The Voice Inside
The Cheerleader, the Critic, the Sage, and the Fool
I call this screenshot blowup of a first-grade photo, “Fuzzy Memory.” Seemed like a good paring for this poem, a reconstructed memory from a million years ago and yesterday. Stories. Poems. Memory.
1960 Afternoon
In first grade, snack time came
After recess and our trip to
The pissy, boy’s lavatory
Where usually Jack the Janitor
Held the door open for the procession
And made sure we did our business
then got out, didn’t dilly-dally or
Pee on the floor, that we flushed
Toilets and urinals, made it to the sinks
And soap, put paper towels in the trash.
If Jack was busy somewhere else,
Nothing held Mrs. Warthen back
From stomping all the way inside
Barking in that high-pitched command,
Let’s go! Move it! before grabbing
An offender or delinquent by the ear
While the rest of us leaned into
The floor-length urinals to hide, zip up,
And hope not to dribble or find
Your ear in her twisting grasp and
Tiptoe hopping all the way back to class.
Finally, settled in the classroom,
The student assigned to bring the snack
For that day began passing out
Whatever treat their mother had made:
That day Vicki brought sugar cookies.
But they were different than my mom’s
Recipe, denser and drier with
A swirl of cinnamon. My mom’s were
Simply butter cookies fork-mashed flat
With a generous sugar sprinkle on top.
Each week one of us was the designated
Helper and passed out the cartons
Of milk, those square, half-pint waxed
Cardboard cartons we opened by
Separating the top seam halfway across
The box, then folding it back before
Popping it out to form the pour spout.
I’d stick my nose inside it to smell
That waxy-cold milk scent I loved.
Once in a while we’d get a surprise
Treat: chocolate milk. Chocolate sweet.
Afterward we walked our empty cartons
To the garbage can, rinsed our hands
In the classroom sink and returned to
Our desks. Mrs. Warthen would read
Us one of Aesop’s or Uncle Remus’s
Tales. Laying my cheek on the wooden
Desktop felt cool and smelled like varnish.
I’d close my eyes and drift through
Gingerbread houses and briar patches.
And as dangerous as those stories were,
Full of fire, brimstone, and death,
I loved that place, a dreamscape, my
Field of imagination. It felt safe there
With teachers in school, but it was on
The way back home when the wolves
Came out. That day they caught Vicki
And me walking home after school,
Cornered us in the Post Office lobby,
Told us to kiss or they’d eat us up.
I remember the looks on their sneering
Faces, their teeth, snarling beasts.
Her cheeks turned red. We were both
Scared. They kept goading and pushing
Us together. I guess it would have been
Easier to just kiss her, but it didn’t
Feel right. I can’t remember if we did
Or what made them stop, but I remember
Quietly walking home. She was shy
Before but seemed okay with it all, and
I wondered if she’d wanted me to kiss her.
Kissing meant nothing back then. Not yet
Anyway. We were just friends, but we knew
It was strange, taboo. What really mattered
To us was the mean bullying. We knew
Their pack attack, five on two, was sad
Proving ground for future gangsters.I chose poetry or it chose me. I guess it chose me early, seducing me with its words and music, its stories and mystery. It was magical and fun, playful and heartbreaking. I fell in love. Then when I came of age, James Welch told me I too could write poetry if I wanted to. That’s when I chose poetry. Since then, it has provided for me a venue to say/do whatever I felt like spewing. It’s a way of letting the voice inside my head out on yall! Secrets & Lies. God only knows what the fucker might say. Could be Heaven but it will certainly be Hell.
The Voice Inside
We all harbor a secret
That everybody knows
There is a person hiding
Inside each one of us
Maybe you don’t know
That person is Poetry
Many people are afraid
They can’t understand
Believe Poetry is confusing
Or complicated, seemingly
Meaningless nonsense, it is
Sometimes a lot like life
That person inside knows
All about it, Poetry watches
The chaos swirling around us
Every day, the shadow begs
Us to trust our secret self
Protect their need to act out
Say aloud what we don’t want
To hear, wildly embarrass us
Although we agree with Poetry
Privately, we don’t consider
Writing it down, when we do
Let our secret-self jabber
Be open-honest, go crazy
Express what we both know
And don’t know, shine a little
Light in the darkness we make
That’s Poetry, our true voice
Whispering to listen, to trust
Our guts, ignore that nagging
Critic always listing our fears
Sheila Miles’ Streaming Light
On that note, as I mentioned before, my new book of poems from FootHills Publishing, Word Salad, will be available soon! If you’d like a signed or inscribed copy, send cash or check for $22 to me at 2316 Gilbert Ave, Missoula, MT 59802, or Venmo me @Mark-Gibbons-37. Make sure you include your shipping address. You may also order directly from the publisher as soon as the book is released in the next week or two.
I will post that link here when its available.
Or if you’re fed up with “poetry,” you might like this one for the road!
poetry
I want to know
What’s the payoff
For reading
Poetry?
How do I benefit
If I don’t get it?
A poem
Confuses me
And often
Contradicts itself.
It’s all mixed up
And tries to be
More than it is.
I thought poems
Were supposed to
Be funny and rhyme
Like bedtime stories:
Old King Cole
And Bo Peep,
Merry souls who lost
Their sheep and called
For a bowl, a song
Or prayer, something
I could memorize.
When I read this
Shit today, it blows,
Goes nowhere for me.
I want to know why
It leads me round and
Round till I’m square
In Hell. Chaos and
Confusion is all
I get out of it . . .
Do you have a clue
What’s going on?
Why bother, I say.
I’d rather play
Video games
Where killing rules,
And record-scores
Are not lost
In gibberish or
Big-word fakery,
Some wannabe pose,
But admired, even
Championed, held
High. Hard numbers
Speak volumes, so
Don’t dally in the dilly
Of nonsense lingo.
Fuck that Shit, Daddio!
Just ignore it!
Mark GibbonsThe voice inside is doubtful and judgy, a smartass and a saint, blissed out or and angry motherfucker. Poetry is the release valve on the pressure cooker in me.
Peace & poetry
FTS, daddio!