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Radiant Heat
Re: Radiant Heat
The Evelyns of the world have mostly disappeared but I remember more than one. Sun worship has been regarded as a specific problem. Strangely it was often accompanied by secret drinking. There is an old saying among women "you can never be rich enough or thin enough" to which could then be added "or tan enough". Insightful poem that revived some memories.
Re: Radiant Heat
Hi Tim
I have read the poem now maybe 40-50 times. I have enjoyed it. I think it is well written. I would love to know more about Evelyn. I don't believe I have tunnel vision - unless you mean my stubborn insistance on rereading the poem over and over again and I do think you sometimes want words to mean what you want them to mean (and this is aside from my feeling about burnt down in the poem) do burnt down (L1), burnt up (in your comments) and burnt (literal) all mean the same thing and I mostly certainly think that as a poet you have a right to do so?
Neat, maybe you are right I can't explain it myself; it's a feeling; just a feeling. I am just relating more to your prose telling of her life more than to the poem. Not the poem's fault. Anyway...
I have read the poem now maybe 40-50 times. I have enjoyed it. I think it is well written. I would love to know more about Evelyn. I don't believe I have tunnel vision - unless you mean my stubborn insistance on rereading the poem over and over again and I do think you sometimes want words to mean what you want them to mean (and this is aside from my feeling about burnt down in the poem) do burnt down (L1), burnt up (in your comments) and burnt (literal) all mean the same thing and I mostly certainly think that as a poet you have a right to do so?
Neat, maybe you are right I can't explain it myself; it's a feeling; just a feeling. I am just relating more to your prose telling of her life more than to the poem. Not the poem's fault. Anyway...
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Tim J Brennan
Re: Radiant Heat
https://www.etymonline.com/word/burn
Thanks again, Dave. For your multiple readings. For all your comments.
As the writer, I DO want my words to mean what I want them to mean. Why wouldn't I? I also try and use words (main ones anyway) that allow for multiple interpretations so that the poem is accessible to as many readers as I can.
Burn(ed) (I never used burnt, not once) is one of those. I've always liked the word for this reason. And also b/c the root entomology can be traced to "brennen / brennan"
Your candidness toward your unexplainable "neatness" of poetry is appreciated. But I also cannot respond to your unexplainable. I can only write. I'm glad you think it is "well written" enough to maybe get beyond its perceived neatness.I'm not picking that same sense of neatness from others' comments.
This poem is one of a series of my old neighborhood. My sister ran across Evie in the hospitable when she was visiting someone else. She was obviously much older by this time. And she would die soon after my sister's visit. Evie, like everyone on the planet, deserves to be more well known by strangers, so I appreciate your desire to know more about her, but this will probably be the first and last poem I will ever write about her. I simply don't know that much more about her.
A Small Town is No Place to Go Mad
i
After his wife left him for the internet,
Scott went back to sleeping on the piano.
There he found the keys and cool vibrations.
All of his life he said to her, What a poor thing
to be so brief and simple. Which of the two
horizons was she looking at all this time?
She once told him, Tu n'est pas du tout romantique
but he refused to get all sentimental, quickly
moving on to the next song he was hearing:
Doodle, doodle, your house is burning
Doodle doodle, your heart is yearning
ii
The neighbor down the street, Mrs. Roper,
was a church hopper. She, a widow, strove
mightily to warm and divide her life
and thus she visited every church in town
in six month cycles, the assumption suggesting
that a line, a date divides the present and past.
Small town delirium—infected people often yelled
in the streets—Mrs. Roper often revealed to us the origin
of unimportant events. In her epics, something
always happened to the maidens in their movements
through corridors, over thresholds or other
circumambulatory passages of the Good Book.
iii
There’s a certain art in a green Van Heusen
thinks Mr. Kavanagh as he dresses
for the day. He pours a bowl
of Wheaties, dishes a tablespoon of sugar
on the crisp flakes and pushes down
on his two slice toaster, raison bread
being grilled evenly on both sides,
peanut butter at the ready, dull knife
in his left hand, orange juice, no pulp—
chilled. He is ready for his insurance selling
day: life, auto, disability, secretary
after lunch, curtains drawn, door locked:
the sound of street automobiles, junk
mail, correspondences, skirt spread out
on the office couch like an office picnic.
