secondcomingpoet's poem

From: w y <secondcomingpoet@gmail.com>> Date: Jul 23, 2005 5:38 PM

Cream City Bricks

The grade school on 18th Street
had the same hard black brick
as all the others, charcoal outside,
soft and yellow inside.
The hallway walls wore
crayon meanderings, up
the warm, wooden stair to the third
grade, where Miss Schneider
read us stories—gave out
the gold stars I coveted
in neat lines next to my name
on her clean white chart.

I didn't know about the
buttery insides of bricks till David,
the kid with buckteeth,
who died driving drunk
somewhere in Saigon,
threw stones at me and missed,
taking golden chips
out of the dark façade.

The year they sand-blasted the courthouse
we went downtown on the bus
every Saturday
to see the next installment of gold appear,
like sunrise slowly crawling
over that domed horizon.

Even South Division High,
where I left my illusions,
came clean under the harsh interrogation
of sand and steam.

But always,
in a year or so, the dark effects
of weathering crept back,
smeared over the brick
like a scum of dirt and straw that
floats on new milk in the pail.

In the dairies, my uncles
skimmed milk, turned cream
into pale Wisconsin butter,
then came home to complain of cows,
low wages, and hippies
in the old neighborhood bars.

I loved those East-side bars—
biker bars squeezed between
the headshops and Watertower Park,
where you could get three good hits of
white-cross for two bucks,
or strawberry mescaline on Sunday,
where we learned to stay away from
crazy Pete's weed laced with dust.

By graduation I knew three dead boys,
David and Pete and Michael.

Michael, all light and music,
danced his motorcycle
off the 16th Street viaduct.
My dad, who'd never liked long hair,
chanted a new lyric about
murdercycles.

But I remember the vibration
between my thighs
on one forbidden ride
and the heat
of pale, creamy skin
under black leather.


-E-

holysonnetx@gmail.com Date: Jul 28, 2005 10:44 AM

The first thing I notice about this poem is the interesting title. I have read the poem many, many times, and I am still not sure why the poet has titled it this. The first half of the poem is about bricks; the second part connects the "cream city" concept. But, the last five stanzas lose the brick thread. Unless, the boys who have died are metaphorically bricks? That is one interesting possibility. I like the title. I would just like to see it connected more throughout the entire poem. Some images I really admire in this poem are the "coveted gold stars," and the "Strawberry mescaline on Sunday." Strong stuff!!!! I remember those gold stars that I rarely was awarded. I was a bit confused with the lines: I didn't know about the buttery insides of bricks till David, the kid with the buckteeth, who died driving drunk somewhere in Saigon... I understand what the poet was trying to do, but I think it would be> clearer if he/she said something else like, "who would die years later..." The way the poem is written made me stop and think twice about the time of death. The brick images are strong, but I am not sure about the word "buttery." It's a fresh image and goes well with the idea of this cream city. I just have a bit of a hard time with seeing these fragile bricks as buttery. It almost brings the poem to a magical point which I am not sure the poet intends. I love the couplet: "By graduation I knew three dead boys, David and Pete and Michael" I love how the poet did not use commas to set the names off. For me it is the most powerful part of the poem. "Danced his motorcycle" is a great example of a poem using poignant verbs. Overall, I like the second part of the poem more. I think that while revising, the poet should let the narrative take place earlier in the poem to leak the rich images of this place. The ending is just wonderful. I wonder if this could be a series of poems. There is so much here in this poem. Thanks for sharing.

On 7/31/05, t e hollowmenpoet@gmail.com wrote:

what absolutely fascinates me most about this poem is the mystical stroll down memory lane. although i was not along for any of the rides, motorcycle or not, i felt as though i sat in on the experiences. the imagery, the specified situations narrated in a twisted light, created a harsh reality that pulled me in. this is real life, no sentimentality, not sugar coated. we either experienced it, or stood in horror as we were told about others who experienced it. the only idea i had was to shorten the first stanza a bit. although realistic, it's a little lengthy and makes the poem take too long to get to the meat. i feel like i'm saying only positives, but that's mostly what i felt toward the poem. i really loved the way the era was made obvious by allusions to saigon and weed. the poem pulled me in so deeply i lost the title, especially when i got to the line,"by graduation i knew..."! Fresh and vivid; i loved it!

From: w w <redwheelbarrowpoet@gmail.com>Date: Aug 1, 2005 12:52 AM

The writer has a strong and distinctive voice. The images are so vivid and thought-provoking. I can picture the maze of crayon meanderings the hallway wore, and recall my own elementary school experiences immediately. I don't know that the speaker is referring to Warren's Courthouse, but if not, I remember when its domed facade was blasted clean of its murky gray into a golden tan. Some said they liked it better dirty. I suppose many towns sandblasted their courthouses. That's what makes the poem universal, among the other images. I like the milk pail connection to the pale Wisconsin butter. The sound and meaning play illustrates how the same sounds contrast different meanings. It acts a not only a connective string but also an interesting contrast. The father's "murdercycle" was very melodious and clever, even if it was a cliche from long ago. This serves to not only highlight the father's logical concerns but also his closemindedness concludes with the daring risk of the speaker, which makes the reader's heart flutter with a twinge of danger, though the speaker lived to tell. Perhaps the first stanza took too long to get the poem off the ground, though it works. I too was mildly confused by the"buttery insides of bricks," and whether the poet was being literal or playful and figurative. Other than that, I loved the flow of the poem and how it carried the reader in its indirect connection of images.Very clever.

From: t h <neutraltones@gmail.com>Date: Aug 1, 2005 10:44 PM

The comments given by the other critics all seem to hit home. As formy own reaction, I am intrigued by the narrative style of the poem. It is a strange beast, this poem, because it seems to be a prose poem without the prose. I am not sure htat makes any sense, but the form ofthe poem is linear, but reads like a story. Yet there is a definite feeling of rhythm. I am not too sure about meter, per se, but definitely a rhythm...especially when the poem if read out loud. As for the content, I love the bricks. I know exactly what you talking about. I am struck, too, by the relationship between the characters of the poem. This speaker is coming from a world I have only heard about but never experienced. It was a bit out of my timeframe. That doesn't devalue the experience of the poem for me, though, as it is a human poem with emotions that all can relate to. If I were to offer any advice for a revision, I would suggest tighten the meter to engage the reader even more. I suppose my lack of advice for improving it is a good sign that the poet has something special here by my reckoning.

From: w s <sonnet29@gmail.com>Date: Aug 4, 2005 3:37 PM

Some images could be fresher for my taste. It's an interestingreflection with some good images: "new milk in the pail," "harsh interrogation," "domed horizon. " Stanza 2 might be strengthened withmore creative verbs; it seemed slow here. Projections and pronouns throughout could be improved by providing solid replacements. All, of course, would be remedied in subsequent rewrites. It's not bad reading, and I may be "missing the boat," because there doesn't appear to be much for me here. Maybe a consistent meter could help.