Neither of my parents drank. That was left up to me. But having lost both of them, all I really have in my memory is their approximate shape. Thank you for those words
I was fortunate that mostly only my father was the drinker. There was one period though when my mother joined him in heavy drinking. I think it was a way for my mother to try to connect. Those times were the darkest, the home felt empty and chaotic. This poem touched that place for me, until I read it I didn’t realize that it what it felt, some kind of husk of life. I am grateful to have read it.
Sherman, I wanted to say something about your poem itself but I am overcome with my own memories of 1973 and my mom’s alcoholism. This scene of her passed out with a bottle on the floor was too familiar to me in 1973, my senior year in high school. I planned it so I could graduate a semester early so I could escape this daily passed out scene and so I did, I used my wings. These sorts of images are indelibly marked inside me so I understood you when you spoke of pain in your introduction to your reading of this poem. I have come to understand that every time I write about mine I gain more self-compassion as well as more compassion for all who’ve weathered such things. Thank you for writing with and through your own pain, Sherman.
This left me breathless. It is as powerful and beautiful in what it says, as it is in what it does not say. Some emotions can only be expressed through silence. If the two people passed out on the couch are *your* parents then you too are in the picture. But we do not see you.
The universe has created an infinite ocean of dark ways for a mother and a father to find themselves passed out; if from vodka, or from decay, from broken dreams, from betrayals… few have found a way to avoid walking in on such still life, unless, of course, they weren’t paying attention.
This is why poetry is so important, and why people fear it.... the ambiguity, the haunting. It keeps coming back to you, to weigh it and interpret it without resolution or closure. Your gift is sharing the stark metaphor which brings both pain and pleasure but always the energy of absorption and interpretation. I'm not sure about the wasps' nest which is sizzling with sinister stings...
I'd bet more poets are inspired by art than the other way around, but Georgia for years had a great inspiration-swap going with Spokane artist Harold Balazs. Do you know his work? They sort of fed off each other's work. Several years back she & and artist friend set up an exhibition in which a work of art was sent to a poet whose poem went to an artist whose art went to a poet, etc. The exhibitions were set up several times over the years with good success. Grand opening at City Hall, where the art & poems were displayed.
This is beautiful and sad, and also funny, and enigmatic. I keep returning to the images. Are they simulacra or husks? Are they emptied of meaning or replicas of what is still nourishing? Are the parents still loving or interlocked in a melancholy posture of previous intimacy? Again and again the simplicity of the images is deceptive. Thank you for this devastating beauty --or is it simply a residue of what is leftover when the vitality is used up?
Wow, Annie, thanks for this. In an earlier draft, I had an image of an abandoned wasp nest holding the shape of a living wasp nest. But I think perhaps that was too clear of an idea—no life versus life. I wanted something more ambiguous to be happening in this poem.
I have this summer, read two biographies of Raymond Carver and am more than halfway through all of his poetry and short story collections (enmeshed in ‘Ultramarine’ at the moment). I knew Tess Gallagher (Tacoma/Port Angeles) and met Raymond at a reading before his death (August 1988). I am so enjoying Ultramarine that I went to buy a copy on Amazon for a friend, and learned that a used paperback copy cost $ 60. Bucks... Mental note to add my books to my vinyls as ‘valuable’, and why btw, are many hardbacks cheaper than paperbacks? ...
I have been in a broad-backed stormy sea of ‘alcohol’ written about in every form by Carver and his biographers ( his first wife is one), so this morning your 1973 vignette is no longer an eye opening shocker (at least this summer when the whole world is...)...Nevertheless, Bravo! And, Well Done!
I have a poem, Tornados! written about my childhood lucid dreaming and about my parents not so lucid drinking. [see ‘Flamingos’ Jeff Hartzer on Soundcloud; Tornados is one of the 18 soundtracked poems]
Momaday (not Malamud). Always surprised by the flames sparking off orange peels if squeezed by a candle/flame--and why, like green chile on your hand, can irritate what is touched...
