The Story of Fathers

In this poem I tried to mimic the story-telling aspect of the poetry of Rebecca Grey (who writes very good poetry, by the way). I don't want to explain the poem away before you read it, but one day my mom told me that my dad's dad used to beat him with his belt. Not like bloody, manslaughter beatings, but 'leaving marks' beatings nonetheless. I was kind of shocked, and humbled, because my father has never beat me or left a mark on my body. This i saw as a miracle, for usually a child will mimic the actions of his or her parents. My father broke this cyclical wave. I am very thankful. I say all of this because I am not sure if it has come out enough in the poem; the re-mention of the "the story" in this poem is what I am referring to. I tried an editing method by Hemingway, where one cuts as much as possible down to the raw of the poem. He called it the "iceberg effect." If you have feedback feel free to criticize…



The Story of Fathers




my dad was upset
stomping through his house
angry at the Legos in his way


his eyes were hanging like sleeping bats



my mother told me the story
one day around the kitchen island
grandma told her the story
about how my father's father
left marks



I screamed
I hate you
in the garage
the whole neighborhood
could hear

my voice tearing


they could hear
the generations of fathers
struggling
to tell the story
of their fathers
who beat them
who left marks
mountains





W. K. Medlen

RE: Portfolio

When You Smoke Cigarettes (ii)





Ashy fingers crumble from my arm
over your body. We don't touch or combine.

An inhale exhale existence. The smoke is the cigarettes thoughts,
and my mind, smoke, dissipates as you walk through it.

You stir the dusty bones collecting on the panes of my soul.

my body, arthritic and old, begins fading into smoke ring
bruises, circular, burned sores. And she is an ember, a single,
          bloodshot eye,

a lifelong memory I can't exhale.













W. K. Medlen

portfolio, revisited

So I am currently applying for a bunch of different MFA programs across (generally) the south and northeast. It is ridiculous. The price for everything is insane… I haven't had money since I was about 16…You think they would understand that eh? anyway, I'm going through and editing my portfolio and here is an earlier poem that I wrote back in the day. It s a little dramatic, but I still like it.



When You Smoke Cigarettes




You inhale mouths, remembering other ashy figures lurking
in your mind, then, vomiting violent exhalations and smoke ring halos.

Don't talk to me with your eyes, un-cage your emotional abyss with raccoon
tailed eyebrows, watch me try and scale the crags of your forehead,

or, with your mouth, clutch my sand torso and unraveling heart
struggling to beat on its own in rivers of running mascara.

Like Michelangelo's God, your lonesome finger waded to me, combed
my soul. It was as big as a moose and scary as an antler. Now that definitions

have changed like a flight plan, what awaits me is a trail of clothes,
slithering through your house, drunken passed out linens.

I dread leaving through the hallway, blood red of dying light, grasped by hands,
seeping with fingered shadows where you hang your lovers.



(I can't quite get the formatting right without making the text teeny tiny. Each stanza is only supposed to be 2 lines)

For My Grandfather

So, I don't know why, but I have been itching to publish this post. Its been in the back of my mind for about a week now. Maybe its the holidays, maybe its the recent death of an aquaintance, I don't know. I wrote this when my grandfather died a little over 5 years ago. He was awesome. He died on a motorcycle, which, if you gotta go, is probably one of the best ways. He was funny, interesting, told great stories, and probably one of the smartest people that i knew. He reminds me of C. S. Lewis. I did not cry at his funeral. I don't know why I didn't, I guess I just knew that it was going to be O.K.
this is a finished poem.


For My Grandfather



    I remember when
dad called and told me he died. Everything
        melted out of


My hands, became an instant
    Puddle of memories rippling
And reflecting of him. I tried to
   Gather the mass with my hands,
But it leaked through

My fingers as liquid tends to do.

He wrote his life

down

    For his family that he
never met, or, only hugged once
        for a brief moment.


    It was spiral bound.
bound like the motorcycle that

took his life.

    I didn't cry over
his body, dry and sinking into the casket,
        despite my love

For him.

At Arlington
He received a 21 gun salute
And we were proud. Some of these


Memories solidify, become many
Sided, and can be turned and
Examined in the hands
    
                 Like a Rubik's Cube.

W. K. Medlen

I miss you.
            
             Inexorably,

I miss you,

like Adam and Eve missed God,
like they missed the bliss
      of not knowing shame.
I miss you
like an old body
      misses youth.



I want to pull out the reel
of time faster,

suddenly find myself
next to you again.

mountain road ride, sundown

I went on a bike ride at about sundown today with some friends. One of them pointed out the setting sun, which was a radiant pink that faded into peach and then into the ever-slowly darkening sky. I have paid attention to at least 20 sunsets in my life, and yet, it is breathtaking every time. Why? C. S. Lewis would argue, I think, that the longing one feels is actually part of a deeper longing for something else, that is, heaven. This is why even though a sunset happens every day, it still feels like a holiday, or an anniversary, or a surprise. If an everyday sunset can affect us like it does, and is only a taste… well then…





The sun, with rosy cheeks,
said goodnight,
and peeked one last time
over the horizon.

His countenance was soft,
yet fiery, and I could feel
his affectionate heat
disintegrating.

But I was not sad.

It made me long
for his sudden warmth that appears
in the morning, or unexpectedly,
like leaving shadows,

like weaving him into a window,
for behind the curtain, he is blind
to your interiors.

Sometimes you lose sight of how important a close loved one is until someone points it out.