As I was working closer to completing my Discarded chapbook, the first of the poems I conceived for it were the first to go. "Totem" was written when I was still intending to focus primarily on items left behind by prior roommates. I wasn't short on, er, material, but not all of it was particularly interesting. It was much more satisfying purging myself of other people's garbage than keeping it around to dissect on paper.
The poem below, "Totem," is one of the few the early ones that survived to the point that I was comfortable showing it. For nearly three years, it was waiting to be published in High Horse, a journal that unfortunately no longer exists. Though I like it, the poem feels so distant from what I'm doing now (especially with Discarded having been published) that I'd rather retire it here than try to submit it again.
Totem
Of course the Santa doll was small enough
to fit inside the Christmas coffee mug
no one could stand to use even when in season.
Cup and doll bought in bulk, their only purpose
to be handed out like folded two-color
refreshers on Jesus to the subway riders.
The co-worker had a similar purpose,
letting everyone in the office know
she had given us thought—at least
the correct spelling of our names.
Urn of annoying family member,
keepsake from an invading army,
they stay on cupboard and bureau
in order to not upset a women
whose spoken hope to stay in touch
is actually prophetic threat
destined to be misinterpreted
and told to children, sans warnings.
Most religions begin this way.
Showing posts with label Retired Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Retired Poems. Show all posts
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Retired Poem
Here's another poem I can't put anywhere else but this blog. And it's a middle child, of sorts.
Two friends of mine were married last year. Earlier, they had invited me and my girlfriend to dinner to ask me if I could write and recite a poem for the occasion (not realizing that they were asking both me and my girlfriend, who helped as an editor).
This resulted in a poem called "Fanning Fiction," which I plan to send to a print journal soon, so I won't post it here. But not only was that poem hard one to edit and finish alone, it was far from the first attempt.
I knew the bride the longest, from our undergrad years, which were spent with individuals who were eager, desperate even, to keep the high school hierarchy thing going on campus. Kind of funny, given that these people were almost definitely never "up there" in their own high school pyramids; but they sensed that they could try and create some kind of system where they could be small scale--and ultimately pathetic--top dogs.
Out of everyone around me, the bride was closest to this group, so of course she suffered the most. She was eventually exiled from the group, which was the best thing that could have happened to her. I've been cheering her on ever since then and am glad that she seems to be better off than any of the old Borg-like group who deemed her unworthy.
Images of the Borg and the bride were going through my head as I planned the poem. This caused problems. First, she was only one half of the equation, and I didn't want to shortchange the groom. Two, I didn't want to shortchange the importance of their day by bringing up the high school baby shit of the past.
Still, I suppose I had to get some of that out of my system before I could get to the important stuff (maybe I had more resentments than the bride). This venting process came in the form of two poems that predated "Fanning Fiction." The first was "Alumni," which you can see on Concelebratory Shoehorn Review's March issue. The second one? Well, that's below. I've omitted the name of the bride in the "for" section; but if she reads this, she will know, and she will figure out who the "she" is supposed to be. However, if she feels it could be multiple choice or multiple personalities rolled into one, who am I to argue?
Slash Fiction
for ____
She still writes stories
like the ones they printed
in the college literary rag,
the characters’ names
so similar to her classmates’.
They were barely stand-ins
receiving her dose of
the meaty prose found
in girls’ room stalls
and yearbook captions.
All for whoever was picked
for the role of villain,
which, following the breaking
of school time bonds, rotated
faster than the hero
in a Jim Croce song.
Today, she has serious blocks.
She doesn’t know your new friends,
can’t fathom the people
who saved you post-banishment.
All this and a husband now?
Even when she found out
his name, she couldn’t find
a worthy substitute moniker.
One time, she tried to write
herself in, but it’s hard
to be God and a plot avatar.
Rather than finish anything,
she strips take out chicken
ordered on Fridays and pretends
it’s your flesh she strips
and your bones she buries,
in a grave she kicks up
with the toe of her shoe
in random spots out in her yard.
Two friends of mine were married last year. Earlier, they had invited me and my girlfriend to dinner to ask me if I could write and recite a poem for the occasion (not realizing that they were asking both me and my girlfriend, who helped as an editor).