I created a program to do poetry on Pierce County busses. I had a neighbor woman help me judge the incoming poems, who was so much ‘a poet’, she could never leave her house…Tess helped take care of her and that is how I came to know Tess. Carver was the quietest reader I have ever heard except for maybe Malamud…Also a bit of a symbolic scare to me, in that he finally got to a spiritual, financial, and rewarded place (with much help esp. from Tess) and sadly, died. Anniversary of his 1988 DOD just this week.
I like the picture of the orange rind. It’s hard for me to relate to alchohol stuff because no one in my family drank. One time when I was about eight a drunk man came up to my friends and me. I started screaming and running to the back door of our apartment. I heard my dad being drunk once. A long story. There was only one yay in the elections yesterday and that was in Kansas. All the rest were trump devil idiots. Boo.
I hope the Muriel Rukeyser poem "The Ballad of Orange and Grape" was one, even if that's artificial orange. It's one of my favorites in the whole world.
As is usual in your writing -- like in life -- joy and pain share the same space. Also, there's your love that is always just so moving. Thanks.
Thank you, Michael!
Neither of my parents drank. That was left up to me. But having lost both of them, all I really have in my memory is their approximate shape. Thank you for those words
Thank you, Steve.
I was fortunate that mostly only my father was the drinker. There was one period though when my mother joined him in heavy drinking. I think it was a way for my mother to try to connect. Those times were the darkest, the home felt empty and chaotic. This poem touched that place for me, until I read it I didn’t realize that it what it felt, some kind of husk of life. I am grateful to have read it.
Yes, my mother stopped drinking when I seven so she is on the eve of sobriety in this poem.
Sherman, I wanted to say something about your poem itself but I am overcome with my own memories of 1973 and my mom’s alcoholism. This scene of her passed out with a bottle on the floor was too familiar to me in 1973, my senior year in high school. I planned it so I could graduate a semester early so I could escape this daily passed out scene and so I did, I used my wings. These sorts of images are indelibly marked inside me so I understood you when you spoke of pain in your introduction to your reading of this poem. I have come to understand that every time I write about mine I gain more self-compassion as well as more compassion for all who’ve weathered such things. Thank you for writing with and through your own pain, Sherman.
Thank you, Geraldine.
This left me breathless. It is as powerful and beautiful in what it says, as it is in what it does not say. Some emotions can only be expressed through silence. If the two people passed out on the couch are *your* parents then you too are in the picture. But we do not see you.
Thank you for that lovely response. Yeah, for those of us who has parents like that…
The universe has created an infinite ocean of dark ways for a mother and a father to find themselves passed out; if from vodka, or from decay, from broken dreams, from betrayals… few have found a way to avoid walking in on such still life, unless, of course, they weren’t paying attention.
Yes, yes…
This is why poetry is so important, and why people fear it.... the ambiguity, the haunting. It keeps coming back to you, to weigh it and interpret it without resolution or closure. Your gift is sharing the stark metaphor which brings both pain and pleasure but always the energy of absorption and interpretation. I'm not sure about the wasps' nest which is sizzling with sinister stings...
Yes, the sting was not “right” for this poem.
Perfect image for heads notched together, hands woven into one fist and bare feet intertwined. Intimacy out of something torn apart.
That’s a lovely way to talk about it. Thank you.
This does suggest a new definition to the concept of "still life." Imagine the painting: "Still Life with Orange Peels."
It would make for an intense painting wouldn’t it? Are painters inspired by poems as much as poets are inspired by paintings?
I'd bet more poets are inspired by art than the other way around, but Georgia for years had a great inspiration-swap going with Spokane artist Harold Balazs. Do you know his work? They sort of fed off each other's work. Several years back she & and artist friend set up an exhibition in which a work of art was sent to a poet whose poem went to an artist whose art went to a poet, etc. The exhibitions were set up several times over the years with good success. Grand opening at City Hall, where the art & poems were displayed.
