A SHIP CALLED MOMENTUM
I was a tanker, and you were a loving tugboat
but I just kept moving on
Now I'm adrift and you'll soon be out of sight,
I blame it on my name, Momentum
I'll keep on floating, and I may never sink
but honey that don't keep me warm
Could’ve been safe in your sheltering wake,
instead I'm headed for a perfect storm
I lost my anchor a few fathoms back
and I'm trailing a thick black band of oil
Burnt my maps and charts; I can't find the stars
Don't know how to reach your nourishing soil
Waves crash and tremble, and break upon the deck,
filled with clutching seaweed and bones of the dead
Water floods the pump room, swirls around my legs
gulls wheel and circle, complaining overhead
I’ll fight the scurvy, the
thirst, and the raging wind
against the ocean's bleakest symphony
I'll weather it all and hope to see it through
to an honest slow motion epiphany
Maybe make it to the Galapagos Islands,
and run this vagrant tanker aground
Spend my days with the lizards and penguins,
and lament the fact that you're not around
I should’ve followed your
tugboat to harbor
and laid down in your loving arms
Instead, I'm roaming these oceans alone,
caught inside a mournful sailor's song
Now when a tear runs down my sad gray hull
I've no doubt about who's to blame
I blame this captain and his rudderless ship,
but mostly my maritime name
CONSEQUENCES
Did I start a war?
Did I throw our ball in traffic and
Make my baby brother get it?
Did I do something bad?
Forward and back.
Forward and back.
I swing forward and back, on an exercise rope stretching from
each hand.
Momentum moves me on.
Good actions, bad actions,
Momentum moves them on.
Did I do something bad? It was an accident. I let go of a rope.
The
motion stayed with the other—
The
laws of physics rule—not morality—not
ethics.
Across the room I fly
Passing out in a bruised heap on the floor.
COURAGE
It was Not Advised.
First, I went to Uganda, where everyone, especially Mother, said, "Don't
go."
Second, I fell in love with a man not free.
Third, we danced in Kampala's night clubs, a blur of drums and knives.
Fourth, we entered the countryside at night.
My Safari for body and soul.
Not Safe.
Uganda lived in that time when independence was just new,
when the Colonials had lost,
before Idi Amin inflicted, or unleashed, a scale of death yet unknown.
We worked in Entebbe, lived in a hotel near the Palace of the king of the largest
tribe-
really a collection of a few tin stores, the palace, our stately hotel.
Outside Entebbe, rivers, trees, vines, rich green, over twenty miles to Kampala,
some cultivated, some wild.
Without light except the lamp on our Vespa,
without streetlights, without traffic signals,
without lamps in houses,
we rode out of Entebbe,
the only sounds the clang of our bike.
We rented the Vespa to see what the night held except each other.
(Sometimes at night the beat of drums rise,
promise violence to those blind enough to go forth,
rage at what White had done here and left behind,
or just advertise, "come here"
"
buy" "buy.")
Out of Entebbe,
we rode down the gravel, over rough paths
until we entered a village shrouded in dark,
houses of straw shaped like tents
strewn about the landscape
like mysterious hives.
I worried about our noise, disturbing,
invading what was not ours.
We cut the motor,
drifted in the dark,
fear under bravado.
Then I saw.
Through the opening in a straw tent,
I saw
a young woman with mirror
by firelight,
alone, in contemplation of her image,
perhaps seeing better than we could see
by firelight,
caressing her own face.
Her back was straight but supple
like bamboo.
I think of the young men from these tents
who rise each morning
put on white shirts, suits and ties,
ride in the back of a truck
cross a river
board a bus -- each ride except the river
full of bumps, dust,
noise.
Leaving this place
of firelight and leaves and a girl with mirror
to clerk in a bank
to clerk in government files,
(not be a busboy or farm hand)
returning at night
with white shirt covered in red dust.
As I held Jim's back
with all my strength,
I found my soul shamed,
not by our risk taking,
but by our brevity,
our drop-in bravery.
Now I dedicate this poem,
to what I saw and heard:
starlight so sharp it could cut,
darkness verdant with animal eyes and green,
a girl studying herself by firelight,
thin young men emerging from the dark,
daily bravery,
before Uganda lost, or gave away,
the freedom it had gained.
Broeck Wahl
COLLEGE ADMISSION
When the flat letter came
His mother was surprised.
Her son did not seem disappointed.
"
I guess I'll have to go away," he said.
