Downtown dead perch float like silver
dollars in the river the Narragansett called
Woonasquatucket.
The rivers & bay bear the earthy truth of God’s purchase—
Roger Williams called ‘Providence’.
Borne by this river are native Americans—
like the native souls who left
the demands of proper society
to dwell with the meane & vile dwellers
of these banks.
They are mudmen
giving their names to this land.
They work & when their work is done
gaze at the stars, smoke a pipe,
blaze smoke trails and rivers to feed the blue,
God-shaped ocean.
* * *
Can you tell me the name of this kitchen utensil?
I’ve forgotten the name of my wife.
I’m on my hands and knees, because I can’t
pronounce the name of the world.
I’ve broken my pen from thinking of thoughts to think.
I’ve been drinking from an inkwell, to remember
the thing—itself.
* * *
People on the bus scratch instant lottery tickets.
While others have lost their bus tickets or else
they’ve given up on games of luck.
They wear shredded coats & see signs—
STOP signs and neon beer or tarot signs,
see signs in the stars, worship strange gods
with strange names.
Really, they are waiting for the next bus stop, not
exactly remembering where it was last time.
If you stop in the hotel on Fountain Street,
you can order porn in your room or watch a
program about a man without a face.
And at the corner is a girl
looking for a plastic surgeon & an ounce of weed
And at the other corner is a hunched woman
holding a holy book in her paper hands
but the words have run from the pages.
And at another is a man who knows of
a prostitute who works these streets:
She has a child’s eyes, speaks kindly like
a child, has a child at home…
I didn’t let her blow me…it wasn’t a question,
really.
Or if you stop in the bar just below the interstate
there’s a man with lesions on his face, preaching about
happiness and love too passionately to have known either.
And there’s a boy with a beer who served in Iraq:
I didn’t see any action--, mostly we played Play Station &
waited for something catastrophic to happen. It didn’t.
And the man in a flannel shirt hears the war talk:
I’m a real conservative.
We should have fucking taken out Bin Laden long ago &
as for Iraq—Saddam knew what he was doing—crazy as fuck
but knew how to be a leader. Now we’ve got to
be the new Saddam-- not as crazy though.
Then another,
Fuck Conservative! I’m a fascist.
(I’m also sick from drinking & feel afraid
that I’ll miss the last bus or forget
every line.)
And in the café is a teary blue-eyed girl
sitting so straight, so poised before an old book
by Shelly. She waits for a boy she met
on the internet & wonders if we’ve all
become monsters.
TIME magazine has a story about a boy from Nepal
who sat & sat beneath a gnarled bodhi tree.
He must have sat so still, so straight, so poised.
Was he sad? And did he think
we’d all become monsters?
In Providence, a scruff bearded man looks
at his reflection in storefront windows &
tries to pronounce the name of all this,
but something is missing.
There’s a rain-swollen St. Theresa holy card
on the concrete.
Comments
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I've not noticed your work up to now, chicago, so I'm glad to see and enjoy this one. I like it, all of it. Welcome to the site.
I hear in this epic tragedy all the richness and sorrow of a people slipping from the primal, earthy, natural life of "mudmen" AmerIndians to our current nearly nihilistic confusion, anxiety and fall from grace. The first stanza sets up the canvas, and each stanza from there, including the poet's poignantly personal and troubled introspections, are like slow-motion scenes of city life where it's really lived - on the streets, in bars, on the sidewalks with all their denizens wondering and quarreling as to what the hell are life and death all about these days. It's not pretty, but it's real.
And then, that penultimate stanza, imaging an innocent avatar of The Buddha under his bo tree, so troubled by how humans, most of them, fail to see the heaven within them, the hope in the midst of terrible and inevitable change. That stanza, for me, is the climax of this poem, this dramatic narrative of contemporary life. And the poem's denouement is perfectly realized in that holy card of gentle, pure St. Theresa, the Little Flower, I presume, lost and forlorn from our secularized consciousness. Powerful stuff, even if I may have misinterpreted it. And if so, I still like the remarkable poetic control and searing images in this drama, chicago. Strong stuff in my opinion, and very finely drawn. This is what, for me at least, a poem should be.
Lad -
Wow. I'm not really sure that I can give a good critique on this one, as I wouldn't be surprised if all of it went completely over my head, but it was very very moving, and I'd at least like to try. I was confused the first time I read over the beginning and continued onto the part after the italicized words. I thought the first part was taking place in another time, but I think I see the correlation now. As for the part in italics...I'm confused a bit about that. I don't think that's the fault of the poem, probably just my own. If you could give me an explanation I'd appreciate it, but if not it's obviously fine! I personally feel that not all poems have to be completely understood to be effective.
As for the last part (I'm sorry, I automatically broke it into three parts when I read), I couldn't stop reading it. It reminded me a little bit of Ginsberg's "Howl". There were so many observations and so many situations woven into each other. It reminded me a little bit of the theory dealing with six degrees of separation. And I think my mouth was open a little bit by the end. I'm not sure if Providence is special in its people, so I'll have to go out at night sometime and observe the inhabitants of my own city.
I'm sorry that I couldn't be more helpful, but I liked the tone, the style, and the words you chose. It worked extremely well, so I don't feel there's any need to change anything. Great job here.
Niennalanguage: 5, rhythm: 4, subject: 4, tone: 4, form: 3.
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