We come dragging up, shored to the building sides
by the wind-tunnel effect, the narrowness
of this space, between parking garages
and the back doors of bars;
The throttle of running-low tanks from the cars
that just barely get through.
This secret route, waitresses step out
onto cement stoops, burning the shift’s
last cigarette.
On the ground, bums sift through
industrial green dumpsters, cringing away
from our offerings in white take-out boxes.
They flee around the corner. So we leave the boxes there
On the low barricade that protects the trash bins.
Only con artists panhandle. Sometime later tonight,
the real homeless will come back, sniffing out
our leavings as if they can divine our intentions
before they partake of meat.
This is not charity. Just symbiosis.
Like our shadows
created by buzzing streetlamps
where the expected rations of items live
in this darkness at our feet,
caught in blacktop pores.
Butts and chewing gum grow here, of course,
And a long rivulet of grease snakes through,
foul-smelling, wearing a groove to the drain,
the outpouring of short-order kitchens.
And once, broken in work-boots someone left
presumably with the intention of hiking out of here
barefoot. I can’t think of any other reason the boots
would have been abandoned. They looked like they had
plenty of miles in them yet.
Somewhere, a car alarm horn’s sustained groan,
several blocks away it seems, but the wind
makes it hard to tell. No one comes
to shut it off, and I hope we’re walking away from it.
To distract myself, I look for the rare odd items.
A crushed iris with its bulb still attached
withering in a puddle of melted snow.
Tree pods blown here from the park
where, a few nights ago, we watched the eclipse.
Iridescent bodied hummingbird’s
fatal contact with an upper-story window,
or the exacting claws of the neighbor’s cat
left there when tom discovered how little meat
clung to those wire-thin bones.
Wings frozen splayed like an insect on cork.
They are so used to being invisible.
Author notes
A mid-winter's muse.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 18 of 18
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A treat for the sense...
My four senses thank you for this poem (I was born without a sense of smell). This piece tingled each and every one of them. What I really like about it, though, is that it comes from such an overlooked, ignored, forgotten about place. Our urban areas are loaded with alleys but, for most of us, they are just something to drive by. Don't look... don't stare... it is dark and dangerous down there. This poem almost makes it feel as if an entire universe exists within just one alley, and it is quite a gem. A very smooth feel to it, too... rolling along at an ideal pace. For me, it was almost kinda jazzy or bluesy in a way. I may be the only one, but I am glad it had that feel for me and it was a treat to read. As for improvements, I really can't think of any. Even with the average poem it is tough for me to make suggestions on edits, so when something as strong as this comes along it is that much more challenging. Take a bow on a job well done!
language: 4, rhythm: 5, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 4.
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Hi, Mark. Thanks for reading and commenting on two right in a row-- glad you enjoyed this little foray into urbania. It was meant to be just a little portrait piece-- to arouse the senses (as many as one has), nothing more. "as if an entire universe exists within just one alley"-- exactly! I think an entire universe DOES exist in one alley. I think it was jazzy because we associate jazz and blues with the city, especially with seedy back alleys.
Thanks for the terrific encouragement.
Pie
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Hi, Lauren. If this beauty is the result of coming out of a poetic dry spell, more power to you. It's so filled with sights and implied insights that it brings me back to recent times when I used to love walking the city's nights - and lately I've been doing it again, so this poem means a lot to me.
The whole piece breathes urban dark, especially in that alley, and, for me, that's what holds all the little images together, that dark: "tonight" "shadows" "streetlamps" "darkness" "blacktop" "car alarm" "eclipse" "a few nights ago" "being invisible" - all those are like stitiches of night-threads throughout. And they hold together so many random bits of sights and smells and sounds that are all accurately imaged as only a real poet can do. Wonderful.
I think that the city is most real in the wee hours, the most fascinating people and flora and fauna in those alleys, the "invisible" things, the edgy, sometimes desperately lived things, like "our (own) shadows". A while ago, you were pondering a "mirror" poem. In my own opinion, this is surely that - a mirror of daytime lives reflected in the honest night. And it's terrific.
I hope you don't change anything substantial in this one, Lauren. I like the prosey feel of it, espcially in the first stanza; the common distinction between prose and poetry has no bearing here - prose that's as highly insinuative as yours is in that first stanza - and is then developed in the rest of the poem - is an American-style way of imaging bits of life, and I think it rings like good poetry should. If that weren't true, goodbye Plath, Eliot, Frost, Bukowski and a hundred other real poets. Anyway, one thing's for sure: cpie's back!
