Narrow Rooms

(this is an imitation of Mary Jo Salter. I was given the idea by her poem "Goodbye, Train")

I'm standing in a narrow room
packed with adolescents or college-age
kids, arms-crossed, T-shirt-wearing,

staring at the stage like animals
restrained. But when the band comes on
there are no leashes or cages left.

There are open-mouthed snarls, hackles raised,
but not at each other. We are all angry
at the same thing. We all have our reasons.

The narrow room turns into a river overrun
by frothy, heaving rapids.
The kids who get caught up collide

and push off again, hands on on backs
or shoulderblades. Some of them are carried
to the front of the room and collect there,

a small, frantic mass that steadily loses
its constituents to the current. But more arrive,
flung over top in absurd and reckless flight,

held aloft and then borne groundward.
This is not the time to hunker down.
This is the time to stick out my neck

for someone else's knees to clamber on.
(I'll support them on my shoulders.)
I will be one of them. The singer comes down

from the stage. He, too, is caught up.
This is the point. The bars and barriers
are washed away. We are all bruised

from collisions with hands and elbows.
We are all sweatier than we've ever been.
We will all lose our voices from yelling so loud.

I think about how lucky I am to be eighteen,
angry and battered by rapids, instead of silenced
and subject to the gentle predictability of the tides.

June Morning (Wallace Stevens imitation)

1.
Your veil darkened by rain, the steady
Tap-tapping on the tent-top overhead, and the
Teeth bleached to blind all conspire to
Wall me in and leave me there. I smile and
Lift your hands, imagining for a second
How hard I could squeeze them before
Your white teeth disappeared in an
Ungainly yell, and you searched my eyes,
Darkened by rain, looking for reason.
I spend hours alone and find no reason.
Instead I make small sacrifices to
My anger, the mangy, restless, atrophied thing
That I have walled in and left there.
The scratch marks have long since faded
Like raindrop-stains on gray linen suits.

2.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I hear a howl
Echoing in its small chamber: "There is no
Reason for you to find. I pad decrepit in the
Bottom of your throat and you feel like growling."
I built this house and now I live in it,
Gritting my teeth at arguments and burned eggs,
Feeling disgust when my children smile at me,
Bored to death before you even open your mouth.
Outside thunder rolls and sickly trails of rainwater
Lurch down the plate-glass doors. In the garden
The soil grows darker in the rain, while earthworms
Convulse in the grass to escape drowning.
My children want to go out and play, but
I growl at them and make them stay inside.

nothing I write ever makes me feel like this makes me feel

"Disease"
by Conor Meehan

When it happened, I didn’t understand why.
She’d been perfectly healthy yesterday.
Now there were all sorts of appointments and
doctors, and I didn’t want to be bothered.
I was just a kid on my summer break.
But at the same time this was my mother⎯
The woman who had given me my life.
She did not want me to be affected
By it, but how could I not be? I had
To stand there and lie; tell her I was fine.
I wasn’t. The fear of losing my mother
Ate at my insides. I hid it on the
Outside and put a smile on my face.
I guess I was trying to shield myself
From the pain. But there were times I wondered
If I really cared. I had to have cared,
Right? What kind of a son would I have been?
I went on living amidst everything
Even though I knew what was at stake. Would
I cry at the funeral or keep smiling?

Amnesiac

(this week we imitate Langston Hughes)

I felt the electricity run from my limbs
And opened my eyes.
I heard some kind of sorrowful hymn
Right by my side.
It came from a woman looking all drawn and grim,
Clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her thigh.

She sang, "My very own amnesiac.
Your daddy, he won't be coming back.
I miss him like I miss you
When you wake up someone new,
My very own, my very own amnesiac."

I got the breath to ask her "What is this place,
And why are we here?"
No vestige of feeling showed on her face
But for one or two tears.
She said "Baby, I'll love you to the end of my days.
It hurts me so much but I promise I'll stay.
I'll always be near."

Then she held my hand and stroked my hair,
While I tried and tried as hard as I could
But still couldn't remember when I'd met her, or where,
Though I knew that I should —

I felt the electricity run from my limbs
And opened my eyes.
I heard some kind of sorrowful hymn
Right by my side.
It came from a woman looking all drawn and grim,
Clutching a crumpled handkerchief to her thigh.

She sang, "My very own amnesiac.
Your daddy, he won't be coming back.
So I'm stuck here all alone,
Just me and his ghost,
'Cause my baby can't remember his family or his home,
My very own, oh, my very own,
My very own amnesiac."

