Echolalia
Winnie, Faucon, Fran, Maya, and to all of you not yet met,
I loved the challenge of writing a Fitz. Sometimes perversly, I find that restrictions make the creative process easier- like the students in Pirsig's novel who found their voice only when their teacher restricted their composition to describing 'the third brick from the left on the municipal building'!
This is a poetic form without a name. I made it up. If you want to play, the rules are simple. Each stanza may be only five lines long. The first word of each stanza must be the last word of the previous. The first word of the fourth line of each stanza in mine is a verb, but I will leave that to your discretion. The form is fun, but this poem, which I wrote only a couple of months ago, is very sad.
POPPA
You waited 'til we'd gone
as I've heard the dying often do, and
somehow broke that habit-
breathing; the rythym worn
and whittled thin.
Thin-walled, your skin seemed
stretched beyond its means
on garish bones prematurely
jutting. I kissed your papery cheek
before we left.
Left alone, released from care
you fulfilled the contract made at birth
that said 'No more; no less'
Rattling disinfected air you settled
still at last.
Last time I saw you there
in echoed breath that filled the room-
hypnotic drag and push of air,
dying, I gazed on you
not quite a glimpse of death.
"Death" I knew the word
but I was ten and without fear.
What word could possibly convey the
breaking of that fragile sound,
your breath so dear.
Dear, you waited 'til we left
I did not hear the rattled pall.
Your breathing went on in my ear
whispering- a wetly laboured fall
without an end.
End we must, but I won't try
to find words to describe it- they don't exist.
No, not even now I'm grown and
learning each day a new
language for grief.
posted by Anonymous @ 8:49 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
A lovely, authentic poem full of visual description. We often think of a visual poem as being those that describe the beauties of nature or something else radiant and resplendent. What we see in life, hear, feel, touch is not always radiant and resplendent. This poem gives such feel to the honesty of this time of sadness and does it by letting the reader stand where you stood, see what you saw, hear what you heard.
I agree that form can be freeing. When my mentor, my poetry professor in college, said this to me at seventeen I narrowed my lips and told her I would never write anything but free verse, of my own free will. I couldn’t even understand what she was saying, it made no sense to say that constricting language freed you to create. She was over sixty at the time and she smiled at me and said, “learn about form. You will come to it.” “I won’t.” I said shaking my head full of hair. She would shrug, “then you won’t. We’ll see.” She isn’t here to see, but Venita - where ever you are - you were right. Thank you for making me wrestle with form when I didn’t want to - thank you for giving me what I would someday want.
Mrs. Marsh, I like your form. It must have a name! I admit to a preoccupation with names. My computer is named Arthew. This name was coined by my sister, who teaches Kindergarten in Los Angeles (she should get the medal of honor for courage.) She was making name tags for the kids in her class, it was about 2 a.m. and she was exhausted. Arthur and Matthew somehow ended up smished up together and Arthew was born. I love the name and the whole concept . . . it's just not quite right . . . which describes my computer perfectly. My car is officially named Moonshadow, but I call it Silver Heels, and it tells me how it feels. Our last car was named Beethoven. We had to turn off the radio if the Beatles came on singing "Roll Over Beethoven". My chair is Dwight D. Leatherman. My last chair was Matilda, a nice girl, but she caused me much pain. D.D. Leatherman was much $$$ and worth it. My wacom pen is Sylvia. This is only the beginning. It's no use calling the nice young men in their clean white coats . . . they already know about me.
The form must have a name! If you want to find one out there in the ether, let us know. Otherwise, I shall refer to it as a “Marsh.” Now! Is there any restriction as to how many stanza’s a Marsh has? Obviously, you have to have at least two - probably three or you don’t get the continuity of the repeated word. As such, I wonder about the possibilities of a Marsh Fitzgerald? Please pass the perverse.
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