Poetry: Starlings (and Some Background)
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| Jennifer in in 1957 With her toy accordion _______________ |
“Starlings have diverse and complex
vocalizations, and have been known to embed sounds from their surroundings into
their own calls, including car alarms, and human speech patterns.”
_________________________
I have a very complicated
relationship with my mother – at least with her memory; she died in 1979, at age
48, as a result of alcohol poisoning.
Her liver just crapped
out.
Mother had issues
with alcohol, which kind of branched out into other kinds of behavior, such as
working as a stripper and posing for cheesecake magazine and book covers –
another story.
I actually spent
very little time living with her; she was just too dysfunctional to raise
children, so my grandparents filed court papers to take me from California to
Iowa. If you are so inclined, you can read my story here.
But what I do
remember of that time: being left to my own devices at a tender age (six and
seven). I pretty much had run of the neighborhood, and this freedom was granted
(by default) to me while we lived in Los Angeles; as a consequence, I became
street savvy at a young age.
True story: when
I was six (circa 1957), a 12-year-old boy was consistently bullying me: he pushed me around and threatened to take my
pants off and doing what, I didn’t know (I can only guess now).
After weeks of
this scary treatment, I had had it with this asshat, so one day, I went home and
armed myself with the largest and meanest-looking butcher knife I could find,
complete with serrated edges.
Sure enough, this
junior bully was lying in wait for me.
I pointed that
knife right at his stomach, and said, “If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going
to stab you in the gut with this knife and twist it.” (I even mimed twisting
it.)
I was serious,
too; one move toward me, I would have followed through. My filter was too
immature to realize the seriousness of stabbing someone and possibly killing
him, and I really had little moral modeling. It’s a good thing he turned tail
and ran away. Had he rushed toward me, my story might have been very different –
funny how life often turns on a dime – my sorry posterior probably ending up in foster care or juvie.
That kid never
bothered me again, though.
During this time
in my life, I was also run over by a truck, along with my 17-month-old sister.
We were sitting in an alley, rolling stones, when a large orange truck rolled
over us (I am happy to report that neither of us were seriously hurt).
I wrote “Starlings,”
a poem about that experience, and would like to share it here.
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| Starling Photo by Russavia Wikipedia _______________ |
The
day I was run over by the truck
Mother
was in bed
lying
in a
haze of
purple
plums
The
starlings played in pine needles
scolding
me
for
running the street
like
a wildcat
pursuing
sustenance
I hated
them
when
they played so free
while
Mother sank
into
a tangle of
ties
– and me
The truck
rolled over me
and
rested
at
the crest of my
chest.
The
starlings played
Mother
stayed
Embedded
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I believe that
there more polished versions are floating around, but this is the version that
won first place in a regional poetry contest: Keysner Poets Dale Guhl Memorial
Awards (May 24, 1987 – yes, a long time ago).
I love that Mary
Riley, the judge, loved the poem, despite its obvious faults. Her judge’s notes
were presented in poetic lines:
I think this poem is remarkably successful.
The reason it works is like “Mother”
embedded
in it so far, I can’t quite lay my critical
eye or
hand on it, which is the way it’s supposed
to be.
I may have a little problem with “rested at
the
crest of my chest.” In fact, that really
sticks out
of the poem for me as a real sudden fall off
the
excellence wagon. The rest of the poem is
near
perfect. I’d separate wild and cat, if it
were my
poem just to keep the mood of a child playing
in the
street where an alley cat comes to mind, not
a wildcat,
a wild cat. But it’s not my poem and
I don’t know why it works, it just does, and
that’s the way
I want it. I love “Mother sank into a
tangle of ties – and me.”
Maybe I don’t need the tiny
abstract moment of “pursuing sustenance”
or even just “sustenance.” I think I’d like
to see what’s
being pursued here in this vivid picture.
Though a problem for me, it may be all
right.
A very nice poem.
Mary Riley is absolutely correct about the flaws but doesn’t seem to hold them against my little poem.
I don’t remember
if I ever thanked Ms. Riley for her insightful comments, so I’ll do it now:
Thank you, Mary Riley! You are one of the
best literary judges around!
_________________________
“Starlings,” © copyright 1987 –
present by Jennifer Semple Siegel, may not be reprinted or reposted without express permission of the poet.
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