Hi Deborah,
There's been a lot said about this piece that there's probably no need to
repeat... So I'm only "looking" at the poem as something I see (more than
looking at the words).
Cos I sort of feel it changes how it's using its line lengths and sort of
turns into a performance piece (I can hear each line, the impact of
each-phrase-on-each-line as a powerful bit of speech!).
It starts as a very high-toned piece - phrases like "a favoured boy" and "a
gleaming joy" - but when it changes, and the stories take over, it might be
that the page/the screen can't cope too well. The lines get really short and
how they make units of sense changes.
I love the sounds of the words in the second half - and the last phrases
about Billy Joel are powerful, too - but is there a way of keeping (some of)
the patterns the words are making - changing the way we discover them on the
screen/page... Make us work a bit harder? Perhaps I'm saying that at the
moment it appears more like a performance script than a poem.
I don't think the dark shadows the poem seems to point to would be hidden by
hiding their impact on the eye, I feel they'd still emerge.
Bob
>From: Deborah Russell <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Small Towns Grow Into Strangers
>Date: Fri, 18 Apr 2003 01:13:13 -0400
>
>Small Towns Grow Into Strangers
>
>a dark haired boy who fell to earth
>on earthy mounds between now and then
>in foreign land, a small town destination
>just like every sister's brother
>every mother's favored boy
>a beautiful child, a gleaming joy
>how thrilled they are to watch him run
>until he stumbles
>
>small towns grow into strangers,
>young boys begin to slow
>when they reach a certain age
>
>a dark haired boy,
>is no different than any others
>they stop, they go, they run and slow
>they get coached in little league
>led by scout masters
>
>on sundays a preacher recites
>the oly roly fible bibble
>dribbles and fiddles
>with boys who make change
>in the collection plate
>
>even freckled, cheshire grins
>could never hide the seek
>in dirty sleepy streets
>where church bells ring,
>resound pristine, sing
>that old time religion
>
>and how it pounds a dull retreat
>in tone on tone and moves
>dark haired boys to slow defeat
>
>
>small town lawyers pay pretty boys
>to clean up after dark
>official closets sometimes
>fill with tattered clothes
>scents of dying flesh
>and old money
>
>sometimes
>beauty takes a vow of silence -
>in resurrected darkness
>where beauty rises
>from it's prayers,
>brushes off it's knees
>then turns and leaves
>through the back door
>
>sometimes
>old moon winds howl
>when beauty leaves too soon
>and memory never seems to die
>or change direction
>dreams are traced
>across a young boy's face
>in permanent ink
>or rippled fingerprints
>where fingers press
>into the skin
>of wet-white enamel
>and harden overnight
>
>even in time's distance
>car radios play so loud that
>even Billy Joel can't convince us
>of an innocent man
>
>
>deborah russell
>
>
>
>
>
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