Final Revision-
My left leg is longer than the right,
orthopedic shoes keep me level.
I meet an old friend
at Fourth Street Cafe,
step with a burled maple cane.
Bill’s Viet Nam ball cap, brightly
embroidered,101st Airborne,
tilts on his head.
We sit near the coat rack.
Soiled dishes rattle the well
of a stainless steel pushcart.
A damp kitchen rag, used
to wipe tables
and red vinyl benches,
drapes on its handle.
A young Irish girl,
who call us her boys, pours water
and places out our flatware
on white paper mats.
Bill pushes his fork to the side,
covers my hand with thin fragile fingers.
I feel the cut stone on his Masonic ring,
the way it fits loose in the bezel.
He speaks a low gospel,
a voice with a settling gloom,
my wife wants to die.
The wall mounted fan
grinds back-and-forth spraying aromas,
bacon and eggs,
onions and peppers,
simmering coffee.
And what do I say
when lips are sewn closed
and frail touch exhumes jealous anger?
An old film chatters my mind,
I have never been bold with a women,
never been married?
Bill releases my hand.
My foot has gone numb
in my damn 4F boot.
Revision-
My left leg is longer than the right,
for balance I wear special shoes,
transfer my weight
to a burled maple cane,
walk with high steps
and lurch like a carrousel horse
on a circle of uneven boards.
To meet an old friend at the diner
I travel two blocks of thick rooted trees.
They uplift the sidewalks
like tectonic plates,
give cover to children
who laugh at my posture.
Bill’s Viet Nam ball cap, brightly embroidered
101st Airborne, tilts on his head.
He points to a booth.
The busboy wrestles his cart of soiled dishes,
his damp kitchen rag used to wipe tables,
drapes on its handle.
A tangle of hangers and light nylon jackets
jangle the coat rack behind us.
We are thankful to be in the shadows
and not in the sun
where red vinyl benches
are blistered and cracked
and stick to the small of your back.
Bill pushes his fork to the side
then covers my hand under his.
Bill’s fingers are fragile,
his Masonic ring
is turned under.
I feel the cut stone,
it’s loose fitting bezel.
Bill won’t look up,
speaks in a low gospel voice,
my wife wants to die.
I listen to the wall mounted fan. It grinds
back-and-forth with aroma,
bacon and eggs,
onions and peppers,
simmering coffee.
And what do I say
when my lips are sewn closed,
when touch relives life,
exhumes jealous anger?
My damn 4F boot turns on it’s side.
And why have I never been bold
with a woman, never been married like Bill?
Original-
My left leg, longer
than the right,
ushers me forward.
For balance,
a burled maple cane,
scrapped smooth
with my jackknife.
Tipped with black rubber
it drags just the same
as my orthopedic shoe.
A young mother
exits the diner,
her unruly children
are amused by my posture
and the way that I lurch.
Fatigued I pull back my chair
and sit with a friend.
A Viet Nam ball cap
fits loose on his head,
his forearms are bruises,
badges of honor that fade
on their edges
like wartime tattoos.
We order our coffee
and two cream-filled donuts.
Our waitress knows us by name
and calls us her boys.
The Direction I Walk in the Morning (final revision)
-
BobBradshaw
- Posts: 2692
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Lovely... you put us right there, in a specific place. The ending has a slightly ironic but tender touch. So glad you’re posting... welcome aboard
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Thanks Bob, just so you know I’m Dale Patterson from the Waters.
-
BobBradshaw
- Posts: 2692
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Ah, Dale... no wonder it is such a good poem
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
I---
(hello ole poetry friend...so glad to see you here.)
wonderful poem, skilled narrative with enough variation to hold my interest and not too much that i feel disoriented and lost.
i love the original image of one leg being shorter than the other---ah ball cap lettering, and especially:
For balance,
a burled maple cane,
scrapped smooth
with my jackknife.
i think a slightly injured narrator works well ----give the narrator a frailty----alcohol, loneliness, divorce, etc...you see what i mean---and this injury, the physical injury, i love.
the opening image:
My left leg, longer
than the right,
ushers me forward.
i just seem to want more...dunno.
I worry I will fall in a pubic place,
good looking once,
I'm used to attention, but no longer.
For balance,
a burled maple cane,
scrapped smooth
with my jackknife.
Most mornings, I meet
my friend
for the breakfast special.
The waitress knows
us by first name,
calls us her boys.
Her children, smart
in denim jeans
quietly color,
they idly spoon cereal
and wait patiently
for the school bus.
He stiffly sips his coffee,
a ball cap labeled Viet Nam,
fits loose on his head,[/i]
Ranger, 82nd Airborne,
1975, I think.
his forearms are bruises,
badges of honor that fade
on their edges
like wartime tattoos.
A black, old fashioned
ceiling fan turns indifferently.
The red vinyl booths
are comfortable and soft
as my old Army cot.
one thought for the reader----the narrator was wounded in a conflict.
an alternative ending:
I take a Spanish class,
before my wife got sick
we planned that together.
i like this poem, the spine, the staging....the assignment for us now, can selected details extend the poem's impact?
and welcome.
bernie
not crazy about this description:
We order our coffee
and two cream-filled donuts.
me, i use this line higher up when first describing the cafe:
Our waitress knows us by name
and calls us her boys.
now, what quick detail about the cafe?
A black, old fashioned ceiling fan
turns indifferently.
The red vinyl booths are comfortable
and soft as my old Army cot.
Her children, smart in denim jeans
quietly color, they idly spoon cereal
and wait patiently for the school bus.
let me focus on the ending lines, not enough pop for me---know what i mean?
(hello ole poetry friend...so glad to see you here.)
wonderful poem, skilled narrative with enough variation to hold my interest and not too much that i feel disoriented and lost.
i love the original image of one leg being shorter than the other---ah ball cap lettering, and especially:
For balance,
a burled maple cane,
scrapped smooth
with my jackknife.
i think a slightly injured narrator works well ----give the narrator a frailty----alcohol, loneliness, divorce, etc...you see what i mean---and this injury, the physical injury, i love.
the opening image:
My left leg, longer
than the right,
ushers me forward.
i just seem to want more...dunno.
I worry I will fall in a pubic place,
good looking once,
I'm used to attention, but no longer.
For balance,
a burled maple cane,
scrapped smooth
with my jackknife.
Most mornings, I meet
my friend
for the breakfast special.
The waitress knows
us by first name,
calls us her boys.
Her children, smart
in denim jeans
quietly color,
they idly spoon cereal
and wait patiently
for the school bus.
He stiffly sips his coffee,
a ball cap labeled Viet Nam,
fits loose on his head,[/i]
Ranger, 82nd Airborne,
1975, I think.
his forearms are bruises,
badges of honor that fade
on their edges
like wartime tattoos.
A black, old fashioned
ceiling fan turns indifferently.
The red vinyl booths
are comfortable and soft
as my old Army cot.
one thought for the reader----the narrator was wounded in a conflict.
an alternative ending:
I take a Spanish class,
before my wife got sick
we planned that together.
i like this poem, the spine, the staging....the assignment for us now, can selected details extend the poem's impact?
and welcome.
bernie
not crazy about this description:
We order our coffee
and two cream-filled donuts.
me, i use this line higher up when first describing the cafe:
Our waitress knows us by name
and calls us her boys.
now, what quick detail about the cafe?
A black, old fashioned ceiling fan
turns indifferently.
The red vinyl booths are comfortable
and soft as my old Army cot.
Her children, smart in denim jeans
quietly color, they idly spoon cereal
and wait patiently for the school bus.
let me focus on the ending lines, not enough pop for me---know what i mean?
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
or should i say, Dale....
here is an IBPC winner closing from Sara Sloat:
On Waking I Think of Winter
by Sarah Sloat
September 2009
Judged by George Szirtes
mostly because my legs jut like a long
pier out over waves
in the dark’s oceanic pitch
I think of winter when my husband snores across
the expanse of bed....
...because I have no idea
how to go on
and I think of winter as I always do at dawn
and always did, before I guessed
what winter was
and then, another favorite:
Altoona
by Dale Patterson
conjunction
First Place, March 2013
Judged by Deborah Bogen
From boiler maelstrom, rivets
and bucking bar, he walks
onto Fourth Avenue. Cinders
crackle each step, ten paces
per-puff on a Chesterfield.
His home is an hour away,
down through the valley,
past shop-after-shop, butted
brown boxes, corrugated:
their seams drawn in
fiery red-orange, exhale
a noxious gray smoke,
pushing gondolas, tankers,
muscled locomotives, all to be
stripped-to-their-skeletons
and rebuilt again.
Apart from the rail yard,
a copper wheel spins, buffs
yellow highlight on Brush Mountain’s
ridge, marks tallies in frost
on tarpaper houses.
His pockets share warmth
with his clenching white-knuckles.
The day-shift is fresh-
out-of-bed, mugs
down its beans,
then hammers the sidewalk.
He nods as they pass, takes
one last precious hit from a spent
cigarette, then strides
to his door.
His wife sparks a match
on a kerosene burner, sizzles a pan
of tough meat and bone.
What Hopper brings to canvas this poet brings to the page, a moment both precise and stylized that calmly confronts a human paradox: that even our solitary natures connect us. The language is as dense and durable as the self-contained subject who seems to be another “muscled locomotive…” as he saunters past “shop-after-shop, butted brown boxes” on his way home to the “tough meat and bone” that sizzles in a pan. --Deborah Bogen
here is an IBPC winner closing from Sara Sloat:
On Waking I Think of Winter
by Sarah Sloat
September 2009
Judged by George Szirtes
mostly because my legs jut like a long
pier out over waves
in the dark’s oceanic pitch
I think of winter when my husband snores across
the expanse of bed....
...because I have no idea
how to go on
and I think of winter as I always do at dawn
and always did, before I guessed
what winter was
and then, another favorite:
Altoona
by Dale Patterson
conjunction
First Place, March 2013
Judged by Deborah Bogen
From boiler maelstrom, rivets
and bucking bar, he walks
onto Fourth Avenue. Cinders
crackle each step, ten paces
per-puff on a Chesterfield.
His home is an hour away,
down through the valley,
past shop-after-shop, butted
brown boxes, corrugated:
their seams drawn in
fiery red-orange, exhale
a noxious gray smoke,
pushing gondolas, tankers,
muscled locomotives, all to be
stripped-to-their-skeletons
and rebuilt again.
Apart from the rail yard,
a copper wheel spins, buffs
yellow highlight on Brush Mountain’s
ridge, marks tallies in frost
on tarpaper houses.
His pockets share warmth
with his clenching white-knuckles.
The day-shift is fresh-
out-of-bed, mugs
down its beans,
then hammers the sidewalk.
He nods as they pass, takes
one last precious hit from a spent
cigarette, then strides
to his door.
His wife sparks a match
on a kerosene burner, sizzles a pan
of tough meat and bone.
What Hopper brings to canvas this poet brings to the page, a moment both precise and stylized that calmly confronts a human paradox: that even our solitary natures connect us. The language is as dense and durable as the self-contained subject who seems to be another “muscled locomotive…” as he saunters past “shop-after-shop, butted brown boxes” on his way home to the “tough meat and bone” that sizzles in a pan. --Deborah Bogen
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Hey Bernie, you have me thinking again, it feels good. Not being active in forums these past few years has cause me to become lazy and not push my writing. Anyway, time to experiment and see where this goes. Great to read my old poem Altoona, it’s been sometime since I wrote it.
-
Kenneth2816
- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
This is how brevity works.
Powerful poem that each reader can take his or her own from.
Excellent
Powerful poem that each reader can take his or her own from.
Excellent
-
FranktheFrank
- Posts: 1988
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Welcome Dale
Enjoyed, all that the other poets said,
To me it read USA, USA, USA.
Very good.
Enjoyed, all that the other poets said,
To me it read USA, USA, USA.
Very good.
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Thanks Kenneth, nice to meet you.
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning
Thanks frank, you got it, midwestern USA.
-
Michael (MV)
- Posts: 2154
- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning (revision)
Hi IndianaDP & Welcome
I like the original -
I find the revision over-written - and it is missing that strong stanza:
"A Viet Nam ball cap
fits loose on his head,
his forearms are bruises,
badges of honor that fade
on their edges
like wartime tattoos."
and that finale:
"We order our coffee
and two cream-filled donuts.
Our waitress knows us by name
yet calls us her boys."
^^ "yet" is my workshop suggestion
Perhaps, if the poem is indeed needing more, then incorporate select details from the revision into the original.
Michael (MV)
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning (revision)
Thanks Michael, you are most likely correct that the final poem will be a melding of the two versions. My original idea was a simple relationship of two friends. In the second I wanted to go deeper, and reveal a jealousy brought on by the narrators handicap. We will see how it goes from here.
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning (revision)
Dale---
oh, wonderful.
the details, the aromas, the visuals prepare the reader skillfully for the added layer of deeply felt emotion.
the basis for not just good poetry, but art.
my nomination for IBPC.
our current IBPC judge loves a poem with a clear sense of place, boy, this poem has the cafe in 3D.
congrats. my standing applause.
bernie
oh, wonderful.
the details, the aromas, the visuals prepare the reader skillfully for the added layer of deeply felt emotion.
the basis for not just good poetry, but art.
my nomination for IBPC.
our current IBPC judge loves a poem with a clear sense of place, boy, this poem has the cafe in 3D.
congrats. my standing applause.
bernie
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning (revision)
Dale---
i rewrite constantly and without protest...
is the poem overwritten? for me, no, but this is a workshop---soooo, what would i cut?
My left leg is longer than the right,
for balance I wear special shoes,
transfer my weight
to a burled maple cane,
walk with high steps
and lurch like a carrousel horse. .....period. cut:
on a circle of uneven boards.
To meet an old friend at the diner
I meet a friend for breakfast....simple declarative, fast clean and informative..
the next five lines distract my emotional vision, slow my reading and introduce characters that will go no further in the poem:
I travel two blocks of thick rooted trees.
They uplift the sidewalks
like tectonic plates,
give cover to children
who laugh at my posture.
Bill’s Viet Nam ball cap, brightly embroidered ...............labeled? simpler than "embroidered."
101st Airborne, tilts on his head.
He points to a booth...............................................easily cut this stage direction....
The busboy wrestles ....soiled dishes,
his damp kitchen rag used to wipe tables,
drapes on its handle. ............................i love the additional detail, but many readers may not.
A tangle of hangers and light nylon jackets
jangle the coat rack behind us.
We are thankful to be in the shadows
and not in the sun
where red vinyl benches
are blistered and cracked
and stick to the small of your back. ...here again, 8 lines of staging...flavor and atmosphere, for me, simply overwriting for others...the lines easily cut.
Bill pushes his fork to the side
then covers my hand under his. cut "then"...but i love this detail about the Masonic ring...
Bill’s fingers are fragile, ......me, since cutting is a goal in this exercise, i cut this line---too feminine...
his Masonic ring
is turned under.
I feel the cut stone,
it’s loose fitting bezel.
Bill won’t look up, ......................easily cut, non essential stage direction.....
(He) speaks in a low gospel voice,
my wife wants to die.
I listen to the wall mounted fan. It grinds
back-and-forth with aroma,
bacon and eggs,
onions and peppers,
simmering coffee.
And what do I say
when my lips are sewn closed,
when touch relives life,
exhumes jealous anger?
My damn 4F boot turns on it’s side.
And why have I never been bold
with a woman, never been married like Bill?
well developed foundation for this unexpected confessional...this denouement.
Showdown in Diablo.
Gunfight at high noon.
Ballad of the sad Cafe.....
oh, if i could only find an IBPC winner some years ago by a poet who walks around a southern cafe..
great poem no matter what...
bernie
i rewrite constantly and without protest...
is the poem overwritten? for me, no, but this is a workshop---soooo, what would i cut?
My left leg is longer than the right,
for balance I wear special shoes,
transfer my weight
to a burled maple cane,
walk with high steps
and lurch like a carrousel horse. .....period. cut:
on a circle of uneven boards.
To meet an old friend at the diner
I meet a friend for breakfast....simple declarative, fast clean and informative..
the next five lines distract my emotional vision, slow my reading and introduce characters that will go no further in the poem:
I travel two blocks of thick rooted trees.
They uplift the sidewalks
like tectonic plates,
give cover to children
who laugh at my posture.
Bill’s Viet Nam ball cap, brightly embroidered ...............labeled? simpler than "embroidered."
101st Airborne, tilts on his head.
He points to a booth...............................................easily cut this stage direction....
The busboy wrestles ....soiled dishes,
his damp kitchen rag used to wipe tables,
drapes on its handle. ............................i love the additional detail, but many readers may not.
A tangle of hangers and light nylon jackets
jangle the coat rack behind us.
We are thankful to be in the shadows
and not in the sun
where red vinyl benches
are blistered and cracked
and stick to the small of your back. ...here again, 8 lines of staging...flavor and atmosphere, for me, simply overwriting for others...the lines easily cut.
Bill pushes his fork to the side
then covers my hand under his. cut "then"...but i love this detail about the Masonic ring...
Bill’s fingers are fragile, ......me, since cutting is a goal in this exercise, i cut this line---too feminine...
his Masonic ring
is turned under.
I feel the cut stone,
it’s loose fitting bezel.
Bill won’t look up, ......................easily cut, non essential stage direction.....
(He) speaks in a low gospel voice,
my wife wants to die.
I listen to the wall mounted fan. It grinds
back-and-forth with aroma,
bacon and eggs,
onions and peppers,
simmering coffee.
And what do I say
when my lips are sewn closed,
when touch relives life,
exhumes jealous anger?
My damn 4F boot turns on it’s side.
And why have I never been bold
with a woman, never been married like Bill?
well developed foundation for this unexpected confessional...this denouement.
Showdown in Diablo.
Gunfight at high noon.
Ballad of the sad Cafe.....
oh, if i could only find an IBPC winner some years ago by a poet who walks around a southern cafe..
great poem no matter what...
bernie
Re: The Direction I Walk in the Morning (revision)
Bernie, so happy you like the revision and honored with your nomination. I began making cuts yesterday and with the aid of your suggestions will surely get it all pulled together. I’m not sure of procedures, but I’m sure there are many nomination, should mine be selected I will be happy to represent writers block.
I also love that Masonic ring.
I also love that Masonic ring.