Home again, and the Christmas tree propped—
branches bent outward of wire and plastic greenery
somehow it still smells like Christmas, not like
when I was younger and wanted a tree this big
and got one 3/4 its size at best but
it smelled like pine nonetheless and taking it out
to the curb was tougher than dragging it in
to the house—now all the leaves it dropped were rusted
spikes against my bare feet and the hardwood
floor—I'd find remnants in the cracks for months
no matter how much I vacuumed or my brother
or my three sisters or my mom or my dad—it was a group
effort, as much as bringing up boxes from the basement full
or ornaments and strategically placing them high and low
and even around to the side touching the wall
and my brother had his favorite Shaq-slam-dunk ornament
only he could hang and placing sleds we made with popsicle
sticks in kindergarten and 1st and 2nd grade, and low
and high and, on a stool, higher, but never quite to the top
until my dad climbed a ladder when we were finished
and had lost interest and crowned our tree with a purple
blazed and silver-tipped star—we went through several
but this year there's a new one I’ve never seen before
and we've had this tree for two or three years now
and last week I wasn't here to help set it up instead
I was stressing over finals and busy dropping my GPA
to an unsatisfactory 2 point nine seven five...
as it was to take it down
which reminds me years later before my 20th birthday
come January, that building something is only half
the effort and the first joy comes in its prime
rebounding like nostalgia, once we had re-boxed
all the ornaments, and dropped a couple, and saved
a few unseen ones in mid-drag out the front door, the tree
shedding desperately, unwilling to die and we
my siblings and I, sat still with fingernails plucking
the spikes from our heels, while the tree rested silently
in the night on the curb until morning when the sun
rose over the bay, over our house in Brooklyn, and a miracle
had taken place on 68th St. between 6th and 5th Ave.
—that we were finally satisfied.
Author notes
Rough draft.
I wrote this today.
The first thing I've written in weeks.
Incoherent in the middle and at the end.
I went on a tangent when transfering from paper.
A second part in the making.
Comments/revisions/suggestions welcome.
Comments
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I think this is awesome reminiscing!
The story really held me rapt until the end. I haven't written in awhile myself. Then I found this site, and I just want it to flow now. I appreciate all of your comments too! If you ever want me to read something, give me a shout. I am usually on after 11:30 pm because I work 2nd shift. If I don't see ya 'round before Christmas, have a great one!
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Reading and rereading this, I think you have some great and poetic language (I also like the use of specific, concrete examples). However, the overall feel I get is that it's more like line-broken prose or that it would work better as a sort of short story. Have you considered developing it into one? If you wish to keep it as a poem, my personal inclination would be to either minimalize it (cut the adverbs, transitions, focus the verbs and adjectives), or add some sort of poetic structure (iambic meter, or something).
But it is interesting and the last line's a neat conclusion. Good luck with whichever direction you choose to follow for this poem (and apologies for the generalized nature of this comment
)
No
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no iambs for me
Nocturne,
thanx for the input.
i'll probably leave it as a poem. tho threre is a lot of revising to be done, as you point out.
anyhow, i was just sitting down and wanting to write with no clear topic in mind. it just so happened that i was sitting in front of a Christmas tree.
i'll let you know when i have revised it.
always,
Pap
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