape, and the deep, dark redness of a neck that had absorbed (filled) more sun than was healthy. So there you go. :-D
This is so poignantly evocative of the image of a typical American family. ( excuse me, for stero typing)
Welll.. on second thoughts... it could be anywhere...
& yes... its the children who have the undeniable scars...
Well, I am American, so guilty as charged. :-D
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