stirring Heather. not exceptional in presentation, really, but proselike in
a very home-hitting way. the repetition at the end works nicely, if not
seamlessly. not supposed to really. the poem isn't subtle about anything,
which makes it a bit prosaic (as differentiated from proselike), but as far
as that goes this is a swell piece of writing.
I loved the line "Before me, my grandpa was best at blame", it sounds like
it should start an EE Cummings poem.
speaking of eec, P's reply was pretty damn poetic:
"The we do't talk about rings so many bells (aunt/uncles who were never
mentioned because of 'disgrace'
Getting plants in for the winter geraniums olives and stuff"
KS
On 02/11/06, Heather Taylor <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> This is a longer one but I wanted to share, get some feedback, etc. Tried
> to send it last night but it didn't go through...
>
>
> It was absent in my house:
> red wine, white, baileys, whiskey, six packs.
> No one had beer at the end of a hot summer work week
> or snuck something in their coffee mid-afternoon.
>
> My grandpa was a mean drunk way before I met him,
> before he became the man who slipped me
> fivers for candy, played cards late into the night,
> sat me on his lap to show me how the world worked
>
> as he dieted on his new habits of coffee and cigarettes
> and KFC family bucket meals - the ones we expected
> every time he came round to visit, while my mom hovered,
> making peace by fetching and cleaning and keeping quiet.
>
> Before me, my grandpa was best at blame, the strong
> silent type that didn't talk about his army demotion,
> or why my Grandma couldn't speak "Goddamn German
> in front of his Goddamn children," or why he slipped
>
> vodka into his morning coffees and continued slipping
> until the day was done and at least one of his kids
> had a bloody nose and at least one of his kids was in a closet
> or under the bed so he wouldn't find them.
>
> So alcohol didn't exist in our family beyond that shadow
> of a past we're not never ever supposed to talk about.
> Our breed don't talk about things.
> Our breed knows how to keep things quiet.
>
> But still, I was taught what alcoholics looked like:
> red veins mapping their way across noses, the meek man
> shouting and fighting with strangers, the drinking of real
> vanilla essence or lysterine when the shops shut
>
> and you couldn't get a hit. These people were cartoon
> characters in bad America sitcoms, the ones that taught
> you an ABC after school lesson so you didn't fall
> down that path. It was no one I knew.
>
> The retired teacher who buys 2 litres of White Lighting each morning,
> my uncles that finish the 2-6s of JD at every party, funeral and wedding,
> the friend who almost broke my arm over concert tickets -
> They weren't alcoholics. Just another set of normal people.
>
> But when you're lying naked in a bed in a hotel room with strangers,
> and your doctor says you're killing yourself, and your friends
> marvel that you make it through the day after the night before,
> and your best mates are wearing grooves in bar stools - is that enough.
>
> My Grandpa was a mean drunk. He drank to cope.
> My friend to cope, my uncle to cope, me to cope.
> And forget. And forget. And forget. Until we all
> forgot and drank another. A sweet release down the throat.
>
> My Grandpa was a mean drunk. He drank to cope.
> But we don't talk about that anymore.
>
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