Okay. So the Melville and Lovecraft poems we looked at were interesting, but fall short of stellar by varying distances. Now we move on to some prime cuts.
Forgive me if I've told this story before, but for most of my teenage to twenty-one years, poetry and I shared an antipathetic relationship. I didn't get poetry -- especially not the modern free verse stuff. It wasn't until I took a college course in formal poetry and started writing sonnets and terza rima myself that I began to understand and appreciate the stuff. (One of the sestina selections from last year observes a sinister pupose behind this often-observed pattern.)
So I submitted a piece I wrote for the class to the school's lit magazine, and the editors decided it made the grade. The faculty member overseeing the publication called in a couple of judges to select two of the issue's pieces (a short story and a poem) to earn special recognition as the cream of that semester's crop. The poetry judge chose my piece, giving me some English department cred and a fifty-dollar prize, which I promptly spent on more weed.
That poet was Stephen Cramer (born 1975?), and today we'll be looking at a few pieces from his Shiva's Drum collection. Most of these are among the ones I recall him reading out loud during his visit.
Remember what's been said about the necessity for a poem to sing? We've already looked at a couple of poets who understood how to write in the forms of poetry, but experienced some trouble coaxing out the music. Cramer shall serve as an excellent example of a poet who knows how to make spoken words sing out, and is really good at it. I would suggest reading them out loud -- but please, just read them. I ask for so little!
For Brendan
I knew her first as the rhythm
of her cane on the floor above——faint
lexicon of creaks and taps that let me
invent her cramped apartment——the certain
television, the recliner, and withered
ottoman she sidesteps to the kitchen.
But it’s my neighbor’s laugh that turns
The ceiling’s thick plaster to rice paper.
the same laugh that, outside, calls to her heels
her scooter- and trike-propelled tribe
of neighborhood children, this extended family
she’s adopted because polio’s kept her from kids
of her own. Outside the grocery she asks
about my sister’s second child. Two years
of agencies, I answer, and still paperwork’ll
keep him from her arms for weeks.
Texas,
A transitional family, and another imagined
room——portable crib, plush mobile
dangling from the respirator, and a rainbowed
circus whirls to his charted pulse.
The sweet anxieties of early parenthood.
Two decades of marriage, it’s 1975,
and my mother starts the new year
with her own troubled pregnancy,
the early delivery that may not be early
enough. First hours on the other side of labor,
and a clergy absolves the failing child——
prayers, fogging the surface of a plastic
womb, blur his gestures to vague curves.
Then, once the child’s prepared
for heaven, the doctors do their best
to delay his trip, and he’s wheeled away
to the last of four transfusions, the one
that finally sustains him. Those anonymous
donors, their blood bagged and chilled
to come alive again in me——I’ve never wondered
until today what their names might be,
what community of fluids cruises my veins.
Little one, all this to tell you something simple:
we're of one blood. The grocery’s lights
fizzle and fade. My neighbor’s dark skin deepens
to twilight. I’m walking her home, a bag
in each hand, and she’s describing
the milk, eggs, flour, and the buttered
cornbread they’ll become. When I pull out
the photo of a child, curled, almost,
into a fist-sized ball, she props her cane
against the door. Ain’t that something, she says,
and laughs one of her two-syllable laughs
that truly means ain’t that something.
Then she pauses, looks at the ground,
and honey, she says, talking, now, almost
to herself, if you knelt each time
a miracle passed your eyes,
you’d never get off your knees.
of her cane on the floor above——faint
lexicon of creaks and taps that let me
invent her cramped apartment——the certain
television, the recliner, and withered
ottoman she sidesteps to the kitchen.
But it’s my neighbor’s laugh that turns
The ceiling’s thick plaster to rice paper.
the same laugh that, outside, calls to her heels
her scooter- and trike-propelled tribe
of neighborhood children, this extended family
she’s adopted because polio’s kept her from kids
of her own. Outside the grocery she asks
about my sister’s second child. Two years
of agencies, I answer, and still paperwork’ll
keep him from her arms for weeks.
Texas,
A transitional family, and another imagined
room——portable crib, plush mobile
dangling from the respirator, and a rainbowed
circus whirls to his charted pulse.
The sweet anxieties of early parenthood.
Two decades of marriage, it’s 1975,
and my mother starts the new year
with her own troubled pregnancy,
the early delivery that may not be early
enough. First hours on the other side of labor,
and a clergy absolves the failing child——
prayers, fogging the surface of a plastic
womb, blur his gestures to vague curves.
