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much tighter, rhythmically it's miles better. and of course, things like word choice & stanza breaks affect rhythm; so a great edit through & through. KS On 22/11/06, Heather Taylor <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > I wanted to thank everyone for the discussion and advice surrounding my poem > on alcoholism. I have redrafted and read it on Monday at the Troubadour in > London. It seemed to go down well so I thought I'd share its reincarnation. > > > The Drink > > 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; > a past we're never supposed to talk about. Our breed > don't talk about things. There's no alcoholics amongst us. > We're 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 blackout turns to morning with your truck on the lawn > > and your keys in your hand, and every pub in a 5 mile radius > knows your poison & your new best mates are wearing grooves in bar stools - > > Is that proof enough? > > My Grandpa was a mean drunk. He drank to cope. > My friends to cope, my uncles 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. >