Musings of a Nascent Poet, Page 2

  Who could feel compassion?

  I am evil; I am bad.

  Or else it would not happen—

  He is innocently mad.

  I brought it on myself

  So I must live in secrecy—

  A tiny whore at nine years old,

  And who will cry for me?

  I'll never be a child again,

  Know naught but misery.

  I don't know if I'm even here.

  Why should you cry for me?

  My grandmother is half Native American and used to always be on the lookout for pictures and other artwork of smiling Native Americans, which are harder to come by than one would think. I wrote this with her in mind, noting many of the issues that were prevalent when I was a teenager. I suspect some are still relevant though I haven't followed those issues as well I probably should have.

  Do Indians Smile?

  An aged man sits on the steps;

  His face is brown and grim.

  His voice is dried up parchment

  That just blows off in the wind.

  His hair is kept in long white braids

  Despite all modern styles.

  He's always sitting on those steps

  And you never see him smile.

  He used to be a farmer

  On a patch of barren land,

  So kindly given by the state,

  That he had worked by hand,

  But desert doesn't bear much fruit

  And dust can't feed the seed

  Nor salve his hunger for the land

  Now gone for white man's greed.

  He sits now, dreaming of the days,

  Long past, when red men roamed,

  When food was good and bountiful,

  When all the land was home . . .

  But dreams are shattered memories

  That lie, a shattered pile,

  And he's just sitting on the steps

  And you never see him smile.

  A young man ducks into a shed

  And checks that all is clear.

  Relieved and saddened, no one's there

  For there is much to fear.

  His face is smooth and handsome

  Underneath that beaded band,

  But his eyes are full of sorrow

  And a gun is in his hand.

  He has a job, a make-work job—

  No pride, no joy, no skill—

  For white man gave this job to him

  And it's just time to kill.

  When life's this dull, when no one cares,

  When drink's your only friend,

  When guilty white man pays your way,

  Then time it is to end.

  Once, long ago, he'd be a man,

  A warrior, tall and proud.

  He'd hunt, he'd track, he'd fight so well

  They'd call him Thundercloud . . .

  But thunder echoes, then is gone;

  He needs his name no more,

  And he'll know sorrow ne'er again

  For his gun lies on the floor.

  A child walks to her crowded house

  On reservation land.

  Her shoes are old and dusty;

  There's a school book in her hand.

  Her solemn face is very sad,

  And tears pour down in streams—

  A tragic day to learn your kind

  Live in a foolish dream.

  To find the ways of those you love

  Are old and dumb and wrong,

  Oh, "quaint" and such, they kindly say,

  "And we just go along.

  To make it in this world,

  You need the methods of today,

  So leave your culture and your world

  And learn the white man's ways."

  Once, she'd be taught of other things,

  To weave, to farm, to sing,

  To dance, to listen to the birds

  That whistle on the wing . . .

  But birds are seldom seen these days;

  Their songs are ill and dry,

  For white man made the world this way

  And made a young girl cry.

  Oh, white man, hold your head in pride;

  You did all you could do,

  And they can make it in this world,

  If they but act like you.

  If they give up traditions,

  If they give up their past,

  If they forget the way things were,

  Then they won't finish last.

  For those who won't, you're generous:

  You school, you feed, you clothe,

  You give them tracts of desert land

  You let them call their own,

  You give them jobs, you give them homes,

  You give them a free ride.

  The price is almost nothing

  For you only take their pride.

  Once, they were mighty nations

  And you bargained for their aid.

  You promised them an honest deal,

  A fair and honest trade . . .

  But foolish red man trusted you

  Who cheated, stole, and slew.

  So, now, O generous victor,

  They smile no more. Would you?

  Inspiration

  When it comes to poetry, I don't read it much. There are a couple reasons, but the primary reason is that I only like very musical rhyme/rhythm poetry. The list of poets, therefore, that I like, is short. But I'd be lying if I didn't have favorites with E.A. Poe at the very top of the list (and I didn't single out much of my poetry as inspired by Poe because it kinda all is), Keats, Frost and the undervalued work of Emily Brontë who wrote quite a bit. I learned about her poetry when writing a research paper (comparing her work to Poe's) and her poetry was in the inspiration for the mini-poems under the title "Dirges." (The repetition of near identical poems is also common in Emily's work). And, of course, I loved Wuthering Heights, which inspired Heathcliff's Song. Also, in the "Dirges," the story of Catarina and Arturo was taken from the movie Overboard. I have no idea if it has more of an origin than that. There's definitely a streak of Poe as well, especially in trying to work awkward names into my poetry.

  Dirges

  Leilani

  "Longing," weeps the evening breeze,

  Each breath a tortured song,

  Images that fill my mind:

  Leilani, sacred . . . gone.

