After years of absence and silence
my cousin came to stay the night.
We, good friends so long,
tossed our memories back and forth,
a game of catch with a ball of days.
We remembered that afternoon
when our fathers discovered a treasure of honey
hidden in the hollow of a dead tree,
remembered how they smoked the stings away
and filled the new washtubs so full
we could hardly lift the golden weight,
how we stopped at the bridge to rest,
lay flat on our stomachs
and watched the crayfish in fragile armor
like knights on some noble quest.
“It’s all paved over now,” he says,
“the branch is only a muddy ditch;
the crayfish have gone away.”
We talked of playing soldiers,
how with the sun for general
we had followed his light,
killed a thousand bloodless enemies
and left them for the moon to haul away.
We told our real war stories then,
mine of boredom, his of blood.
“We surprised each other,” he says.
“The little man pointed his gun;
I fired from the waist dead-center.
He just stood there;
he stands there forever;
sunlight like a scream
streams through the wound’s ragged window.”
A long silence between friends,
his eyes stare into a place I’ve never been;
he says again,
“The branch is only a muddy ditch;
the crayfish have gone away.”
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Reviews of "My Cousin"
Reviewed by Andre Bendavi Benyehu (Reader)
Reviewed on January 14, 2009
Outstanding composition... A full tray of poetic ambrosias.
David, there's little I can add to Charlie's excellent review.
Your lines, the pacing -- the calm in the face of horror. You are one fine writer. And I too am swept up in the quiet impact of that last
stanza. -gene.
David, this is breath-taking in its impact as well as its beauty. The sheer simplicity of the way you state things makes this all the more shocking. That, and ending with such a bland statement at the end-- it makes the build exactly where it should be, and seemingly brings it back down, only these words:
"He just stood there;
he stands there forever;
sunlight like a scream
streams through the wound’s ragged window.”
...these words remain, stained on the insides of our brains-- amazing how you took awful war and made it so horribly beautiful. --Charlie
When I opened this page, I wasn't expecting this. I don't know why, but this is not the first time I have this kind of feeling when I read your poetry. I think that it's because of the radiant beauty and soft flow of your lines. Your descriptions are always so strikingly beautiful. When the human tragedy appears and becomes more and more evident, I'm always surprised to see it/ feel it in such a contest of poetic harmony.
This is probably something that tells me you have a unique voice.
David,
as always there is richness in your telling, evocation in each phrase and the images you choose here have a high degree of fineness. Powerful, sensitive writing ... poetry.
John
"...his eyes stare into a place I've never been..." and I hope you never do, because those memories of the little stream with crayfish will give you memories of childhood that you should treasure, the muddy dich you should forget about, it will bogge down your memory.
A people’s heart can be found in their poetic words. In history men and women have stood firmly upon their soapboxes and street corners, rallying the deepest beliefs of people to rise up and be heard. The poetrypages.com has offered that voice a new
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Outstanding composition... A full tray of poetic ambrosias.
I salute You, Poet.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Your lines, the pacing -- the calm in the face of horror. You are one fine writer. And I too am swept up in the quiet impact of that last
stanza. -gene.
David, this is breath-taking in its impact as well as its beauty. The sheer simplicity of the way you state things makes this all the more shocking. That, and ending with such a bland statement at the end-- it makes the build exactly where it should be, and seemingly brings it back down, only these words:
"He just stood there;
he stands there forever;
sunlight like a scream
streams through the wound’s ragged window.”
...these words remain, stained on the insides of our brains-- amazing how you took awful war and made it so horribly beautiful. --Charlie
This is probably something that tells me you have a unique voice.
Axilea
Cryssa
as always there is richness in your telling, evocation in each phrase and the images you choose here have a high degree of fineness. Powerful, sensitive writing ... poetry.
John
Georg
Peace,
Dan