Drift, a true poem

[novella]

This poem, a true story, was inspired by the thread, Where do you turn to for news.

Drift

Three weeks since my brother called.
He’s back to his old tricks,
Days and nights and days and days
Worrying about his fix.

And the wayward ark of barren stringers-
Two sisters, father, raving wife
Beached at the ocean’s edge,
Tackle, netting, rusted knife

Hung on the hook for twenty years.
They’ve stopped waiting for the tide,
Lie blue in their television places
Watching the screen for signs of life.

Mom was strangled one night
In that room, on a white cotton spread.
The salt air damped her body for days.
Friend of the family, the papers said.

We waited for something else to happen
Amid the static chatter, speculation,
We floated there unanchored, drugged,
Through the Marlboro sunlit summer

Anesthetized by expectation
That something would be done.
Then the world folded its paper hats
And moved on to someone else's tragedy.

Leaving us there, not floating now
But ice-bound, the arctic sea around.
Then it cracked, not fast but slow
And the drift became the way to go.

I don’t answer the phone.
There is nothing I want to hear
That is not already known.

The rusted knife, the torn net, the tackle,
The way the water seeps through sand,
The way the tide comes up from under,
When you think there’s nothing there
Like fear coming back up through the safe world.
And you see then, it’s never gone away.

 

[bobbyburns]

for what it's worth, you write beautifully.

 

[novella]

Thank you. It's worth a lot to me that you say so.

 

[Eugen]

It is impressive, novella. Tightly written too and reads rather well. Good imagery.

 

[novella]

Eugen, Thanks for your gracious comments.

Poetry is my fugue medium. Do you do any unpremeditated writing like that?

 

[Rogue]

Damnit that's good.

 

[Halo]

Even though I am not a great fan of poetry, when I read this I had to comment because I thought this was excellent! There is some lovely imagery. I like "beached at the ocean's edge..."

I don’t answer the phone.
There is nothing I want to hear
That is not already known.

This is my favourite verse. It really conveys to me a sense of hopelessness and desolation.

The rusted knife, the torn net, the tackle,
The way the water seeps through sand,
The way the tide comes up from under,
When you think there’s nothing there
Like fear coming back up through the safe world.
And you see then, it’s never gone away.

Wonderful last verse, novella.

The only thing I wasn't so keen on was the way the structure of the poem changed - it began with the second and fourth lines of each verse rhyming and then stopped, then returned and then stopped again. Was this deliberate, or just that rhymes couldn't be fitted in anymore? However, I didn't mind the last two verses being different lengths, in fact it added to the poem's impact. A lovely, evocative poem.

 

[novella]

The only thing I wasn't so keen on was the way the structure of the poem changed - it began with the second and fourth lines of each verse rhyming and then stopped, then returned and then stopped again. Was this deliberate, or just that rhymes couldn't be fitted in anymore? However, I didn't mind the last two verses being different lengths, in fact it added to the poem's impact. A lovely, evocative poem.

Thank you so much for your thoughts, Halo.

I don't try very hard to make things fit. I listen for flow and try to keep some emotional presence. I do think this could be improved--the middle is a bit flabby and chatty, and the first stanza is disconnected in a way.

But, like I said above, this is fugue writing. I didn't even know what it was about until it was written. I thought I was writing about the sucking sound of the media such traumas attract, but it's really about loss and fear (isn't everything?).

 

[Eugen]

Poetry is my fugue medium. Do you do any unpremeditated writing like that?

What's a fugue medium? I get spurts of writing, prose. Never poetry.

 

[bobbyburns]

ever heard j. s. bach's the art of fugue? fugue is a musical technique in which a melody is played over itself, but it's not synchronized. it can be very complex. I've heard it start 1/8 of the way through, then 1/4 and then again at 1/2, and keep overlapping itself.

a literary fugue works the same way. this poem begins with themes (tide, shore, rusted knife) that repeat in different ways until new themes are formed.

 

[novella]

What's a fugue medium? I get spurts of writing, prose. Never poetry.

With apologies to bobby, I was referring to meaning 2 below:

from
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language: Fourth Edition. 2000.

fugue
PRONUNCIATION: fyg
NOUN: 1. Music An imitative polyphonic composition in which a theme or themes are stated successively in all of the voices of the contrapuntal structure. 2. Psychiatry A pathological amnesiac condition during which one is apparently conscious of one's actions but has no recollection of them after returning to a normal state. This condition, usually resulting from severe mental stress, may persist for as long as several months.
ETYMOLOGY: Italian fuga (influenced by French fugue, from Italian fuga), from Latin, flight.

Some painters use a particular medium for quick work, to get their ideas down on paper quickly. Some writers take quick notes, sort of like word sketches. Some use mini recorders--I tried that and hated it because my writing sounds stupid to me when I say it aloud.

What I mean is, if you have a moment of inspiration of a different sort from the usual plodding through something, what way do you get it out?

 

[bobbyburns]

I don't deserve to live.

 

[novella]

I don't deserve to live.

Let's pretend you were deluded and unaccountable.

There, it's fixed.

 

[bobbyburns]

I did donate a pint of blood yesterday.

 

[novella]

Usually forum threads don't require a blood donation, but in this case it WAS a requirement to read the poem at all and we DO appreciate the pint. Ah. Now I feel a lot better. Thanks for the drink, bobster.

 

[bobbyburns]

I'll be a man for you.

 

[Eugen]

I did donate a pint of blood yesterday.

Bobby (now, you must stop flirting. Man for you, my foot), Novella (If you don't fight today, you'll never fight again) - but thanks. Both Fugue explanations are of extreme illumination. Didn't donate blood, ram into a bulldozer or Tom Hanks. My only claim to fame, is that I had a moment of mental abberation. Temporary insanity.

 

[StillILearn]

I see that you're "a cut above", Novella.

 

[A W Eglinton]

This is a fantastic poem! Although 'drifting' may be the overall theme there is a gripping immediacy full of texture and raw feeling from verse to verse.

 

[novella]

StillILearn and AWE,
I just want to acknowledge how much I appreciate your comments. Thanks.