|
Inspired by a poem by Aimee Nezhukumatathil by Carol Barrett Thanks for reading your poems to us. Do you ever get nervous? My speech teacher says to pick a spot in the back of the room and talk to that. It’s hard to get much across with an empty chair. I keep trying to imagine a chair with eyes. Blue eyes, like this guy I had a crush on in fifth grade. He moved away. I wish I had your dad. Mine busted my guitar over my shoulder because I didn’t want to do homework. I saved a long time for that guitar. Is there a way to become a doctor without taking chemistry? I just want to help people. What did your dad think of the poems about him? Did you have to kind of gloss over some things? Did he ever get mad at you? I mean, there must have been something that annoyed him. I want to read that poem. Would your sisters and everybody see things the same way? I mean, I can’t get something right because everybody I know has a different take on it, and they want it to be, like, their kind of true. My aunt says the only true story is the one you dream. When do you write poems? Does it make a difference if you’re hungry? Sometimes writing poetry, good as corn-on-the-cob. A really young ear, so sweet you can go without the butter. I’m hungry a lot. Maybe I’ll be a famous writer, just a skinny one. You must have eaten a ton of fish growing up, so many patients settling the bill with fresh fish. I guess with plenty of tartar sauce, that would be okay. Personally, I prefer burgers and fries. I like poems that take me someplace I want to go, like Paris or Istanbul. I guess they have rose gardens there too, but I don’t really want to hear about manure and stuff. It’s cool your dad named a flower for your mom. You should lead with that. Your poems make me think how unfair everything is. I got a good grandpa when things got handed down, I’ll give you that. I would like to go canoeing with your dad. Your poem hands me the paddle. A rowboat is just not the same, even in the fog. And a motorboat, forget it! Way too noisy. Could your dad really read the wind, or did you just make that up? So are you bad at rhyming, or what? What’s wrong with writing a poem that’s easy to memorize, because you know what’s coming up, like if the next line ended with cup. I would like that better, than say, fork. Although if you had a fork in there, you could end the next one with cork. My mom makes trays out of old corks. Sometimes they have a bit of torque, hah! Do you still write about your dad now that he’s gone? That would be so depressing. I think music must have been your dad’s first love. That’s how he knew the rhythm of the sun and moon and clouds, how he could tell you needed to do your singing with words. I bet he was a baritone. How’s that for double meaning? My dad was never around much. He’d get drunk a lot. Probably better he left us alone. I’m glad your poems don’t have any blood in them. Good thing I wasn’t there when your dad talked about his operations. I can’t stand blood. I fainted when they showed the accident film in Driver’s Ed. It’s really gruesome. What will your next book be about? Will your mom get her share of the light? I was going to say limelight, but that would be a cliché, right? What I want to know is: how can the guys in your life keep up with your dad? I would run the other way! I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m alright. But you gotta have a few flaws. I chew ice for example. It drives girls crazy. *titled Reading Wind, the book celebrates the life of the poet’s father, who was a farmer, professional musician, and country doctor. Carol Barrett has published three volumes of poetry, most recently Reading Wind, and one of creative nonfiction, Pansies. An NEA Fellow in Poetry, Carol has lived in nine states and in England. She currently supervises creative dissertations for students at both Antioch and Saybrook Universities.
Comments are closed.
|
Search Site |
Follow Us |