The pounded asphalt road hemispheres the hill--
the eastern side lying flush with the valleys,
step-hills, eventual mountains in the heart of the forest
rising rolling roiling into red-gold sunrises--
the west crevassing and challenging the city--
rocky and thinner more compact
but blooming sometimes surprisingly
delicately with the children of the decayed pine needles
like waves on its crags.
The brothers live on opposing halves
their yards abutting the wild on opposite ends
their rooms likewise differing on their respective ground.
To the left--because east lies left and west rolls right as it climbs itself from the city--
one brother has built an ordered airy house
verandah-ed and plastered washed lawned and gridded
softly meeting the arroyo--that gullied depression
that diverges to the south of the hill only to be allowed to
converge at the north; that runs and laughs
behind the two houses spirited and lovely swirling
and friendly to the mountains,
lively intrusive gurgling and impudent to the city.
On the opposite hemisphere the other brother's house
rises almost as if from the aether
sitting down from the road in a crater
that tiers and steps downward before dropping
like a canyon to the rocky crevasse
carved by millenia of flash floods and
excess runoff from that far off snowy basin.
The house that sits in front of the
mysterious jungled place
inhabits a murkier existance, the rooms
close and dark, all painted lacquered wood and doors
the thick adobe walls harboring damp cold so that
fires must be lit and soot slowly coats the roof,
the thresholds short, shrunken,
plucked from another time entirely
the last remnants of those compact ancestors of the brothers.
The house has existed in some form nearly
from time immemorial, built upon and added to
old plaster replaced and covered.
Just the other side over, the airy house seems
the direct antithesis (or almost):
built out of the ashes rubble and dust of
a home that saw eleven births and at least one death
and when it was first built, the new house smelled
of wet plaster and wood varnish and nails and sawdust.
But gradually those drifted away
and life replaced them, every room distinct with its smells:
in the bathroom blood from nosebleeds,
mint toothpaste and lavender bath oils, the dusty
scent of roses;
in the bedroom sweat and semen and tears and
smells inexplicable, coming in from the open window
settling on the pillows, rearing their manes
every evening someone lays down their head;
in the kitchen pasta pickles sauce
layered and molded into something new
food that none of the inhabitants eat directly,
but which makes its way into the blood regardless.
In the middle lives their father
in a house tiny and old, smelling of must
and candles and dust, all dark garnet red
and blue glass from the tinted alters,
feeling just like a grand cathedral with its
floors that deaden one's steps and windows that
let in moted light;
the rooms meander in such a way that the brothers' children
while still little and curious
would find themselves lost in grandpa's house
exploring closets full of festive wrapping paper,
the nook behind a piano, brilliantly out of tune since the older brother's brief stint at self-teaching thirty some forty some odd years ago;
the back yard has an apple tree that was cut down
to built the drive that leads to the ordered house
a monster to drive down in winter
when all that is visible of the dusty road
is the ice that coats it and the drifts that run along the sides.
Still, the chamisa bushes bloom the same on both hemispheres,
and when the rain falls it is to the mother ditch that both branches of the arroyo run, though one side breathes quietly into the forest and the sunrise
and the other gasps, gushes, laughs into the city,
illusions of parrots on its tree branches
running into the sunset.
Author notes
I wrote the last two stanzas just now though the rest has been sitting around for about a month on paper. One house is my dad's, the other is my uncle's. There are eight other siblings, but we live the closest to each other by about 300 feet.
I appreciate any and all honest opinions!
Does this work?
Comments
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i'll take a wall-tent, thank you
Nenni,
when i started reading this, i knew you were talking about your house. etc. this is a monster of a poem, and i can almost exactly picture every square inch of your father's property. with so much detail this almost reads like prose. but wow, your writing is exquisite. with all the detail, you never let the reader down with distinctive smells, images, etc. with that said, my favorite stanza for now is probably the 5th one, where you describe your uncle's house:
"in the bedroom sweat and semen and tears and
smells inexplicable, coming in from the open window
settling on the pillows, rearing their manes
every evening someone lays down their head;
in the kitchen pasta pickles sauce
layered and molded into something new
food that none of the inhabitants eat directly,
but which makes its way into the blood regardless."
here, you are contrasting the aging of the new house from that of the ancestral adobe, which your tone suggests you prefer, and i know you do. words like "molded, sweat, tears, blood, inexplicable, semen, pickles" are not happy-go-lucky words. yes, they paint this house in a less-than-desirable light. although they are, as you say, the products of life.
blah blah blah, i'm talking to you in the chat box...
ok, the only thing i don't like about this poem is the second to last stanza. consider omitting. it's an after thought, and very similar to the first house. nor does it connect in thought well to the first two opening stanza's or the last stanza, which emphasis two halves, "hemispheres" or "branches." yes, the third house throws off this balance.
the closing stanza is nice, with the river diverging both ways, one into the wild, the other laughing manically into the city with, "illusions of parrots on its tree branches." this line is my favorite of the poem. very original. the parrot seems to symbolize a bright future, fortune and happiness, which you negatively compare to the setting sun. i take it you prefer the wilderness route which leads into "the sunrise" - full of freedom and opportunity and a bright and lasting future. yes, you are a traditionalist (not bad in this sense) from the tone of this poem. and indeed, your ancestral roots do burrow deep in NM.
yes, i like how you created this fictional setting from your actual surroundings. as i know your father's abode is not generations old (but you probably like to imagine so).
.
[long phone call]
blech, the coffee is calling my name, Nenni, and life is prying me away from this computer screen. you know the feeling, i'm sure. French-press is the way to coffee goodness, i assure you...
yeah, so consider tightening up the poem, as it is a tad lengthy (but not a bad lengthy) and omit the second to last stanza. those are my suggestions, but i'm very impressed and glad to finally see the poem you've been and said that you were writing. i have a poem or two scribbled down on various note pads and wadded fragments of paper myself, that i've yet to type out. perhaps you have inspired me get to work, as most of what i've got posted right now are silly free-writes.
i enjoyed talking to ya, and good luck with the Balkan group. i admit it, i'm jealous. and i'll say it again, you're really somethin' special.
Pap
p.s.- i forgot your title! at first i didn't get it, but i think you intend to compare the adobe to the primitive way of life in "Genesis" and the new house to the luxurious lifestyle in "Kings." which works quite well. but as you convey in the poem, both with the final stanza and your tone towards the new house in the 5th stanza, simpler is better. yes, i like the title, although i know you are not the most religious villager in the colony. (what did i just say?)
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