Since he was up in his class,
With a state scholarship
And a prize in a national science project
She suspected something.
The interviewer asked what he read,
But instead of the Red Badge of Courage
He said, science fiction magazines
With illustrated covers.
As a concerned parent
Her suspicions moved her
To declare, the rejection is an error;
He is such a prime candidate.
If he were accepted,
He could live at home,
And commute to school,
Continue as in high school
Doing well and not be distracted.
Full speed ahead for med school,
She appealed, and got him a second chance
But he courageously said
What he had said before,
What he planned to say,
As he stood his ground.
Till the day she died,
She wondered if he were right
To go his own way
But he was always sure.
A CHRISTMAS STORY
When you
hung up
the phone, I went out
into the bitter cold
and returned your
Christmas gift
at the mall.
$250 of what was yours
back to me.
I bought the stickiest
cinnamon buns, the most expensive
latte mocha extra ccino
coffee with whipped cream
and sat down to write my holiday shopping list
of frivolous, expendable,
creamy hand and body lotions,
ridiculous satin and lace underwear that he'll never see,
bath oils, gold-wrapped chocolates and scented candles,
and I will burn
every one out tonight.
At the door I took the
remaining handful of bills and change
and put it in the kettle next to a young bell-ringing Santa
who had a very fine ass and who gave me a rosy-cheeked wink
that said, "I'll being seeing you on Christmas Eve."
PLAYING SOLDIER
hiding in the hayloft
waiting to ambush brother billy
broomstick rifle to the
ready,
gotta stop them yanks
boys it's brother against brother
ain't no man
born to take the south
nose dripping like a busted cistern pump
eyes tear
alfalfa hay allergy
winning the battle
jumping into the cold pitch black night
from the warm belly of an airplane
flying over some kentucky grassland
floating to earth beneath a silk canopy
moving through the night searching for
friend and foe
eyes tear from the cold night air
practice makes perfect
climbing a hill in vietnam
just to get to the top
napalm and endless screams
the smell of burning flesh
grown men crying out for their mothers
hot molten metal reaching outward
with unseen arms
forsaking all humanity
the throat parched
eyes tear
now comes my own flesh and blood
marching home from iraq
with sightless eyes
full of tears.
still we play soldier
FRANKLY, MY DEAR
Frankly, my dear, we cancer patients
don’t give a damn…
We leap
off cliff tops, naked, and hang-glide down to the beach
Where we make passionate
love to our partners and then scoff two
99s – each
We jet off for tea in China and roam about Rome full of airs
And when we get back
to England, we rampage like Legionnaires
We go to the opera and football and shout
down the phone when on hold
We’re mad buggers and we like it – we’re
bad, dangerous and bold
(Want to pass me to your supervisor, I’ll make sure you’ll do
as you’re told)
It’s all show, of course, we’re frightened that
time is slipping by
The po-faced grim reaper is waiting, he knows we’re
going to fry
Time hustles and pushes us onwards, towards we know not what
There’s a bit of sand left leaking through – but we know there’s
not a lot
O let not Time deceive you, you cannot conquer time,
The poet said so wisely in
another, better rhyme
But when the reaper comes calling, I’ll drink with
him for luck,
For frankly, my dear, we cancer patients couldn’t give a ****
My last boyfriend was plain, but he held me well.
The one I cheated on him with was delicious,
but he wouldn't sleep touching.
Some things are easy to figure out.
Some things keep you up at night.
An ant will carry the dead body of a fellow ant back to the hill - for food,
I think.
My last boyfriend was plain.
The one I cheated on him with was delicious.
If you find an interesting rock at the beach, it's best to take it home -
could be an artifact.
Some things are easy to figure.
Some things keep you up.
If you have a chenille bathrobe, it's okay if you run out of towels.
Walt Disney movies are enchanting - I especially like Bambi.
If there's no one to talk to, you can still echo their thoughts.
If you're an ant and hungry, you might have your cousin for supper.
If you write an intimate poem, people will imagine they know your soul
and your closet.
Some people have big imaginations.
Some people don't.
Some things are easy to figure.
Some things keep you up.
My last boyfriend was plain, but he held me.
The one I cheated on him with was delicious,
but he wouldn't sleep touching.
Go figure.
If you have no one to talk to, you can still echo.
If you forget the bad things you do, not to worry --
someone will remind you.
POEM WITH PARROTS FOR MY DANGEROUS MAN
Murder, Querido, can occur in any language.
The moon remains the moon no matter what irons
we toss into its craters.