With admiration for this poem
and luv -
Lad
PS: My own ears don't hear a car alarm "groan" - I usually hear a screechier sound - but that's up to you. -
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Hey, Lad. Glad you enjoyed this one-- I agree that the city is most real in the off-hours, and very few people appreciate the small denizens that make up its ecosystem.
The car alarm groaned because it was the type of alarm that just makes the horn beep, not the more popular siren-style car alarm. What I posted here was a first draft, and that is something I meant to clarify. Thanks for that.
Luv,
Lauren
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I took lots of time with this one, cpie, and I'll be back to it. I've opted out of points for now.
Lad -
Like an off-duty forensic lab worker...
dissecting every item that comes her way and examining every relevant aspect to suss out its history. The first line and a half - superb, for its roughness, it's coming out of nowhere, sets the tone of the piece beautifully. "...burning the shift's..." and "burns sift..." does work, though I didn't think it did at first. For me the key of the piece is "Like our shadows / created by buzzing streetlamps / where the expected rations of items live / in this darkness at our feet." I'm a fan of most things detective and this was right up that alley. Good 'un - MJ -
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Cheers, Richard!
Pie
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Hey CP
I enjoyed this very much. The whole tiny neighborhood environment all taking place in an alley. Very nicely brought to life with great imagery. Kind of thought of it as kind of an Orwell like Animal Farm metaphor applied to the alley of survival of the fittest. Just my opinion though, if you take it as anything please be a compliment. It's always nice to see somebody take an everyday part of life original and unique. Nicely done
TTYL
MM
language: 3, rhythm: 3, subject: 4, tone: 4, form: 4.
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Thanks, MM. I'm glad you liked-- I could definitely see how you got that interpretation. Look forward to talking with you soon.
Pie
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Nicely Ugly
Hi Cutie. Descriptive, atmospheric, moody - are just some of the adjectives I'd use. An uncomfortable look at the underbelly of society/civilization. It looks downward in more ways than one. It has many highlights, the first for me being
caught in blacktop pores (razor sharp imagery and language here).
Butts and chewing gum grow here, of course,(vintage poetic thought a la Cutiepie!)
And a long rivulet of grease snakes through,
foul-smelling, wearing a groove to the drain
the outpouring of short-order kitchens
you followed quickly with your thoughts about the boots. I love the idea as I often wonder how random items of clothing find their way to the street. But though your suggestion of intended barefoot flight was poetic, it seemed to be so for its own sake rather than a real surmise which might have been more interesting. But in general, your speculations about the debris in the alley worked really well for me.
I had reservations about the first line. It's too prosaic and it's too conversational and general in the context of a poem so focused on particulars. I'd drop entirely and simply begin, 'we come dragging up this alley...'
Also 'The throttle of running-low tanks from the cars' smacks of complete mechanical ineptitude and just jarred on me. I'll make a suggestion if you'd like - but maybe it's as you intended and you like it fine.
Otherwise it's all dark, brooding, intelligent and typically fine writing from one of our best. Loved it. >W<
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Hey, John. Sorry for the lateness of my reply to your comment on my latest, (most of which I agreed with). I've been down with the flu this week.
I wasn't trying to be overly pat about the boots-- I am genuinely at a loss as to how articles of clothing end up on the streets, and the only thing I can imagine when I see abandoned items is someone walking around barefoot or bare-chested or bare-bottomed. What type of surmise would be more interesting that wouldn't require a short story?
I agreed with you on the first line-- took it out.
I DID like the line "running-low tanks" until you said it seemed inept. What exactly seemed inept? I do intend to play with it now and see if I like something else better.
Thanks for the thoughts. This isn't the first rough-hewn one of mine you've helped polish into something finer.
XOXO,
Lauren
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hey lauren
superior poets write superior poems often within a short time span so no need to apolgise for frequent posts when you get on a roll. here you bring a commom back alley and bring it to life, really an ecosystem, a complex one with a food chain, its sights,sounds, inhabitants and their habits.
try clark street review again i'd give a 95 percent chance of publication, this is exactly what the editor is looking for.
dave -
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Hi, Dave. Sorry for the lateness of my reply-- I was down with the flu this week. I will be sure to try Clark Street again with this one.
Lauren
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