I didn’t know about that relationship and resultant art. I’ll look it up.
Probably most of it is in Georgia's possession, but I don't know. They once conspired on a great arts & humanities program out of Mead HIgh.
This is beautiful and sad, and also funny, and enigmatic. I keep returning to the images. Are they simulacra or husks? Are they emptied of meaning or replicas of what is still nourishing? Are the parents still loving or interlocked in a melancholy posture of previous intimacy? Again and again the simplicity of the images is deceptive. Thank you for this devastating beauty --or is it simply a residue of what is leftover when the vitality is used up?
Wow, Annie, thanks for this. In an earlier draft, I had an image of an abandoned wasp nest holding the shape of a living wasp nest. But I think perhaps that was too clear of an idea—no life versus life. I wanted something more ambiguous to be happening in this poem.
Without the alcohol, it would be a beautiful image.
Yeah, the tension behind the beautiful image.
Still, it's a beautiful image.
Yeah, my parents were often a beautiful wreck.
Very gripping.
Thank you, Arjan!
I have this summer, read two biographies of Raymond Carver and am more than halfway through all of his poetry and short story collections (enmeshed in ‘Ultramarine’ at the moment). I knew Tess Gallagher (Tacoma/Port Angeles) and met Raymond at a reading before his death (August 1988). I am so enjoying Ultramarine that I went to buy a copy on Amazon for a friend, and learned that a used paperback copy cost $ 60. Bucks... Mental note to add my books to my vinyls as ‘valuable’, and why btw, are many hardbacks cheaper than paperbacks? ...
I have been in a broad-backed stormy sea of ‘alcohol’ written about in every form by Carver and his biographers ( his first wife is one), so this morning your 1973 vignette is no longer an eye opening shocker (at least this summer when the whole world is...)...Nevertheless, Bravo! And, Well Done!
I have a poem, Tornados! written about my childhood lucid dreaming and about my parents not so lucid drinking. [see ‘Flamingos’ Jeff Hartzer on Soundcloud; Tornados is one of the 18 soundtracked poems]
I met Gallagher during my college days but I never met Carver. I will check out your stuff.
Momaday (not Malamud). Always surprised by the flames sparking off orange peels if squeezed by a candle/flame--and why, like green chile on your hand, can irritate what is touched...
I created a program to do poetry on Pierce County busses. I had a neighbor woman help me judge the incoming poems, who was so much ‘a poet’, she could never leave her house…Tess helped take care of her and that is how I came to know Tess. Carver was the quietest reader I have ever heard except for maybe Malamud…Also a bit of a symbolic scare to me, in that he finally got to a spiritual, financial, and rewarded place (with much help esp. from Tess) and sadly, died. Anniversary of his 1988 DOD just this week.
Yes, died far too soon.
Once again, what you are so incredibly adept, making the pain beautiful.
I think most of us are the 'approximate shape' of our whole selves, or at least our hearts are.
Thank you, Karlynn. I think you’re right.
The "approximate shape of" is gorgeous phrasing. I love considering the approximation vs. reality of the shape of things.
Thank you!
I like the picture of the orange rind. It’s hard for me to relate to alchohol stuff because no one in my family drank. One time when I was about eight a drunk man came up to my friends and me. I started screaming and running to the back door of our apartment. I heard my dad being drunk once. A long story. There was only one yay in the elections yesterday and that was in Kansas. All the rest were trump devil idiots. Boo.
Thanks. That drunk stranger sounds scary!
This is marvelous! I just had an experience with oranges and reading orange poems! I will add this to my collection
Thank you.
I hope the Muriel Rukeyser poem "The Ballad of Orange and Grape" was one, even if that's artificial orange. It's one of my favorites in the whole world.
I don’t know that poem. I will look it up.
Thank you! Excellent! I wrote about my experience for my Substack this week.