Later, he calls his wife, Maureen, tells her
in a raspy voice that he needs to go
to Milwaukee tomorrow for a couple
of days. Maureen puts the phone down
onto its cradle, tells naked neighbor Vernon
tomorrow should be a really good day.
iv
Evelyn burned down one afternoon—
she in her chaise lounge, she knew
about being black and hurt and holy
and drunk. She laid all day, every day.
The sun, her husband, her lover, her skin
begging for miniature explosions,
a new disguise. Evelyn worshipped
the rays, talked to them in her sultry voice.
All she really wanted was someone
to tell her she was a fine woman, sober
or not, and she wanted to believe them.
v
After Billy, her youngest, was killed
near Da Nang, Mrs. Cole quieted
from his small, partial grief death
to his complete loneliness death—
an anesthesia of sorts for her:
bone ash, snow, or clouds. A lacuna.
She told me once I looked like him,
put her hands on my face. She told me
she was on her last wish, that somewhere
in the woods behind her house,
in the hollows where the mind retreats
for cover, she heard a whip-poor-will,
and would I be Billy for the afternoon,
and could I please rub her bare feet
between the palms of my hands?
I didn’t go around the Cole house
much the rest of that summer. I saw her once
more in October before she died.
She was standing near the woods, bent
at the waist a bit and listening
as if she was trying to understand everything
there was to know about everything.
vi
Mary had the reddest
apples.
Straight from her back
yard.
No polishing
needed.
Her loaded cellar. Small,
round, red.
And wine. Bottles of apple
wine.
She praises the Lord
as she whets the knife
before another
pealing,
vii
She wasn’t the girl next door, more
like the girl across the open field—
and, my god, was she beautiful,
the way archery is beautiful or a set
of chop sticks with sanded ends
or any number of Italian shipwrecks
in clear, warm Pacific ocean water.
She was a signature with a blemish,
a tuning fork pitched just right.
And when I watched her through
her open summer window, she
had a backlight against a white
backdrop like a firefly or a casino
night at church, all the lights flipping
and flopping like little firecrackers.
vii
Maureen Alsop waited
for her newspaper,
her mail. Anything
with her name on it.
She waited every winter
for spring, to be
caught off-guard
by her lilacs;
by rain falling;
by trees that visit
the sky. She waited
for her sparrows
taught to come hungry
every day, hands
in her pockets, fingering
their bread crumbs.
viii
Like many things in his life, Bill was unaware
he had an unrhythmic heartbeat;
he took the bus and sold shoes at Payless
Tuesday and Thursday afternoons;
Garnett attended to the rest of their days,
sometimes bought almonds
in an embossed tin, often moved their floral
loveseat across the room
under the bay window on days the sun
was brightest and then would move
it back again after dinner; on starry nights
they would walk to the city park
and he would trace constellations for her
in the air; We’re getting old, she would say;
and he would sing into her hands, his voice
slipping away between her fingers.
Thanks again, Dave. For your multiple readings. For all your comments.
As the writer, I DO want my words to mean what I want them to mean. Why wouldn't I? I also try and use words (main ones anyway) that allow for multiple interpretations so that the poem is accessible to as many readers as I can.
Burn(ed) (I never used burnt, not once) is one of those. I've always liked the word for this reason. And also b/c the root entomology can be traced to "brennen / brennan"
Your candidness toward your unexplainable "neatness" of poetry is appreciated. But I also cannot respond to your unexplainable. I can only write. I'm glad you think it is "well written" enough to maybe get beyond its perceived neatness.I'm not picking that same sense of neatness from others' comments.
This poem is one of a series of my old neighborhood. My sister ran across Evie in the hospitable when she was visiting someone else. She was obviously much older by this time. And she would die soon after my sister's visit. Evie, like everyone on the planet, deserves to be more well known by strangers, so I appreciate your desire to know more about her, but this will probably be the first and last poem I will ever write about her. I simply don't know that much more about her.
A Small Town is No Place to Go Mad
i
After his wife left him for the internet,
Scott went back to sleeping on the piano.
There he found the keys and cool vibrations.
All of his life he said to her, What a poor thing
to be so brief and simple. Which of the two
horizons was she looking at all this time?
