I asked the Unabomber
if he had ever been in love.
You know--before Montana--
before wandering the howling tundra
holding a frozen tulip
and a folded poem
for Victor Frankenstein.
I wanted to know
if anyone had ever inhabited
the slow-cooking smoker
of his heart.
Was there ever the very emblem
of desirability
in the formula of anyone's eyes?
In your Harvard classes
full of second-week quitters
and callow
nattering plebes
was there never any elevated romantic
to solve for your
innocent, milky
need?
Oh Teddy,
you were never meant
to be the broom-pushing custodian
of cowardly murder and printed echolalia.
If Victor appeared to you
in phantom form
or if Mary herself
cupped in cold hands your wobbling soul,
could you still be fixed
even now?
like a stamp
on an envelope to carry your remainder
out of shame
or into Hell?
_______
for Word Garden Word List--Ghost Eaters.
Music: The Fleetwoods Mister Blue
Where to begin? First I love the opening, the tulip and the folded letter to Victor Frankenstein, which sets the mood of bittersweet reflection. The "slow-cooking smoker/of his heart...", of his hatred and rage, is a perfect analogy, and the central question is passed through several lenses of such, with a flawless compassion that is as unexpected as it is poignant. His story is a frightening one, and here you soften it into the human--as even Frankenstein's monster was under the bolts and scars. (Also liked the postal references worked in--after all, he was the greatest misuser of the service since junk mail.) Surprising and stunning piece, Shay, which of course tells many more stories than one.
ReplyDeleteThis poem left me unable to find the words. Amazing, as always totally original and unmatchable, with amazing images. I, too, love the frozen tulip, and folded poem. I am basically wordless this week, but will contemplate your list and see if I can jog something loose.
ReplyDeleteOf all the questions to ask, one that would humanize the inhuman bomber is one that no one dares ask, except the searcher of mysteries, the poet. And that's all I got out of it except it's not of course because the poet's curiosity is now ours just as Mary Shelley's anxieties of what we lose in our pursuit of knowledge has become ours, and the face of the monster is not all there is to see.
ReplyDeleteYou took a seemingly unredeemable person, looked deeper into what might have made him thus .... your questions for him probing all the tender spots. A huge WHEW from me.
ReplyDeleteThis is such a potent conversation and I want to be in on it, I want to see it happening and how it will culminate. It's just loaded with sexual tension and beauty and unpredictable outcome. Love all the impossible questions and these gorgeous phrases:
ReplyDelete"before wandering the howling tundra
holding a frozen tulip
and a folded poem
for Victor Frankenstein."
"if anyone had ever inhabited
the slow-cooking smoker
of his heart."
"like a stamp
on an envelope to carry your remainder
out of shame
or into Hell?"
Your characters have always been through hell and because of that, I care for them immediately and wish for them to be absolved, redeemed or loved <3
Jesus God. Like others, where even to start, or just the sheer audacity, the inspiration to boldly go where no poet had gone before. The gentleness then, the phone-a-friend that any creature might need. And somehow he/we are all still the creation of others, no matter we fly to Montana or the pole. Every line quotable, but enjambment of could you still be fixed" and "fixed like a stamp" is darkly brilliant. Like this poem, another pipe bomb is off in the mail.
ReplyDeleteOf course we failed the boy. William Carlos Williams was right a century ago when he said men die miserably every day for lack of what we should have said better. My wife's nephew is headed for one of those lonely vengeful cabins at the edge of the world, if only my poem hadn't been so flip at his brother's funeral, but then I wouldn't have been allowed to say it. What do they say in the rooms? I'd rather step on your toes than stand on your grave. A desperate poem for desperate times, friend. Thanks for linking. (The tune is impeccable.)
ReplyDeleteBack for a second read--even better, like that second helping that finally makes you full. "..could you still be fixed even now?" You make us almost believe it is possible.
ReplyDelete