The Gift I Never Got - Draper (Prose Poem)

Okay, I'll be straight with you: I'm in a poetry class right now.  I tell you this because I don't want you to be confused if you see a few more poems on here in the future than in the past.  Of course, there's an up side to this: if I review a poem I can just post it right here and you don't have to go anywhere to get it and it doesn't cost any money.  I have no idea the right way to spell "moo-law", or I would have said that instead.  If you don't have a lot of experience with poetry, my guide on how to read it might be of some use to you.

I've read and written poetry before, but not extensively, and so when I ran across the section on "prose" poetry in my textbook it was new to me.  I've never read poetry like this, but I guess it exists because there's some right down there \/.  Prose poetry is basically poetry minus verse; there are no line breaks, it just goes to the end of the page like a regular paragraph.  "Short-short" stories and prose poetry are closely related and can overlap, so don't get hung up on thinking this is actually a short-short and not poetry; it's kind of both.

There's not too much for me to say about the following, as it is pretty self-explanatory, mostly I just want to share it.  ;)

The Gift I Never Got

It was not unusual in my house for the phone to ring once, just once, and then fade into silence.  It was not unusual for my father to suddenly announce after one of these calls that he had some errand to run.  Often it was a trip to the store, or some forgotten task at work.  It was a usual day in my house: the phone had just round once, my father had just left to go to the store, and I was eight years old.  Christmas was near and I was searching the house for presents.  Under my parent's bed is where I found it.  It was a bright red toy car with real rubber tires and plastic pipes that looked like real chrome.  I couldn't control myself and soon I was pushing it along the floor.  I could feel my heart thumping in my head and my hands were slick with perspiration.  Later that night I dreamed about the car: it would be my favorite toy.  On Christmas morning I bypassed the Stretch Armstrong doll, I totally ignored the Dr. J basketball, and went looking for the car.  It was some cruel joke.  "Where is it?" I cried.  I ran into my parent's bedroom, rifled under their bed, but it wasn't there.  My mother had followed me.  "What are you looking for?" she asked.  "The car! The car!" I screamed.  The phone rang once and I heard the door close as my father left to go to the store.  "There is no car," she said.  "Yes there is, yes there is!" I screamed back.  "It's just like when the phone rings you always say it's no one.  Well it wouldn't ring if it wasn't someone."  She didn't speak for a long while after that.  She just looked at me.  Finally she said, "Alright, we'll ask him about the car.  We'll ask him about the phone that only rings once.  We'll ask him about all those trips to the store."

                                                                                      -Vincent Draper

I know, right?  The only note I will add is that it is unwise to assume this story is autobiographical.  Lyricists and poets alike must deal with this issue, whereas novelists and screenwriters don't as much.  Remember, this is art.  It may very well be a true account, perhaps about the author's life, but it could also be pure fiction.

Okay, ttfn.

-MA 1.21.13

Easter Morning - William Stafford (Poem)

First, a quick refresher for those of us who haven't read poetry in a while and may have forgotten the basic process when discovering a new poem.  Step 1 - Read the title.  It is easy to skip this step, but don't.  Step 2 - Read the poem out loud, pausing only when punctuation dictates, not at the end of each line, i.e.:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood... 

Should be read as, "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood [pause] and sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler [pause] long I stood..." with no pause between "both" and "And".  It is not always necessary to pause for commas followed by quotation marks.  Do not try to add emotion to the poem; the words will do that themselves.  Step 3 - Reflect on the general impression the poem gave you.  This could include identifying the tone.  Step 4 - Reread the poem to determine what is literally happening or being described.  For example, here we would say that a man is literally in a wood trying to chose a path.  Step 5 - Look for deeper meaning; this should include both what you believe the author is trying to communicate as well as your personal interpretation.  It is entirely possible that you will see something of worth in the poem the author never intended; do not panic, this is normal.  This is where with Frost's poem we would say the roads symbolize life decisions, but also ask ourselves what else they could be interpreted as.  Step 6 - Fail to get your friends as excited about the poem as you are.  Step 7 - Have the thought, "Poetry doesn't seem too hard."  Step 8 - Write your own poetry.  Step 9 - Rereading your poetry and feel whatever pride you may have in it dissolve as you realize you are simply copying the poem you most recently fell in love with.  Step 10 - Forget you like reading poetry for a few years, stumble across a fantastic new poem, then promptly begin again at Step 1.

Well, that got a little...autobiographical.  No matter, without further ado I present this week's great work:  (Don't forget the poem process!)

Easter Morning

Maybe someone comes to the door and says,

"Repent," and you say, "Come on in," and it's

Jesus.  That's when all you ever did, or said,

or even thought, suddenly wakes up again and

sings out, "I'm still here," and you know it's true.

You just shiver alive and are left standing

there suddenly brought to account: saved.

Except, maybe that someone says, "I've got a deal

for you."  And you listen, because that's how

you're trained--they told you, "Always hear both sides."

So then the slick voice can sell you anything, even

Hell, which is what you're getting by listening.

Well, what should you do?  I'd say always go to

the door, yes, but keep the screen locked.  Then,

while you hold the Bible in one hand, lean forward

and say carefully, "Jesus?"

This is William Stafford.  Who else would it be??

Notice the language here; it is not flowery, it's not even what most of us would consider "poetic".  Why?  I consider it a masterpiece of the simplistic.  It is not only an entertaining and accessible read, it is also useful.  How do we navigate through competing religious voices in our lives?  Are these things even important?  This poem not only explores these ideas, but it gives advise which is a pragmatic without being didactic.  Not an easy feat, especially in poetry.  For me, personally, I can feel my mind expanding as I read this poem.  My favorite line is, "they told you, 'Always hear both sides.'" because it's so true.  I have been trained to do that--which is probably a good thing overall--but I have never really considered the possible danger in doing so.  Also note that in a poem of just a few hundred words the word, "suddenly" is used twice.  Don't think for a moment that wasn't intentional.  What about the described encounters here could be seen as "sudden?"  There's a lot more I could say about this poem, but by following Steps 1-5 of the guide, you will be able to learn much more than anyone other than yourself could possibly tell you about the poem.  I leave further interpretation in your capable hands.

-MA 11.26.2012