She once told him, Tu n'est pas du tout romantique
but he refused to get all sentimental, quickly
moving on to the next song he was hearing:
Doodle, doodle, your house is burning
Doodle doodle, your heart is yearning
ii
The neighbor down the street, Mrs. Roper,
was a church hopper. She, a widow, strove
mightily to warm and divide her life
and thus she visited every church in town
in six month cycles, the assumption suggesting
that a line, a date divides the present and past.
Small town delirium—infected people often yelled
in the streets—Mrs. Roper often revealed to us the origin
of unimportant events. In her epics, something
always happened to the maidens in their movements
through corridors, over thresholds or other
circumambulatory passages of the Good Book.
iii
There’s a certain art in a green Van Heusen
thinks Mr. Kavanagh as he dresses
for the day. He pours a bowl
of Wheaties, dishes a tablespoon of sugar
on the crisp flakes and pushes down
on his two slice toaster, raison bread
being grilled evenly on both sides,
peanut butter at the ready, dull knife
in his left hand, orange juice, no pulp—
chilled. He is ready for his insurance selling
day: life, auto, disability, secretary
after lunch, curtains drawn, door locked:
the sound of street automobiles, junk
mail, correspondences, skirt spread out
on the office couch like an office picnic.
Later, he calls his wife, Maureen, tells her
in a raspy voice that he needs to go
to Milwaukee tomorrow for a couple
of days. Maureen puts the phone down
onto its cradle, tells naked neighbor Vernon
tomorrow should be a really good day.
iv
Evelyn burned down one afternoon—
she in her chaise lounge, she knew
about being black and hurt and holy
and drunk. She laid all day, every day.
The sun, her husband, her lover, her skin
begging for miniature explosions,
a new disguise. Evelyn worshipped
the rays, talked to them in her sultry voice.
All she really wanted was someone
to tell her she was a fine woman, sober
or not, and she wanted to believe them.
v
After Billy, her youngest, was killed
near Da Nang, Mrs. Cole quieted
from his small, partial grief death
to his complete loneliness death—
an anesthesia of sorts for her:
bone ash, snow, or clouds. A lacuna.
She told me once I looked like him,
put her hands on my face. She told me
she was on her last wish, that somewhere
in the woods behind her house,
in the hollows where the mind retreats
for cover, she heard a whip-poor-will,
and would I be Billy for the afternoon,
and could I please rub her bare feet
between the palms of my hands?
I didn’t go around the Cole house
much the rest of that summer. I saw her once
more in October before she died.
She was standing near the woods, bent
at the waist a bit and listening
as if she was trying to understand everything
there was to know about everything.
vi
Mary had the reddest
apples.
Straight from her back
yard.
No polishing
needed.
Her loaded cellar. Small,
round, red.
And wine. Bottles of apple
wine.
She praises the Lord
as she whets the knife
before another
pealing,
vii
She wasn’t the girl next door, more
like the girl across the open field—
and, my god, was she beautiful,
the way archery is beautiful or a set
of chop sticks with sanded ends
or any number of Italian shipwrecks
in clear, warm Pacific ocean water.
She was a signature with a blemish,
a tuning fork pitched just right.
And when I watched her through
her open summer window, she
had a backlight against a white
backdrop like a firefly or a casino
night at church, all the lights flipping
and flopping like little firecrackers.
vii
Maureen Alsop waited
for her newspaper,
her mail. Anything
with her name on it.
She waited every winter
for spring, to be
caught off-guard
by her lilacs;
by rain falling;
by trees that visit
the sky. She waited
for her sparrows
taught to come hungry
every day, hands
in her pockets, fingering
their bread crumbs.
viii
Like many things in his life, Bill was unaware
he had an unrhythmic heartbeat;
he took the bus and sold shoes at Payless
Tuesday and Thursday afternoons;
Garnett attended to the rest of their days,
sometimes bought almonds
in an embossed tin, often moved their floral
loveseat across the room
under the bay window on days the sun
was brightest and then would move
it back again after dinner; on starry nights
they would walk to the city park
and he would trace constellations for her
in the air; We’re getting old, she would say;
and he would sing into her hands, his voice
slipping away between her fingers.
Last edited by Tim J Brennan on Tue Mar 27, 2018 10:00 pm, edited 2 times in total.
