Portrait of my Family
at 11 o'clock
the moon froze up
the kitchen window
& we crawled into our small holes
the pans fell fast asleep,
snoring out of the oven,
where Ma had tucked them in
like she used to do with me
the tingling faucet sang into the sink
as I tried falling asleep--
its droplets ran along the line
of a single streak
it was the wintertime when
the radiator decided to
screech a tune
fanning its harsh breath
against the windowpane
like Papa did when he was
angry
I sat in silence
as a lone potato rolled
along the floor tiles
like a sleepless cat
scraping along the dirty surface
& sweeping into my bedroom
the TV buzzed silently
in the living room
& I was guided by
the shards of blue light
that traced the walls
in a wicked dance
Papa was fast asleep
on the couch,
the quietest he's ever been
after coughing throughout the night
in a desperate howl
I kissed his wrinkly skin
& wished him a good night
"Mama, Ya nemagu spat,"
Mama, I cannot sleep
she clutched me to her chest
until I choked from the sound
of her snores
I hid in the bathroom
to flush out the noise
I remember my brother used to
find comfort in Dedushka's snores
because it meant he was alive
and all the days of our lives
we shall dwell in the house of the Lord
for many long years
I could not touch knives
after he passed away.
this poem is beautiful, eery, and haunting- i love the personificaiton of the kitchen appliances, the similies to the sleeping cat, and the force of the last stanza. Do not and could not change a thing.
ReplyDeleteThis extended narrative is quite effective. My favorite stanza is this one:
ReplyDeleteI sat in silence
as a lone potato rolled
along the floor tiles
like a sleepless cat
scraping along the dirty surface
& sweeping into my bedroom
There is something engaging and strange about these simple comparisons that boil matters down to essentials. I am a fan of this tone and approach--subtle but weird.
Not a lot of problems stand out to me here. The poem reads quite nicely, and I don't find myself distracted by lines that seem worn out or confusing. It's a fairly straightforward narrative, and the poem made sense the first time I read it.
I guess maybe there are a couple of places that feel like missed opportunities to flex your poetic muscle, so to speak, such as the ending of the stanza after the one above. I don't think "wicked dance" really gets the job done visually in that stanza in terms of what you are trying to portray.
But in general, this is an effective and modern narrative poem that reads like something I might see in a literary journal devoted to autobiographical free verse. Good stuff.