Then, once the child’s prepared
for heaven, the doctors do their best
to delay his trip, and he’s wheeled away
to the last of four transfusions, the one
that finally sustains him. Those anonymous
donors, their blood bagged and chilled
to come alive again in me——I’ve never wondered
until today what their names might be,
what community of fluids cruises my veins.
Little one, all this to tell you something simple:
we're of one blood. The grocery’s lights
fizzle and fade. My neighbor’s dark skin deepens
to twilight. I’m walking her home, a bag
in each hand, and she’s describing
the milk, eggs, flour, and the buttered
cornbread they’ll become. When I pull out
the photo of a child, curled, almost,
into a fist-sized ball, she props her cane
against the door. Ain’t that something, she says,
and laughs one of her two-syllable laughs
that truly means ain’t that something.
Then she pauses, looks at the ground,
and honey, she says, talking, now, almost
to herself, if you knelt each time
a miracle passed your eyes,
you’d never get off your knees.
Blanket
Penn Station’s cavernous staircase,
and two children whisper to the waists
of commuters—please ma’am, god bless
you sir—each time one drops coins
to the cardboard they hold.
But beneath the wilting trays,
their hands sift through pants——
deftly, even gracefully——easy enough
when people’s sensations are lost
somewhere between missed cabs
and this backward syntax that sticks
in their mouths like sugar burnt
over peanuts on these corners.
Later, tallying cash and bruises,
the boys’ll toss down a grate
the incidental keys to no place
they know. But now, when a nearby
woman approaches, cradling a baby,
they give each other looks. Please,
you say, not her. Not her.
But then, the timing just right,
the woman——I can’t say this slowly
enough——she casts her baby
to the air——
and there are seconds
when the baby’s suspended
with nowhere to land but pavement
before a stranger——what else to do?——
drops his bag to catch it. He’s looking
for burns, expecting blood, when at once
the woman and two kids grab
what they can, which is
everything——bag, wallet, keys.
How long does it take him
to know this was a design, a ruse
repeated time and again to perfection?
This time two incidental cops disrupt
their practiced sequence so, trading
their sister, their daughter, for a slim
handful of spoils, the three turn into crowd,
and the man’s left holding a child
at arm’s length, offering it back
to everyone or no one.
When no one takes, he finds
himself holding her to the sky
as though to bear witness that, yes,
here is a child, a breathing
prop, paused in a man’s arms
before the landslide of years——before
her hands can grow streamlined
to pocket lining, before she can sell
herself beneath these tattered lights,
trading the cardboard
for an orange mesh tanktop
with tears in all the right places,
her skin barely cupping
the curve of flesh where it swells
to deeper brown. But wait——none of this,
as yet, is so; something out there
wants to lift her from her own life. Look——
already someone opens a blanket
embroidered with a map to the air,
spreading India, Egypt, Peru, over her
shoulders arched against the siren.
And when they take her away,
that’s the last anyone sees——
not a single finger or knee-cap
of the girl, but only a blanket
that swaddles a lucky child
in the folds of a created world.
and two children whisper to the waists
of commuters—please ma’am, god bless
you sir—each time one drops coins
to the cardboard they hold.
But beneath the wilting trays,
their hands sift through pants——
deftly, even gracefully——easy enough
when people’s sensations are lost
somewhere between missed cabs
and this backward syntax that sticks
in their mouths like sugar burnt
over peanuts on these corners.
Later, tallying cash and bruises,
the boys’ll toss down a grate
the incidental keys to no place
they know. But now, when a nearby
woman approaches, cradling a baby,
they give each other looks. Please,
you say, not her. Not her.
But then, the timing just right,
the woman——I can’t say this slowly
enough——she casts her baby
to the air——
and there are seconds
when the baby’s suspended
with nowhere to land but pavement
before a stranger——what else to do?——
drops his bag to catch it. He’s looking
for burns, expecting blood, when at once
the woman and two kids grab
what they can, which is
everything——bag, wallet, keys.
How long does it take him
to know this was a design, a ruse
repeated time and again to perfection?
This time two incidental cops disrupt
their practiced sequence so, trading
their sister, their daughter, for a slim
handful of spoils, the three turn into crowd,
and the man’s left holding a child
at arm’s length, offering it back
to everyone or no one.
When no one takes, he finds
himself holding her to the sky
as though to bear witness that, yes,
here is a child, a breathing
prop, paused in a man’s arms
before the landslide of years——before
her hands can grow streamlined
to pocket lining, before she can sell
herself beneath these tattered lights,
trading the cardboard
for an orange mesh tanktop
with tears in all the right places,
her skin barely cupping
the curve of flesh where it swells
to deeper brown. But wait——none of this,
as yet, is so; something out there
wants to lift her from her own life. Look——
already someone opens a blanket
embroidered with a map to the air,
spreading India, Egypt, Peru, over her
shoulders arched against the siren.