This resulted in a poem called "Fanning Fiction," which I plan to send to a print journal soon, so I won't post it here. But not only was that poem hard one to edit and finish alone, it was far from the first attempt.
I knew the bride the longest, from our undergrad years, which were spent with individuals who were eager, desperate even, to keep the high school hierarchy thing going on campus. Kind of funny, given that these people were almost definitely never "up there" in their own high school pyramids; but they sensed that they could try and create some kind of system where they could be small scale--and ultimately pathetic--top dogs.
Out of everyone around me, the bride was closest to this group, so of course she suffered the most. She was eventually exiled from the group, which was the best thing that could have happened to her. I've been cheering her on ever since then and am glad that she seems to be better off than any of the old Borg-like group who deemed her unworthy.
Images of the Borg and the bride were going through my head as I planned the poem. This caused problems. First, she was only one half of the equation, and I didn't want to shortchange the groom. Two, I didn't want to shortchange the importance of their day by bringing up the high school baby shit of the past.
Still, I suppose I had to get some of that out of my system before I could get to the important stuff (maybe I had more resentments than the bride). This venting process came in the form of two poems that predated "Fanning Fiction." The first was "Alumni," which you can see on Concelebratory Shoehorn Review's March issue. The second one? Well, that's below. I've omitted the name of the bride in the "for" section; but if she reads this, she will know, and she will figure out who the "she" is supposed to be. However, if she feels it could be multiple choice or multiple personalities rolled into one, who am I to argue?
Slash Fiction
for ____
She still writes stories
like the ones they printed
in the college literary rag,
the characters’ names
so similar to her classmates’.
They were barely stand-ins
receiving her dose of
the meaty prose found
in girls’ room stalls
and yearbook captions.
All for whoever was picked
for the role of villain,
which, following the breaking
of school time bonds, rotated
faster than the hero
in a Jim Croce song.
Today, she has serious blocks.
She doesn’t know your new friends,
can’t fathom the people
who saved you post-banishment.
All this and a husband now?
Even when she found out
his name, she couldn’t find
a worthy substitute moniker.
One time, she tried to write
herself in, but it’s hard
to be God and a plot avatar.
Rather than finish anything,
she strips take out chicken
ordered on Fridays and pretends
it’s your flesh she strips
and your bones she buries,
in a grave she kicks up
with the toe of her shoe
in random spots out in her yard.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Retired Poem
This is another of my poems that don't fit anywhere but here on this blog. I have more of these than I care to admit at this time.
This one I've thought of quite a bit since my Dad died. I was talking with a new friend about a poem I posted years ago--later published in Shampoo--concerning both my parents and the struggle I was going through involving them and the girlfriend I was with several years ago. I address a lot of things, but my Dad was the main target for reasons I won't get into here.
I'm sad that 1) the poem in Shampoo is one of the better ones I've written, and 2) I've yet to write any tribute poems for my family--particularly my Dad--that I'm really, really, pleased with. I'm glad that one I'm relatively happy with was published--here in Spoonful--and seen by my Dad before he died, but I wish I had written more for him and my Mom. I'm in the process of rectifying that now, but in the meantime, I want to post the poem below, which I wrote in reaction to the poem in Shampoo.
It doesn't work as a true companion piece, really. Too prosey, literal and uninteresting. Also too jarring, the way I change the POV over to the parents. Still, it serves a the reaction piece my parents weren't able to write, not being poets. I hope you'll indulge me.
He Says He’ll Tell Us When
We’re Older and He’s Dead
Even back in Boston, his face becomes
a padlock to us, still fearing us the most
in conversation, even with her gone.
He’s his proudest and his strongest
when help finally arrives. We’d be less worried
if this were an act and not truly a first
successful act of strength since the week before,
telling us to touch nothing,
telling us that he can reassemble
his life, a task equal to reforming
a house burnt to ash with a hurricane
spreading it across states—no wonder
he’s so numb. The parts that still feel
weren’t packed in the first truck up.
No wonder he insists that he can wait
until he can afford a second move by himself.
He turns down all offers of money, with a hero’s pose,
and asks for food instead.