  Always, I have longed her here,

  Near me, my heart, I've longed . . .

  In truth, she's only song.

  Leilani II

  "Longing," wept the winter wind,

  Beneath the lifeless bough,

  Wailing songs of loneliness,

  Leilani's broken vow . . .

  Why can't she be here with me?

  Why won't she hear me pray?

  Will pain be all I have to hold?

  Can pleading make her stay?

  Mayhap there is an answer here

  In that groaning of the breeze . . .

  That life is taut with loneliness,

  Barren branches on the trees.

  Leilani III

  "Longing," wept the winter wind,

  Beneath the leafless bough.

  The wind wept songs of loneliness

  Cried songs of broken vows . . .

  She promised she would stay with me,

  Forever would she stay,

  Vowed that she was mine, all mine,

  Each night and every day.

  But now each night is torment,

  And days are lonely cries,

  For sings the wind with voices dead

  And brings Leilani's sighs.

  Wisteria

  Wafting, she is on the breeze

  'Til she fills up my mind.

  So silently she falls asleep,

  That soft, that final time.

  There she lays, my heart's own heart,

  So fair . . . So dear . . . adored.

  And now, inside, the echoed
part—

  A soul I have no more.

  Wisteria II

  Wafting, she is on the breeze

  Until she fills my mind.

  And I can see her sound asleep,

  That soft, that final time.

  There she lays, my heart's own life.

  I sense the scent she wore,

  And hear again my heart's last cry,

  "A soul I have no more . . . "

  Iolani

  Is there yet a reason

  For the sun that strikes my head?

  Why will birds sing gaily

  O'er a place where once she led?

  I . . . I can feel nothing . . .

  Iolani, she is dead.

  Iolani II

  Is there yet a reason

  Why the sun still strikes my eyes

  Or why this wood still echoes

  With the robin's happy cries?

  For me, I can hear nothing

  In this place, where once she led,

  For inside, there is nothing . . .

  Iolani, she is dead.

  Catarina

  Calling o'er the sea-bred breeze,

  Names echoed through the night,

  "Arturo!" she calls desperately

  As darkness fills her sight.

  O, where is he, her lover, now?

  She swims in sea of black

  And founders all alone at last . . .

  He shall never have her back.

  Arturo

  As he stands on the reeling deck,

  A rending tears his heart:

  Catarina's voice upon the wind.

  "Arturo!" cries the dark.

  He strips and dives into the sea . . .

  They won't die . . . not apart.

  Catarina II

  Calling o'er the sea-bred breeze,

  One hears her frantic cry.

  "Arturo!" she calls desperately,

  And hears his faint reply.

  Where is he, her lover now?

  She only hears his call.

  She founders, sinking 'neath the waves

  Where there's no sound at all.

  Arturo II

  As he stands on the reeling deck,

  Her calling tears his heart.

  He hears that loved voice on the wind:

  "Arturo!" cries the dark.

  He hears that last, that anguished moan

  And dives into the sea.

  He cries, "If you must die, my love,

  Than you will die with me!"

  Amarylis

  Alone she stood, that pretty girl,

  A maiden, tall and fair,

  A maiden with those silver eyes

  And redly golden hair.

  So, why did no one notice her?

  Why will no one pause?

  Why, again, is she alone?

  But, then, she always was.

  Amarylis II

  Alone she stood, that pretty girl,

  A maiden, tall and fair,

  A maiden with soft silver eyes

  And long red-golden hair.

  Why does no one know she's gone?

  And why will no one pause?

  She died, unsung, and left, alone,

  But then, she always was.

  Arabella

  Always there was laughter,

  Pretty laughter, when she came.

  As always, there was sunshine

  All but present in her name.

  Is there now no laughter,

  No trilling song of home?

  How could there still be laughter

  Now that Bella's smile has flown?

  Arabella II

  Always there was laughter,

  Joyous laughter, when she came.

  Always, there was sunshine

  At the mention of her name.

  Is there now no laughter

  Like the music of before?

  How could there still be laughter?

  Arabella smiles no more.

  Heathcliff's Song

  The moorish wind is wuthering

  And calling Cathy's name.

  It moans and whines accusingly

  And looks to me for blame.

  I feel her presence in the night

  As she taunts beyond my reach,

  Taunts beyond an endless chasm

  That, God, I cannot breach.

  I begged her once to haunt my days;

  Her vengeance then I craved,

  And pleaded she not leave me,

  Even smelling of the grave.

  A curse on you, sweet Cathy,

  With your teasing, I atone,

  And bless you, cruel Catherine,

  For not leaving me alone.