And when they take her away,
that’s the last anyone sees——
not a single finger or knee-cap
of the girl, but only a blanket
that swaddles a lucky child
in the folds of a created world.
The Whetstone
Almost metallic, almost guttural——
at times the sound’s so plaintive,
it could just about pass for human——
this deep, grated hum at corridor’s end,
42nd Street. I’m drawn less by the music
itself than by memory’s blind pull,
the twanged vibrato half-triggering——what?——
already the moment’s gone, and I’m left
with the shift and commingling of the crowd.
Then, there he is——a man’s dragging a bow
across the smooth edge of a three-foot
hand saw——unlikely vehicle——his free hand
gliding then grappling, bending the metal
to impossible notes the workshop
never dreamed of. Curve on top of
curve——his creening neck mirrors the hard
arc of steel as it curls to follow
a cascaded run of notes showered
from the tape deck behind him.
His shuddering forearm seismic,
his wrist all nuance, he lets vibration
polish rust to a silver burn, the metal
warped out of utility just to prove
that anything–the busted tools
marooned in basement shadows——
can be contorted into song. Memory’s
blind pull, then I close my eyes and
I’m there in the dank cellar of the house
my grandfather built——strung roots
dangling, drill bits hung in diminishing rows——
all he left behind. Back from the chapel’s
service, I palmed his cross-hatched
whetstone, rubbing it to feel
the years, hearing, almost,
the insistent whistle of his bait-knives
and shears, the sinuous vocabulary
of scraping noises——rasp, grind,
sputter——elevated, like this saw’s
fizzled solo, to music. I’ll retain
from his life no lofty moment——
not the words of one intimate
exchange——but a humble sense
of accuracy. If he were here
now, he might not be able to articulate
all the facets of loss, but he’d tell me
how many tiles trimmed this wall
to resonance, while all I try to say
grinds to dust, coiled shavings.
After all our efforts, what lasts
Besides the endless shaping
toward precision? Any memorial’s
inadequate, double-sided
as this man’s blade still shimmying
before me–—one edge can slice you
while the other keeps singing.
at times the sound’s so plaintive,
it could just about pass for human——
this deep, grated hum at corridor’s end,
42nd Street. I’m drawn less by the music
itself than by memory’s blind pull,
the twanged vibrato half-triggering——what?——
already the moment’s gone, and I’m left
with the shift and commingling of the crowd.
Then, there he is——a man’s dragging a bow
across the smooth edge of a three-foot
hand saw——unlikely vehicle——his free hand
gliding then grappling, bending the metal
to impossible notes the workshop
never dreamed of. Curve on top of
curve——his creening neck mirrors the hard
arc of steel as it curls to follow
a cascaded run of notes showered
from the tape deck behind him.
His shuddering forearm seismic,
his wrist all nuance, he lets vibration
polish rust to a silver burn, the metal
warped out of utility just to prove
that anything–the busted tools
marooned in basement shadows——
can be contorted into song. Memory’s
blind pull, then I close my eyes and
I’m there in the dank cellar of the house
my grandfather built——strung roots
dangling, drill bits hung in diminishing rows——
all he left behind. Back from the chapel’s
service, I palmed his cross-hatched
whetstone, rubbing it to feel
the years, hearing, almost,
the insistent whistle of his bait-knives
and shears, the sinuous vocabulary
of scraping noises——rasp, grind,
sputter——elevated, like this saw’s
fizzled solo, to music. I’ll retain
from his life no lofty moment——
not the words of one intimate
exchange——but a humble sense
of accuracy. If he were here
now, he might not be able to articulate
all the facets of loss, but he’d tell me
how many tiles trimmed this wall
to resonance, while all I try to say
grinds to dust, coiled shavings.
After all our efforts, what lasts
Besides the endless shaping
toward precision? Any memorial’s
inadequate, double-sided
as this man’s blade still shimmying
before me–—one edge can slice you
while the other keeps singing.
Abide with Me
If she can’t trace the cloudy
synapses that lead to her daughter’s
name, still my mother’s mother
can accompany Monk’s ensemble,
her throat trembling the high notes
over the last state line before home——
fast falls the eventide. She no longer
owns the strength to produce
all the sounds the spirit contains, songs
from her other life when the Church
lifted her even from the sudden fall
down the garden path that left her leg
useless. Home, the stale odor
of a weeklong absence mixes
with a smell we can’t name until we find
the sink spattered with white
and the glass birds fractured,
sticky with real, matted feathers.
