Happy day-after-the-madness-that-is-Thanksgiving. I hope you all survived. I did. . . sort of. Anyway, I wrote a little this holiday and as I have to submit stuff for workshopping on Tuesday, I thought I'd ask you guys to throw in your ten cents (when do we ever stop at two?) now. It's still pretty rough, so be brutal. Maybe not brutal. . . just observant. . . too many ellipsis. And now, the poem.
Thanksgiving Day: Hurricane, Utah
I.
We drive past everyone's favorite Chinese restaurant
to a turkey dinner with no dressing--
just yams left boiling in too much liquid
still on the table when dessert is served,
a thin orange film
crusted over the top.
II.
When he was born his mother
named him Legend
imagining great wings and demigods
as she imagined herself stoned.
When his aunt adopted him
she rechristened him Nicholas,
as in Saint, hoping to draw a halo
over his head.
III.
For this we give thanks--
a tired patriarch
bowing over his posterity
as they surreptitiously pick
at his Thanksgiving feast.
IV.
The focal point, Daniel,
in his stiff baseball cap,
lens at eye, snapping
a thousand words each second
[this stanza is not done. . . ]
V.
Me
lounging in my little gold car
facing the mountains
eyes closed to the sun.
In the backyard the boys
cry out for the football
Uncle Stephen and Uncle Alan
throw over their heads.
In the kitchen,
Grandma shows my sister
how to cut yams.
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1 comments:
This poem has some really beautiful moments. The first line, I think, is captivating. As per my "back to the personal" pilgrimage I'm making, I think that the sections where you really tie the poem into the speaker are lovely. Last three lines, you return to your voice. Incredible. The form of your poem can allow you to play with tone/voicing throughout -- sometimes you decide to change and sometimes you stay the same. It could use a little more consistency. You owe me 15 cents.
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