-
Tim J Brennan
Re: Radiant Heat
indar wrote: ↑Mon Mar 26, 2018 7:02 pmThe Evelyns of the world have mostly disappeared but I remember more than one. Sun worship has been regarded as a specific problem. Strangely it was often accompanied by secret drinking. There is an old saying among women "you can never be rich enough or thin enough" to which could then be added "or tan enough". Insightful poem that revived some memories.
I would agree with just about all of this, Indar, except my best friend's wife also passed away just last year from the same syndrome (minus the drinking part). So I had a vested interest in this poem.
On a side note, I think those freaking tanning spas are a scourge and should be banned. I can play 18 holes of golf and my tan is set for the summer.
Re: Radiant Heat
After a single read-through I must say the above poem reminds me a little of "Spoon River Anthology".
I also meant in my earlier comment to say that of your two titles I prefer the first but think there might be a third choice. Tracy suggested, after reading your comments re/ your relationship w/ Evelyn there is an element of "The Graduate" to it. Could the N be brought into the picture via the title?
I also meant in my earlier comment to say that of your two titles I prefer the first but think there might be a third choice. Tracy suggested, after reading your comments re/ your relationship w/ Evelyn there is an element of "The Graduate" to it. Could the N be brought into the picture via the title?
-
Tim J Brennan
Re: Radiant Heat
Hi, Indar. I titled Evie's poem b/c I have to in order to post it here. As of now, my individual vignettes are only labeled i, ii, iii, etc. I don't think they each need a title, but I am leaning toward identifying each by the neighbor's name.indar wrote: ↑Tue Mar 27, 2018 3:56 pmAfter a single read-through I must say the above poem reminds me a little of "Spoon River Anthology".
I also meant in my earlier comment to say that of your two titles I prefer the first . but think there might be a third choice. Tracy suggested, after reading your comments re/ your relationship w/ Evelyn there is an element of "The Graduate" to it. Could the N be brought into the picture via the title?
Thanks for the nod toward Spoon River. I like another similar book w/town characters: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson. And, of course, there's always "Our Town"...
Re: Radiant Heat
An enjoyable read. The crafting is such that one is smoothly absorbed into the character's traits. Intrigue is key. Poetry in general does not lend itself to bald exposition, and nor should it; if different readers fill in the blanks between the high notes differently, then it succeeds as poetry, in my opinion.
chaise lounge > chaise longue
chaise lounge > chaise longue
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Tim J Brennan
Re: Radiant Heat
Mark wrote: ↑Wed Mar 28, 2018 11:26 amAn enjoyable read. The crafting is such that one is smoothly absorbed into the character's traits. Intrigue is key. Poetry in general does not lend itself to bald exposition, and nor should it; if different readers fill in the blanks between the high notes differently, then it succeeds as poetry, in my opinion.
chaise lounge > chaise longue
Hi, Mark, thanks for your thoughts. Hopefully you were able to fill in a few blanks.
Re: Radiant Heat
Hi Tim
Thanks for the origins of burn - interesting but changes nothing for me. Loved the series of poems, some more of course and some less. Much for the same reasons I still think your poem about Evie is the weakest: there are beautiful details in each of the poems and a warm empathy. Some characters I can relate very well to and some less such is life. Great writing.
Dave
Thanks for the origins of burn - interesting but changes nothing for me. Loved the series of poems, some more of course and some less. Much for the same reasons I still think your poem about Evie is the weakest: there are beautiful details in each of the poems and a warm empathy. Some characters I can relate very well to and some less such is life. Great writing.
Dave
-
Tim J Brennan
Re: Radiant Heat
No problem, Dave: I'm a golfer. Truth is, I'd rather golf than write any day. Take putting, for example. A putt that goes in is a great putt. One that's close is a good one. If Evie was great writing, it would have gone in. But I'll take "interesting"...that's close to great. You're right...such is life :)Dave wrote: ↑Sat Mar 31, 2018 5:17 amHi Tim
Thanks for the origins of burn - interesting but changes nothing for me. Loved the series of poems, some more of course and some less. Much for the same reasons I still think your poem about Evie is the weakest: there are beautiful details in each of the poems and a warm empathy. Some characters I can relate very well to and some less such is life. Great writing.
Dave
Thanks for your time.