Then it’s just a matter of finding
the catbird in the corner
who must’ve hurled himself
again and again toward nothing,
wounding these trinkets
until he owned their stone wings.
This morning, she wipes the pane
smudgeless than rocks her chair further
and further from this palmful of life
that couldn’t get out the way you hope
you will. Fast falls. What will stay with you
as these lyrics have remained with her,
what words to nudge you through
until you’re riding the last even tide,
rocking toward a sheen of clouds
where the last thing you see is your own
face before you pass through to light
or shatter with the trying?
synapses that lead to her daughter’s
name, still my mother’s mother
can accompany Monk’s ensemble,
her throat trembling the high notes
over the last state line before home——
fast falls the eventide. She no longer
owns the strength to produce
all the sounds the spirit contains, songs
from her other life when the Church
lifted her even from the sudden fall
down the garden path that left her leg
useless. Home, the stale odor
of a weeklong absence mixes
with a smell we can’t name until we find
the sink spattered with white
and the glass birds fractured,
sticky with real, matted feathers.
Then it’s just a matter of finding
the catbird in the corner
who must’ve hurled himself
again and again toward nothing,
wounding these trinkets
until he owned their stone wings.
This morning, she wipes the pane
smudgeless than rocks her chair further
and further from this palmful of life
that couldn’t get out the way you hope
you will. Fast falls. What will stay with you
as these lyrics have remained with her,
what words to nudge you through
until you’re riding the last even tide,
rocking toward a sheen of clouds
where the last thing you see is your own
face before you pass through to light
or shatter with the trying?
What We Do
Metallic detonation arcs
over Broadway's gulf, and the aluminum
contorts to contain the continuous
syncopation wrecked into its side——
with two feet of pipe
a man's beating a keg till it turns useless
for anything else but to carry
his liquid rhythms. He's drumming
a rim full of dents, angled
facets that pull to themselves
all the sun they can bear before tossing
a tremelo of light off the bricks behind.
Look around: whatever this sound is
that ricochets the streets is contagious——
less drums than a seasonal quickening
that everything's so busy keeping up with,
new desire mixing up the thick torpor
of the past months. At my feet,
two pigeons struggle over any spare
piece of garbage to entice a female.
They fumble in this patch of spilled popcorn,
gurgling and churring in figure eights,
inflating the sheen of their necks
over their turf. Even when she dodges
away, they just keep flashing iridescence
for no one. Noontime, the drummer's checking
the metal where he's reflected
in more than one place, tucking a stray
curl behind his ear. But just so you don't
forget whose block this is,
when a woman goes by
he's sent demonic, like he knows
this commotion's for keeps,
and he's thrown into a shimmy
of the hips which he rises out of
just in time to fit the mechanical stumble
of a far-off jackhammer into his running
cadence. These sounds the music wants
to encompass, make its own,
so in the end, you can't tell if he's playing
the drums or if they're playing him.
Because when you're itching
to finish with your wrists
the rumble that begins in your gut,
this is what you do——you're ready
to bang on anything for love.
You'll break your hands
to get that rhythm out.
over Broadway's gulf, and the aluminum
contorts to contain the continuous
syncopation wrecked into its side——
with two feet of pipe
a man's beating a keg till it turns useless
for anything else but to carry
his liquid rhythms. He's drumming
a rim full of dents, angled
facets that pull to themselves
all the sun they can bear before tossing
a tremelo of light off the bricks behind.
Look around: whatever this sound is
that ricochets the streets is contagious——
less drums than a seasonal quickening
that everything's so busy keeping up with,
new desire mixing up the thick torpor
of the past months. At my feet,
two pigeons struggle over any spare
piece of garbage to entice a female.
They fumble in this patch of spilled popcorn,
gurgling and churring in figure eights,
inflating the sheen of their necks
over their turf. Even when she dodges
away, they just keep flashing iridescence
for no one. Noontime, the drummer's checking
the metal where he's reflected
in more than one place, tucking a stray
curl behind his ear. But just so you don't
forget whose block this is,
when a woman goes by
he's sent demonic, like he knows
this commotion's for keeps,
and he's thrown into a shimmy
of the hips which he rises out of
just in time to fit the mechanical stumble
of a far-off jackhammer into his running
cadence. These sounds the music wants
to encompass, make its own,
so in the end, you can't tell if he's playing
the drums or if they're playing him.
Because when you're itching
to finish with your wrists
the rumble that begins in your gut,
this is what you do——you're ready
to bang on anything for love.
You'll break your hands
to get that rhythm out.
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