Over the 17 years I’ve been writing these posts, I’ve blogged about sexual addiction, mental illness, suicide, grief, and physical abuse, among other topics. My life is an open book. If you really want to know who I am, just go back to the beginning of Saint Marty in 2010 and start reading. After six-thousand or so posts, you’ll probably have a pretty good idea of who I am.
Marie Howe tackles a difficult topic . . .
The Attic
by: Marie Howe
Praise to my older brother, the seventeen-year-old boy, who lived
in the attic with me an exiled prince grown hard in his confinement,
bitter, bent to his evening task building the imaginary building
on the drawing board they’d given him in school. His tools gleam
under the desk lamp. He is as hard as the pencil he holds,
drawing the line straight along the ruler.
Tower prince, young king, praise to the boy
who has willed his blood to cool and his heart to slow. He’s building
a structure with so many doors it’s finally quiet,
so that when our father climbs heavily up the attic stairs, he doesn’t
at first hear him pass down the narrow hall. My brother is rebuilding
the foundation. He lifts the clear plastic of one page
to look more closely at the plumbing,
—he barely hears the springs of my bed when my father sits down—
he’s imagining where the boiler might go, because
where it is now isn’t working. Not until I’ve slammed the door behind
the man stumbling down the stairs again
does my brother look up from where he’s working. I know it hurts him
to rise, to knock on my door and come in. And when he draws his skinny
arm around my shaking shoulders,
I don’t know if he knows he’s building a world where I can one day
love a man—he sits there without saying anything.
Praise him.
I know he can hardly bear to touch me.
This is what I would call a brave poem. Howe is tackling the subject of sexual/physical abuse by a parent (at least that’s my take). She isn’t trying to shock the reader; she stays away from explicit details. Instead, Howe pays tribute to her 17-year-old brother, who provides the kind of love and support that will allow her to overcome, heal, and eventually forge healthy relationships with the men in her life. That’s an amazing act of love.
Emily Dickinson advises to “[t]ell all the truth but tell it slant” in one of her poems. I think that’s what Howe does in this poem. When dealing with a difficult subject, it’s easier to approach it from the side versus head on. Sort of like admiring a solar eclipse—you can’t look at it directly or it will inflict serious harm. Poetry is all about slant telling.
Today, I have no monumental or earth-shattering truth to reveal. I worked at the library all day, including a writing workshop in the evening. That’s it. I’ve been working through the idea for a novella, and I think I got a jumpstart on the opening paragraphs in the workshop. That makes me feel like I actually accomplished something important.
When I was working on my Bigfoot manuscript, I used to say that I was wrestling with Bigfoot when I started a new poem. I can still use that metaphor, I think, event though I have no intention of ever writing another Bigfoot poem in my life. (Sorry folks, no sequels coming your way.)
So, Saint Marty wrestled with Bigfoot tonight and came up with this . . .
Triggering
by: Martin Achatz
“Never write a poem that ought to have a poem written about it . . .”
— Richard Hugo
In grad school, I was told never to write
a poem with the words love and heart
in it. I was also cautioned against bone
and soul, as if those innermost parts
of ourselves will wither in sunlight
to brown husks, flake into dust on the tongue
that speaks them. I think a poet must
fall in love with someone or something
in order to write about her or him or it or them.
For instance, I fell in love with my toothpaste
this morning, its minty heart alive
against the bone of my teeth. I’m not
sure if my soul has a scent, but it it does,
I’ll bet it’s Colgate fresh, scrubbed clean
of the plaque of loss and regret and anger.
Am I allowed to use those words, Mr. Hugo?
Or should I floss them from this poem’s gums
like a popcorn kernel or stubborn apple seed?
❤️jt
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