Retired Poem

As I mentioned before, I'm "retiring" poems that I feel don't fit anywhere but on this blog. This includes poems I really tried to make fit, whether it was by submitting them to journals or including them as part of a proposed chapbook. Sometimes, though, there are pieces of my work that are just too personal to be made better or too wrapped in the time in which I wrote them (a good chunk of my early political work comes to mind). Still, I have enough of a personal attachment to them that I don't want to just confine them to limbo.

The poem below, "Two Fires," is the best example of these poems. It was inspired by a version of the photo above (same subject, different shot using an old digital that I don't think I can recover) and my very good friend's very emotional reaction to it. I've mentioned this friend before but very seldom name him. Now you will have his name, as well as his wife's, as well as the name of my girlfriend at the time.

The idea for the poem came to me the very night the events described below happened. It took me nearly two years to get it down on paper. Probably more heavy handed than I realize, it's not my best poem and might not even be very good, but it was probably the most neccessary poem I've had to write. It reminds me how tough it is to write for someone other than yourself. You can feel proud if you only succeed on a small level.

And now, the poem.


Two Fires


The Afghanistan bombing protests began
in Boston today. Bloodthirsty shoppers
along sidewalks watched marchers, yelling “Shame”
as I gathered photos and quotes
before heading to Rhode Island.
It’s evening now. Mike, his wife Karen,
my girlfriend Sheryl, hear my stories, watch
my digital camera flash through the day,
stopping at a demonstrator’s version
of the American flag, a peace sign
replacing the stars. An upside-down cross
in Mike’s mind. He’s angry at sacrilege.
I’m angry that America has become a religion.
We stay in corners, coming out only
when Karen tries to mend things out loud,
and we both want her to be quiet.
Sheryl, who’s never been political, waits
until we can all joke about sex again,
leaving the two arguers with any common ground,
their minds on the world, and what at least shouldn’t be done.
Three years before, I wrote Mike and Karen’s
wedding poem, helped give this house
its first dents. A year from now, I’ll be moving
in and out of Sheryl’s home
in the same breath, living and commuting
with Mike before returning to Boston
and writing my first anti-war poem.
And while some drink to ease the countdown
to their discharge, Mike will reenlist,
listen with awe as his two year old son
says “helicopter,” stand behind me
as I help decipher his Black Hawk
how-to CD rom. Traitors by aiding,
if not abetting, each other’s causes? Maybe,
but we are frustrated over the same things.
These new flags I see as symbols of desperate converts.
Mike sees them as the mark of trend hoppers
who let them hang and tatter
like outfits bought after seeing them
in music videos, too restrictive and revealing
to wear more than once.
To him, perhaps, those flags are overdue
for sanctioned funeral pyres.
To me, they’re better ignored
than burned. Still, maybe if both of us
were driven to our extremes,
we’d both be out now, stealing and burning flags.
A stretch, but this night, it’s enough of a thought
for me to help take his flag down
and out of the rain, without sarcasm,
without him looking for it,
and hug goodbye, as we follow
our respective lovers to bed,
easy friends no longer, but definitely bothers,
wanting each other around
as much as we want to be right, if not more.

--Chad Parenteau