  A completely different kind of inspiration is hearing a notion, a line, a premise and running with it, often with results that would hard to connect to the source without a comment like this telling you. For example, "An Experiment" is using the title of Harlan Elison's "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" as a theme.

  An Experiment

  I have no eyes, but I must see

  The vision spawned in hell

  Injected by the aliens

  Who stole my mortal shell,

  Stole my body, face, my heart

  And left me but a brain.

  Every day, they flood my soul

  With trauma, fear and pain.

  I have no heart, but I must feel

  These things they make me feel.

  The poke and prod then note down each

  Response they rendingly steal.

  I see her, my lovely, in agony die.

  They kill her again . . . again,

  And they just record how I handle my hurt

  And how I respond to my pain.

  I'm just a specimen here on the rack

  That they stretch to see where I break,

  But I'm too resilient so I must endure

  The terror, the anguish, the ache.

  Entrapped in my abandoned mind,

  All here is what they seem.

  I have no mouth, but I must scream . . .

  I scream inside my dreams.

  "The Other Manger" used the first line and the premise of a short story by Jubal Harshaw in Stranger in a Strange Land. My college roommate, who is Catholic and also was one of the beta readers for this book, Nancy Ternes Hodson, sent this poem into some Catholic newspaper as a surprise. It was rather confusing because they either used her bio and my name or her name and bio on it. Almost undoubtedly, this is the most religious thing I've ever written, but it's in keeping with the original premise.

  The Other Manger

  Snow had been falling since the middle of November,

  But now it was a blizzard for the end of cold December.

  People scurried through the snow with bags of Christmas cheer

  While others sat in humid bars with mugs of Christmas beer.

  Every person had a someplace they could go this Christmas Eve;

  Warm and cozy, every person felt the holiday reprieve.

  The chapel doors were firmly locked by Father Kevin's hands,

  Who hurried home to sing about three kings from foreign lands,

  Yet, through the drafty chapel wall, between two fallen stones,

  A tiny kitten peeked its head, then stretched its weary bones.

  It dragged across the chilly floor, its movements pained and slow,

  But thankful for the respite from the frozen wind and snow.

  Its mottled coat was matted, frozen stiff or dripping wet,

  And the kitten's ribs were showing, poor neglected little pet!

  Its hunger was the driving force for many a day and night

  But cold had forced the kitten in, enticed by candlelight.

  Lost and homeless, cold and starving, limping on three feet,

  The kitten wandered in and curled upon a wooden seat.

  In the middle of the night, the cat woke with a start
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  And felt a certain burning in its frozen friendless heart.

  "Come, my friend." It heard a voice and slowly looked around

  And saw a blaze of lights inside this haven it had found.

  "Come, my friend," the warm voice coaxed. "You do not rest alone;

  You have wandered in and I bid welcome to my home."

  A radiant Man stood by its bench and reached a gentle hand.

  "Come and feel my healing, poor mistreated little friend."

  Then He picked the kitten up and held it to His breast.

  "Friend, if you feel weary, then, with Me, feel free to rest.

  I'll be there to protect you from the storm and other harm.

  Now, just cuddle closer; let Me show you love is warm."

  So, the kitten snuggled in its shelter from the cold

  And a warming flooded through it as its hunger grew less bold.

  Soothing, and more soothing, it was whispered back to sleep,

  But its sleep, at last, was comfort as it slumbered, long and deep.

  Its hunger softly vanished and its foot felt no more pain.

  It purred within its slumber as He stroked the fur again. . .

  In the morning, Father Kevin opened up the chapel doors,

  And the neighbor's son, Roberto, ran across the icy floors.

  Today, he wished to be the first to see the blessed King,

  And he looked into the manger, brown eyes, huge and wondering.

  A kitten, maybe sleeping, snuggled in the Savior's light

  For the tiny soul had come to him in the cold and frigid night.

  The third poem ("A Fitting Tribute"" takes the story of the Tiger Lily from Hans Christian Anderson's "The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure" in Fairy Tales and Stories.

  A Fitting Tribute

  She steps upon the fire

  As a Hindustani should.

  She steps to join her husband

  As a widow woman would

  Who'd lost a gentle husband

  To the fetid kiss of death

  But thinks not of the husband

  Who has breathed his final breath.

  Her eyes rest on another

  As the fire around her sings

  And feels that she is rising

  On a pair of smoking wings.

  She knew she could not have him,

  So, to her, death holds no pain,

  Not like the pain she felt for him

  Who held her heart in vain.

  She shouldn't love another man

  When she had one herself

  Who had such gentle breeding,

  Gentle heart and massive wealth,

  But, oh, she could not help the fact

  That he was what she craved,