Derailed (or: sing, sing, sing along if you once had it all)

(this week we imitate Robert Frost by writing blank verse. the only rule is basically a constant number of stresses per line.)

Ever since you stopped calling for help,
It's hard for me to stand back up again.
When I would sit on summer sidewalk curbs,
I used to see all the things we'd get to do,
But now I just see all the things we've done,
Again and again until someone trips over me
Or a curious dog noses my shoulder and chin.
So I haul myself to my feet, clutching at benches,
Streetlights, sun rays, whatever will take my weight.
You're not the only ghost that haunts this place.
The day you left, you took my home with you.
Now the town where I grew up just confuses me.
All I do these days is get on my bike
And ride for hours looking for something familiar.
But these buildings are all half-dead amputees
And these people look at me like I'm terminal.
I'm told to move on but I just run circles
Around this little stretch of broken track.
But if I'm the only piece that doesn't fit,
Then please tell me, where do I go?
Please tell me, where do I go?

Last Days

(this week we imitate George Herbert. basically pull a metrical/rhyme scheme out of your ass and follow that. enjoy)

How long have you been underneath his thumb?
He preys on you with cloying pleasantries.
Let your dark reveries loose.
Muster the deaf and the dumb.
With one light touch he brings you to your knees.
How long will you submit to this abuse?

He'll hold you close to him and take your hands,
But just so he can draw the blood from them.
Skim off the film from your eyes.
Gather the grit and the sand.
I know you have it in you to condemn.
Relinquish your subservient disguise,

And cast at him what armaments you've saved.
The vultures will make him a suitable grave.

Star-Crossed

(in which we imitate Gerard Manley Hopkins, so I am forced to make up some emo bullshit that rhymes)

In youth I was told over and over again
That it was virtuous to trudge on, to persevere
Through doubt, catch and conquer fear
With the help of courage and friends,

But I can barely remember the last time when
My way forward was that noble or clear
As it emerged from the end of the previous year
To extract the shining now from the mires of then,

Because I can't stop thinking about your
Turned shoulder, the resolute tilt of your chin
Above your loose-knit scarf as you shut the door.
No, I can't keep from seeing where I've been,
But soon enough I won't be seeing anymore,
So if this is giving in, I guess I'm giving in.

some poems make me feel like an asshole (or: a jock poem in two stanzas)

Fall
by Conor Meehan

It was a cool, crisp November morning
when he went away.
The goodbye was short.
I had school.
I didn’t know how.
Part of me wanted to believe
he’d still be there when I got home.
Part of me also knew better.

I scurried off the yellow school bus,
anxious to get home.
Maybe he’d be there.
He wasn’t.
I swam through the sea of
family that had gathered in the dining room.
Finally making it to my room upstairs,
I wept.
Lifting my head from the tear stained pillow,
I peered out the window.
His car was in the driveway.
He wasn’t.

Fever and dream

(this week we imitate Jack Gilbert, a free verse writer.)

My head feels like a jet engine.
I spit the ground out onto the ground.
I miss when I used to feel safe
when I got sick. My cat would lie on my stomach.
He ran away when I was fifteen. Now I have nothing
but codeine and uncomfortable chairs.
No oases in sight, although
that may just be my vision going.
My friends are underwater and I desiccate.
My lungs feel like spilled cement. I start
wishing I could cough them up so
something would change. Think of asking the cat
to look for red spots in the dust. For now it's
just strings of spit, hanging like spiders
dangling from my mouth. This
is the company I keep. When I cough so hard
that my sternum grazes the upper bones
of my back, the spiders recoil.
My cat runs away to hide. Sometimes
he doesn't come back. I would look for him but
my head is spinning too fast, kicking up dust,
and I can't see.

I Love This Poem

The Candy Man

I strolled by the factory
and all my eyes could see
was a bountiful sea of milk chocolate candies

My mouth opened wide
as I peeked inside,
and tears of Almond Joy came pouring out my eyes.

I went around back,
broke open the door latch,
and ran about the factory ready for an eating attack.

I heard a Milk Dud not far away,
deciding to go on my Milky Way,
until a guard stopped me and said: “It’s just not your day.”

I Snickered at the guard,
called him a big, fat lard,
and told him he’d never put me in the prison yard.

His backup came soon enough.
They slapped me with the cuffs,
and my heart broke into Reeses Pieces⎯Man, I was crushed!

The bail was 100 Grand.
My mom came to lend a hand,
and I showered her with Hershey Kisses to show how thankful I am.

-Conor Meehan

The Riverman

(this week I imitate Thomas Hardy. basically lots of rhyming with imbalanced lines. oh yeah and DOOM.)

I've known many men
but every now and then
I find my thoughts returning to the Riverman again.

He was born and raised
into love, fear and praise,
yoked under his parents' fervid religious craze.

He grew up on his own
with a prison for a home,
but he found comfort in the river when he couldn't stand being alone.

He refused to stay confined,
so leaving the forest behind
and carrying a trusting and immovable faith, he bid his parents goodbye.

But his brand new life
under big-city lights
corroded the iron wills of him and his young wife.

His son's breath was seized
by the fatal maw of disease
and his wife chose over madness a divine, eternal sleep.

Now in the city still
he was forced to stay until
he could begin to pay off all his son's medical bills.

I used to talk to this man
when he would work my land,
crippled under the weight of things he couldn't understand.

He told me, "Son, don't listen
to the priest or the deacon.
They preach real pretty, but they're both of 'em just lyin'. "

I would catch him casting looks
down toward the deep woods.
I think the river was the one thing that he still understood.

He just needed to hear
that rushing in his ear.
He said he was leaving Jesus for a place far better than here.

He disappeared one day.
I was told he'd run away.
I can see him on the miry banks, kneeling in the mud to pray.

He stands and wades in now,
lets the water take him down.
The only thing he ever understood was that peaceful rushing sound.

fiddler

(this is an imitation of Marianne Moore, who used specific syllabic schemes in all her poems.)

I lean up
against the
furthest wall.
My friends are already onstage, with
the rest of the choir,

the two gui-
tars, and the
sole fiddler.
She stands poised, breathes in, raises her bow
and delivers her

dulcet and
discordant
duet. It's
confusing to the ear but it's plain
and simple to the

part of me
that controls
the rising
feeling I get when exposed to loss,
exiles, wanderers,

the ones with-
out homes. The
fiddler frowns
at her music. I fold my arms and
watch the fireplace.

"The Rape of the Facebook Friend Request: a Heroi-Comical Parody of Pope's 'The Rape of the Lock' " by Tom the DJ (from my English class)

What lustful pining spurs this awkward scene,
Sing out Muse! of things lewd and obscene.
A classic case of boy meets girl I tell.
Well, initially things were going well…
And now I should commence my little tale
Of love’s first spark ‘twixt plastic cups of ale:
In polo shirt and wearing cheap cologne,
Our hero yelled out above the drone.
His words received by yonder beauteous belle:
Step one of ten until his yen be quelled.
A line of poesy made the stars align;
He spoke to her his lovely pick-up line:
“Oh damsel there with tiny ping-pong ball,
You sink my cups! You sink them one and all!”
But always ‘tis the fate of lonely men,
That every party soon must meet its end.
Unable now this nymph’s sweet heart to seize,
He travelled back, but feeling ill-at-ease.
Returning home that fateful weekend night,
He leapt in bounds with all his foolish might,
But on arriving safely at his dorm,
His anxious feelings took insidious form.
What madness crept into his lustful mind
Bestruck by arrows of a shooter blind!
How calm composure amorous motive trumps,
‘Love-drunk’ was he upon her lovely lumps.
As passion from our hero now unfurled;
He cast his love into the cyber world.
A twitter tweet to her would sweetly coo;
While Facebook pokes replaced the billet-doux.
Continuing on this romantic quest,
He sent the girl a Facebook friend request.
What happened next our friend cannot recall
–Just distant memories of her Facebook wall.
In feelings tangled were his actions mixed,
So sent he her a bunch of naked pics.
His naughty words could not now be erased,
As they were etched for good in cyberspace. —Thomas Anderson

Prodigal

(i'm taking an Imitations class in which we write poems in the styles of various famous poets. this week is alexander pope. basically, heroic couplets — iambic pentameter and exact rhyming.)

We walk the high road with no earthly care,
Defenseless to the frigid mountain air.
We took for granted skin, teeth, flesh, and bone,
Right up until we found that they were gone.
Now all that we have left are threadbare souls
With frozen breezes wafting through the holes.
So, deep in rapturous prayer, we walk and wait,
Exhausted, sightless, for the word of fate.
All our mistakes we lose and leave behind.
They spring up in our footsteps, curled and twined.
We must seem solemn to the passers-by,
Our pale and ghostly forms strange to their eye.
One asks us, "Travelers, have you lost your way?"
But no; we have no path from which to stray.
Their voices fade as we keep on our climb.
We lose their memory like we lose the time
To distant purposes that drive us on.
Our fathers said they'd meet us in the dawn.
There, all the chill of night will come undone;
So we must climb until we find the sun.