Tuesday, December 3, 2013

ripe venues for poems

At a recent gathering in remembrance of the family matriarch ~ those in attendance were asked to share a reflection. What surfaced in my mind, the roots of this poem which could not be shared there.

Experiences of suppression are often ripe venues for poems. With tweeks (shown in red) this poem may finally have come to a close; a decade to ripen its potential to provoke. As tea becomes Rooibosch to invoke the Dutch etymology for South African Rooibos said to have anti-anxiety properties. The narration was not updated to magnify cultural relevancy thus the poem remains circa 2003.

Observing, it appeared not to be from a complexity of emotion but rather from the lack of that emotional grist from which character is built; perspiring experience, wounds or colored glasses. Perplexing. Ironically among the gathered I suppressed a story of suppression which had influenced my choices among the discomfort in these shallows for many years. Some ways of thinking go to the grave. And so it did.

GOOD and black 

Four generations 
stretching a good table. Fine china well smeared with gravy and the blood 
of cranberries as the dapper 4-year old topples 
dessert in conversation: "That’s bull-shit!"

What follows? 
The murmur of mimic, watershed tales of pre-school teacher 
complaints; a rambled ‘What can be done?’ retort 
to what was heard, spoken, repeated: "That’s bull-shit!"

Small talk brews aromatic. ‘What can be done?’
topics twist to most seen TV, turns to telling stories 
of road-rage. Son and daughters tasting how possible - a chiffon identification with fear, the shooter’s fear, emerges 
like apples from the cut wedge of 
the other pie. 

“It must have been one ...” 
“No, Grandma. Both were women. Both were white.” 
pours past Diet Coke, Asti; Rooibosch running at the mouth “Well, most times its men. Most times it is Blacks. Shooting even 
each other.” “No Grandma” steams above black coffee. 

“Every time it is 
a person with a gun made only to shoot people - a handgun 
in an angry hand! More pie with your drink of choice?” Every holiday there is too much. “Anyone-else need tea?” consumptive shallows drip into Internet shopping. What children get, every
thing they do not need. ‘Did you hear?’ current events get swallowed like the offer of a second dessert, discomfort 
to return later.

She is 75. She repeats what she believes above sugar powdered angel’s wings. She fears, the real thing.

The child hears fear, and repeats. The child gets everything
"That’s bull-shit!" is mimic in the world, good

and black for Christmas.

This post was prompted by a publicly shared comic's Aziz Ansari expression of similar sentiment. 11.8.2013 Racist grandmas are dying, and that is a good thing.

No comments: