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Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 4 -- new ending)

A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace
producing prodigious amounts of heat,
making it impossible to sleep.
Switching the covers in and out, it took me
an hour to get comfy. As I settled
into the warmth, all I could think of
was the homeless woman I walked past
forty years ago at midnight in New York,
sleeping in a window of St. Peter's Church
under the Citicorp Center in twenty-
degree cold, wearing a jacket, yes,
but also a dress, her swollen legs
making friends with the fierce air
as it whipped around the glass giants.

I was coming from a show. Happy, warm
entertainers danced and sung, celebrating
the wonder of being alive, of being young,
of having a bed. It seemed that this lost soul
was staging her own show. The window of
the modern church was waist high, with a ledge
for her to climb onto, a place where every
passerby would have to catch the sight.
The lesson of that evening seemed clear:
This is how high humanity can rise, and this
is how low. What it means, I don’t know,
but it keeps me lying awake at night.

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 3 -- a little more concise)

A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace
producing prodigious amounts of heat.
The covers were hot, the covers were cold;
switching them in and out, it took me
an hour to be satisfied. As I settled
into the warmth, all I could think of
was the homeless woman I walked past
forty years ago at midnight in New York,
sleeping in the window of St. Peter's Church
under the Citicorp Center in twenty-
degree cold, wearing a jacket, yes,
but also a dress, her bare legs making
friends with the fierce air as it whipped
around the impossible glass giants.

Today I wonder why it is so hard
for me to sleep under covers that aren’t
just so, not too cool and not too warm,
like Goldilocks tasting the bears’ porridge,
or the princess sleeping on the pea,
never having known the indignity
of homelessness, never having missed
a meal, or lost my life to poverty,
or slept outside with bare face, bare hands
and legs exposed for everyone to see.

==================

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 2)

Last night was a delivery from Hell.
A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace producing
prodigious amounts of heat. The weather
had warmed, and the coverlets were hot,
so I slept on top of them, and froze,
then slipped under them, and broiled, until
finally I removed one to find a balance,
and so I did — but then my body cooled,
and the room cooled, so I restored it.

But as I settled into the soothing warmth,
I could only think of the homeless woman
I walked past forty years ago at midnight
in New York City, on my way to the subway
from a second-shift job. She slept
in the window of the modern church beneath
the Citicorp Center in twenty-degree cold,
wearing a jacket, yes, but also a dress,
her bare legs making friends with the fierce air
as it whipped around the glass giants.

Today I wonder why it is so hard
for me to sleep under covers that aren’t
just so, not too warm and not too cold,
like Goldilocks tasting the bears’ porridge
or the princess sleeping on the pea,
never having known the indignity
of homelessness, never having missed a meal,
never having lost my life to poverty,
or slept outside with bare face, bare hands,
and bare legs for everyone to see.

==================

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius

Last night was a special delivery from Hell.
A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace producing

prodigious amounts of heat. The weather
had warmed, and the coverlets were hot,
so I slept on top of them, and froze,

then slipped under them, and broiled,
’til finally I removed one to find a balance,
and so I did — but then my body cooled,

and the room cooled, and I had to put it
back on the bed; but as I settled into the perfect
warmth, all I could think of was the homeless

woman I walked past forty years ago at midnight
in New York City, on the way to the subway
from a second-shift job. She slept

in the window of the modern church beneath
the Citicorp Center in twenty-degree cold,
wearing a jacket, yes, but also a dress, her bare legs

making friends with the fierce wind whipping
around the glass giants. Today I wonder
why it is so hard for me to sleep under covers

that aren’t just so, not too warm and not too cold,
like Goldilocks tasting the bears’ porridge,
or the princess sleeping on the pea, never

having known the indignity of homelessness,
never having missed a meal, never having slept
outside with a bare face and bare hands

and bare legs for everyone to see.

☙

I like how you convey restlessness in this. And, yes, the bare legs is an especially nice detail. I like the last stanza best. Nice poem.

Thank you, Bob. I appreciate it! I think parts are still a bit too prosaic, but I'm still working on it.

S2 and S3 work well. Maybe S1 is as you say too prosaic. The quicker you get to S2, the better. Just my take. Run it by some others.

It is prosaic, very.

Sorry that I've been away for a while (not that I'm everyone's favorite new member, but I like to pretend that I'm wanted).

I was going to tell you, Bob, that it is okay to criticize my poems -- I don't bite all the time.

The other forum shares your view, that the beginning is the weakest part, but they also want all that self-scolding at the end removed. Not everyone there is a minimalist, but the moderator is, and he's the most active member. So I've been working on it.

I agree, Frank, that the poem is too prosaic. I think there is a short-story writer in me struggling to get out. But you know, a lot of modern poetry is very prosaic. I've read huge amounts of poetry over the years that has no rhythm or lyricism at all -- not to mention that the "prose poem" (which has no line breaks) is now a popular format.

Sorry to be so loquacious. I've just posted a new version.

I have completely changed the ending.

Interesting perspective. Different. Didn’t expect this change in direction. I may not agree with such a perception(it seems pretty heartless), but I think it works for the poem.

Thank you for commenting.

Do you mean the perception that the woman is putting on her own show in an exhibitionistic way (given that her legs are bare)? I didn't even think about that. As the speaker in the poem, I certainly don't think the woman was intentionally putting herself on display, but to a passerby it may look like a display. As the speaker in the poem, I was simply drawing an analogy between the show on the stage and the homeless woman -- it was meant to be a sympathetic comparison.

If you think the original ending is strong, I may go back to that.

Thanks again for weighing in.

So why aren't you posting anything these days?

I think the first close is better. Sometimes it’s best to put a poem aside for awhile and come back with fresher eyes. Work on something else in the meantime.

Speaking from experience…

I’m tied up in an April National Poetry month’s 30/30…30 drafts of new poems in 30 days. After April I will post again. I’ll have some drafts to work on.

“Sorry that I've been away for a while (not that I'm everyone's favorite new member, but I like to pretend that I'm wanted).”

This is the attitude you came him with, a self-fulfilling prophecy. You create your own problem and then fulfill. You might want to look at yourself. I’ve recently, at age 74, discovered an issue that’s plagued my life.
Top

“Sorry that I've been away for a while (not that I'm everyone's favorite new member, but I like to pretend that I'm wanted).”

This is the attitude you came him with, a self-fulfilling prophecy. You create your own problem and then fulfill. You might want to look at yourself. I’ve recently, at age 74, discovered an issue that’s plagued my life.

Billy wrote: ↑

27 Apr 2024, 17:20

“Sorry that I've been away for a while (not that I'm everyone's favorite new member, but I like to pretend that I'm wanted).”

This is the attitude you came him with, a self-fulfilling prophecy. You create your own problem and then fulfill. You might want to look at yourself. I’ve recently, at age 74, discovered an issue that’s plagued my life.

I love your scoldings, Billy. Seriously.