This one I've thought of quite a bit since my Dad died. I was talking with a new friend about a poem I posted years ago--later published in Shampoo--concerning both my parents and the struggle I was going through involving them and the girlfriend I was with several years ago. I address a lot of things, but my Dad was the main target for reasons I won't get into here.
I'm sad that 1) the poem in Shampoo is one of the better ones I've written, and 2) I've yet to write any tribute poems for my family--particularly my Dad--that I'm really, really, pleased with. I'm glad that one I'm relatively happy with was published--here in Spoonful--and seen by my Dad before he died, but I wish I had written more for him and my Mom. I'm in the process of rectifying that now, but in the meantime, I want to post the poem below, which I wrote in reaction to the poem in Shampoo.
It doesn't work as a true companion piece, really. Too prosey, literal and uninteresting. Also too jarring, the way I change the POV over to the parents. Still, it serves a the reaction piece my parents weren't able to write, not being poets. I hope you'll indulge me.
He Says He’ll Tell Us When
We’re Older and He’s Dead
Even back in Boston, his face becomes
a padlock to us, still fearing us the most
in conversation, even with her gone.
He’s his proudest and his strongest
when help finally arrives. We’d be less worried
if this were an act and not truly a first
successful act of strength since the week before,
telling us to touch nothing,
telling us that he can reassemble
his life, a task equal to reforming
a house burnt to ash with a hurricane
spreading it across states—no wonder
he’s so numb. The parts that still feel
weren’t packed in the first truck up.
No wonder he insists that he can wait
until he can afford a second move by himself.
He turns down all offers of money, with a hero’s pose,
and asks for food instead.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Retired Poem
This is another poem that I've found doesn't seem to have a place anywhere but this blog. This one was written just weeks after I started graduate school at Emerson College and got (rightfully) panned in my first workshop.
This sonnet was the first piece that impressed my professor, Gail Mazur. In fact, it was the poem that opened up Self-Portrait In Fire when it was my graduate thesis. A few years later, I never sent it out much, and it was just another one of the many poems axed when Self-Portrait finally became a chapbook.
What can I say? Twelve years ago, I was neurotic, lacking confidence, too eager to impress, and mulling over relationships past as well as present. Today...well, alright, you could put most of that description in my blog profile today. Maybe I should change twenty-two to thirty-four in the last line.
"The" Poem
Start with the word “The” and work from there is my technique
for tonight, but there are no nouns or verbs to follow
my beginning, and I write more and more as an excuse to sneak
out of writing a letter to my ex-girlfriend who wants to know
answers I can’t even give myself. I think of the extra time I’ve gained
since I left her that Sunday, not even wanting to spend a third
of the week with her as we planned. How much have I really strained
to find my poetry again since then? I think of authors, the words
on their book jackets, listing their endless work. Did they conceive
their ideas out of isolation, rejecting their families as I may
be rejecting mine by moving to Boston, trying to believe
I won’t be lonely like the writers whose ideas I try not to take.
After many years and books, some write stories proving they had a life.
But at twenty two, I only want to prove that I can write.
This sonnet was the first piece that impressed my professor, Gail Mazur. In fact, it was the poem that opened up Self-Portrait In Fire when it was my graduate thesis. A few years later, I never sent it out much, and it was just another one of the many poems axed when Self-Portrait finally became a chapbook.
What can I say? Twelve years ago, I was neurotic, lacking confidence, too eager to impress, and mulling over relationships past as well as present. Today...well, alright, you could put most of that description in my blog profile today. Maybe I should change twenty-two to thirty-four in the last line.
"The" Poem
Start with the word “The” and work from there is my technique
for tonight, but there are no nouns or verbs to follow
my beginning, and I write more and more as an excuse to sneak
out of writing a letter to my ex-girlfriend who wants to know
answers I can’t even give myself. I think of the extra time I’ve gained
since I left her that Sunday, not even wanting to spend a third
of the week with her as we planned. How much have I really strained
to find my poetry again since then? I think of authors, the words
on their book jackets, listing their endless work. Did they conceive
their ideas out of isolation, rejecting their families as I may
be rejecting mine by moving to Boston, trying to believe
I won’t be lonely like the writers whose ideas I try not to take.
After many years and books, some write stories proving they had a life.