A telephone cabals, and your aggravation whoops into the night.
A ring of unease circulates the kith and kin.
Escuchame. Escribime. Give me some skin!
Dites-moi softly, how no two people have ever been so in love,
as my macaroon and I. Quote me from Kierkegaard,
fry a banana, you always looked well in a stripéd cabana.
So our world rackets, like two hot maracas.
The long night's moon shines a full fifteen hours
and one minute. What will you do with your last moment?
I know what I'm doing with mine.
Besame mucho. ¿Quizas? Mambo has a form, but not for me.
When Grandma died, the day was near that moon.
You sang fado, five-six-seven-eight. The New York sky was naked,
but occasional shawls overhung dreary spruce trees.
Some berries will linger long after the wind turns cold.
The gash of a tanager. The brazen silhouette of an angry jay.
News from Gibraltar. Distract me, prego, from everyone¹s death.
Speak to the cultural use of a trombone. Slide or staccato,
the music tells what is dear, what kind of motion
we use to transport pity.
Thank you for dancing me low to the floor. The wind
blasts away everything unsecured.
So it puffed my mother into her grave. So it rudely bussed
my father into his own. So you demanded I play the piano
whenever shiva was sat in our home.
Forgiveness resides with the lorros if one chooses
to hang by the nose. You are still here. Your lyrics chatter
way into the night driving your feathers where cigars should go.
Te amo. Je t'aime. Solas palabras. Genuch. All languages are as dead
as Latin for saying what you really mean.
The fires are hotter than you expected, more searing than Habana
dawns. You must like it here. The expectations are almost clear.
Cugat opened the twentieth century. Abbe Lane sat
on your father's lap. At one time, we had a photo of this:
We danced grandma's forks to “Brazil” in the kitchen.
Saludos Amigos. The Gang's All Here. Thank you for jamming.
Save your old cajones for the Devil.
So often you called me from under the sea. Simpatico,
the nickname that you gave to me. O, where have you gone
my humpback whale? Our baby beluga
siestas in jail. He thinks to feast on snacks from the guards.
They are so human. You long for Truman,
the last Presidente to whom you were fidel. Too bad el jefe
disrupted your ventures. Our guerilla is petty
but your libido was grande.
I fainted whenever you brought me some candy. Look in your heart.
If that doesn't work, there¹s always Tequila--If
you can find the salt and lime in Tico Tico doing time.
Momentum by
Catherine Doty
Used by permission of the author from Momentum (CavanKerry
Press Ltd.)
Your
friends won’t
try to talk you out of the barrel,
or your brag to go first, which has nothing to do with bravery.
And you’re so hungry to earn their love you forget
to claim first your, perhaps, last look at this mountain—
crab apples hanging sour in the sun, abandoned Buick,
a favorite place to play, dismantled and weathered
and delicate as a voting booth. Instead you dive straight away
and head-first into darkness, the steel drum that dusts you,
like a chicken part, with rust. Looking out, there’s nothing
to see of your friends but their calves, which are scabby,
and below them the filthy sneakers, shifting, shifting,
every foot aching to kick you off this cliff.
Their faces, you know, are blank with anticipation,
the look you see when they watch tv eating popcorn.
They’re already talking about you as if you’re gone,
as if you boarded a bus and roared out of earshot,
when one foot flashes forward and launches you.
You know as you feel that
first solid slam you are lost.
The barrel changes shape with each crash to earth,
as you will later, assuming and losing lives, but this
is so true now: ankles flayed to the bone, cracked ribs
and crushed mint, the brittle, pissy sumac. Right now
the pin oaks are popping in their sockets, the hillside
wears your shoes, clouds pleat and buck. You know, of course,
that no one’s going second, and friends who tell this story
will use the word idiot, rolling their hands in the air,
but you know you know what your life is for now and rise up,
and just about scalp yourself on that tree limb above you,
another thing you couldn’t possibly know was coming,
another which, like your first breath, was not your idea.
Catherine Doty was born and raised in South Paterson, NJ and has taught thereabouts for many years. Cat worked as a cook, bartender and cartoonist as she attended Upsala College and later the University of Iowa where she received an MFA in poetry. Her poems have been widely published. She is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and the New York Foundation for the Arts, and is the recipient of the 2003 Marjorie J. Wilson Award.
An artist, her published work also includes Just Kidding, Cartoons For Grownups - a humorous look at childhood through the eyes of a poet. Recommended for anyone who is a child, or has been one at some earlier time in their life.
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