But at twenty two, I only want to prove that I can write.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Retired Poem
When I finished the Discarded chapbook of roommate poems, it was amazing how many poems I left out or gave up on. Particularly when they were the poems I had pegged for the book since I first envisioned it nearly three years ago. This is one of them. Seemed a perfect fit at the time. Now...eh.
On Your Girlfriend’s Ultimatum
You always preferred pizza
over Asian cuisine
and others’ company over mine.
If both facts were any different,
I’d say let’s meet, years later,
to play a variation of the “in bed”
fortune cookie game,
reciting former lovers’ letters
and studio photo inscriptions
finishing each cliché with the word
“but,” or even “however,”
ellipses, dot dot dots optional
but still understood
whether unsaid or not.
On Your Girlfriend’s Ultimatum
You always preferred pizza
over Asian cuisine
and others’ company over mine.
If both facts were any different,
I’d say let’s meet, years later,
to play a variation of the “in bed”
fortune cookie game,
reciting former lovers’ letters
and studio photo inscriptions
finishing each cliché with the word
“but,” or even “however,”
ellipses, dot dot dots optional
but still understood
whether unsaid or not.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Retired Poem
Another poem of mine placed here because it has nowhere else to go. This one is from the abandoned Bowlmore Writemore project. Read the brief, somewhat flimsy reason somewhere here. I always suspected that the reason why it was never completed was a quality issue. At least, that's what I think when I look over my contribution. This one was pretty much dead in the water. I should have printed it here two years ago and moved on.
Bowling For Leagues: How to Protest
In A True American Fashion
To Michael Moore
One: Wait until the world blows up.
Two: Express grievances after
the extended moment of silence.
Three: Actually, shut up. If you’re
still around, you’re probably not in
Heaven and therefore against us.
Four: If there’s actually no Heaven, sorry.
Bowling For Leagues: How to Protest
In A True American Fashion
To Michael Moore
One: Wait until the world blows up.
Two: Express grievances after
the extended moment of silence.
Three: Actually, shut up. If you’re
still around, you’re probably not in
Heaven and therefore against us.
Four: If there’s actually no Heaven, sorry.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Retired Poem
Part of a new series on this blog. If literary journals don't have a use for certain poems of mine and I find that I don't have a use for them either, they'll still have a home on Freak Machine Press.
Had to urge to revisit, review, and ultimately retire this one after getting back in contact with an ex-girlfriend. Yes, it's kind of in her voice.
Word to the wise: Don't start writing poems following an argument with your exes.
Wait a year or so.
She Explains How I Procrastinate
Your time between blinks would have been better spent
looking for my mind, my world, my life to change.
And why do you only offer to catch people when they
actually trip? Couldn’t you see once our eyes met mid-fall,
that I didn’t want the help of a dallier? You couldn’t even
get through the two-sided good-bye letter I handed you.
Rambling an excuse about beginning-to-end, I read aloud
the last part that faced me to get it over with. Even before
you moved to my place, your motivation to leave
wavered. To put it off, you pretended the constellations
decorating my new world were dust clouds spinning
over my shelves, which you had the audacity to wipe away.
I’d explain more but I’ve lost all patience. Look at you!
Just standing there, waiting for sentences to end.
--Chad Parenteau
Had to urge to revisit, review, and ultimately retire this one after getting back in contact with an ex-girlfriend. Yes, it's kind of in her voice.
Word to the wise: Don't start writing poems following an argument with your exes.
Wait a year or so.
She Explains How I Procrastinate
Your time between blinks would have been better spent
looking for my mind, my world, my life to change.
And why do you only offer to catch people when they
actually trip? Couldn’t you see once our eyes met mid-fall,
that I didn’t want the help of a dallier? You couldn’t even
get through the two-sided good-bye letter I handed you.
Rambling an excuse about beginning-to-end, I read aloud
the last part that faced me to get it over with. Even before
you moved to my place, your motivation to leave
wavered. To put it off, you pretended the constellations
decorating my new world were dust clouds spinning
over my shelves, which you had the audacity to wipe away.
I’d explain more but I’ve lost all patience. Look at you!
Just standing there, waiting for sentences to end.
--Chad Parenteau
Thursday, November 16, 2006
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
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