I was thinking the other day of how to create characters in a piece of writing. How to encapsulate a complex persona into a snapshot for the purposes of a story. It's hard and it often means resorting to stereotypes, which is something I cringe at. For me, more often then not, it means expereimenting until I find the right details. Only with those telling details does the picture I paint begin to ring true.
So I began to revisit some of the "character" poems, or portraits, I've written. One jumped out at me. I had almost forgotten my first Italian teacher. A character if I've ever met one.
Gustavo Foscarini
L'uomo basso e forte –
You are as short and stocky
as a Pyrenees mountain pony.
Your unruly grey beard is
a shaggy carpet that explodes off your face
like a snake out of a can,
hiding two ears folded open like
advent-calendar doors.
A sense of humor to match
your vivacious eyebrows,
which periodically bounce up and
down like a child playing peek-a-boo.
You remind me of Nino twenty years from now,
hands that leap and dance
to the rhythm of your trombone tones.
The classic Italian gentleman --
polite, nosy, charming,
relaxed.
I wonder why you left Italia,
and if you have any grandchildren.
I think you were born in the South,
where enjoyment and good wine
are prima di tutto
and passione sizzles in the blood like oil
in an August frying pan,
where there is no word for lust, only l'amore.
One day I'll ask you these things,
if you know of La Madonna del Castello,
the legends and frescos beneath her salty floor,
if the smell of aglio and basilico
are a wooden spoon that stirs memories,
and if you are ever tempted to go back
to the language where "stress" doesn't translate.
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
11.28.2007
11.06.2007
Memories of Home
I was sifting through some old writing and I found this poem that I published in 2000. There are a lot of memories packed into it - raw, rough, and liberating memories. It makes me proud of where I come from, but extremely glad I've moved on and created something new.
At the same time it also makes me miss all the unplanned, spur-of-the-moment camping trips we took so frequently in high school and college.
Union Valley Reservoir, Peavine Ridge
The sun rises, my sister and I strip off late night layers
and dive into home. Lake water glasses bare bodies.
I am molting,
shedding the covering the world has given me.
Cerulean surrounds my new flesh
as I sun on the rocks, scratching dead skin from
my senseful limbs.
She sits unclothed beside me
gnawing at roots, trying to taste her past.
Ants slink over toenails
and rest in the crevices of my feet.
I have been naked in these woods for hundreds of years,
she says,
her bare flesh slipping through the space
between time's cupped fingers.
We were here before Gold Rush nights
when men would kill for minerals,
before Jack, Dick and McConnell named themselves
on the peaks of Crystal Range,
before Hangtown was a tourist attraction
and Moore's Overland Pony Express trail was Safe-
way lit.
She inhales pine and dry granite, exhales dawnlight
and looks across the lake
to the shedded skins we will crawl back into.
At the same time it also makes me miss all the unplanned, spur-of-the-moment camping trips we took so frequently in high school and college.
Union Valley Reservoir, Peavine Ridge
The sun rises, my sister and I strip off late night layers
and dive into home. Lake water glasses bare bodies.
I am molting,
shedding the covering the world has given me.
Cerulean surrounds my new flesh
as I sun on the rocks, scratching dead skin from
my senseful limbs.
She sits unclothed beside me
gnawing at roots, trying to taste her past.
Ants slink over toenails
and rest in the crevices of my feet.
I have been naked in these woods for hundreds of years,
she says,
her bare flesh slipping through the space
between time's cupped fingers.
We were here before Gold Rush nights
when men would kill for minerals,
before Jack, Dick and McConnell named themselves
on the peaks of Crystal Range,
before Hangtown was a tourist attraction
and Moore's Overland Pony Express trail was Safe-
way lit.
She inhales pine and dry granite, exhales dawnlight
and looks across the lake
to the shedded skins we will crawl back into.
10.18.2007
Bedtime Ritual
Mom lays her down in the crib, a sleepy-eyed Toddler who keeps shaking her head no -- she's not tired. Coaxed into compliance she settles dutifully into her blankets, clutching Big Bird. Mom turns out the lights and settles down in the chair next to her, staring at the clock.
7:47. Fifteen minutes and I might be out of here she thinks.
The routine is established. "Baa Baa Black Sheep" or "Twinkle, twinkle" must be sung at least five times if not more until the eyes begin to droop. Back rubbing is optional, it depends on the Toddler's mood. After a few minutes the singing must get softer and softer until it is barely a whisper. A whisper which, on her hoarser days, reminds Mom of something out of a horror movie. She finds it disturbing but the Toddler doesn't seem affected. And then we wait. This is where Mom's internal monologue always seems to take over.
Remember, don't look. Everytime I look at her, comforting, adoring, whatever, she stays awake. Must convince her Mom . . . gotta stop referring to myself in the third person dammit . . . I'm not available any more today. I'm not going to play, kiss, laugh or tickle. I am a comforting body, no more. Besides a watched kid never sleeps. Though a watched dog seems to do just fine. Crashed out in the dark doorway, oblivious to the world. 7:51. Why do I bother? Lately she never goes to sleep before 8:00 anyway. Like clockwork. This is my kid -- a mini cuckoo complete with small arms and a delicately carved face. Nap is one hour from when I leave the room, to the minute almost. Bedtime is 8:00. Doesn't matter if we start at 7:05 or 7:35.
I get so restless every night as I sit here. I used to think if I had to sing "Baa Baa Black Sheep" one more time I would scream, but now it's just rote. Like dishes, or brushing teeth. The Buddhist philosophy book I'm reading encourages staying in the moment, expereinceing life as it happens. But it's so hard when it's the same every night. The same viewpoint, the same observations to make. It's hard not to get lost in your own thoughts. Apparently I've still got a long way to go in moving toward stillness of the mind.
She is cute though, curled up on her side with that thatch of blonde covering her one eye. Her arm of purple fleece laying so gently across the blankets. Shit! I know better than to look at her! Now I can hear the arm flop. Once, twice, as she finds that comfortable place again. And the yawn. That sweet little exhale of breath. Like when I pick her up and the force of it creates a whoosh of air on my cheek as I settle her onto my hip. 7:56. Almost.
She is my life in moments like this. I can't escape it. There is nothing else to do, and I am trapped. Like the Sherman traps Mike uses to catch small mammals, it's not uncomfortable. It's roomy, secure, still. But too much stillness, too small, too much time staring at the same walls will drive you mad. Good question -- do the clinically insane stay insane forever, or does the manner in which we lock them up create a self-prepetuating cycle. Again, random morbid thoughts as I put my kid to bed. Great. 7:58.
And now I get to go back to my life outside. The husband I adore. The bank account that scares me and the shortness of breath that is my reality as the seasons change. Like surfacing from a dream, or a bad meditation session. I'm not sure which.
7:47. Fifteen minutes and I might be out of here she thinks.
The routine is established. "Baa Baa Black Sheep" or "Twinkle, twinkle" must be sung at least five times if not more until the eyes begin to droop. Back rubbing is optional, it depends on the Toddler's mood. After a few minutes the singing must get softer and softer until it is barely a whisper. A whisper which, on her hoarser days, reminds Mom of something out of a horror movie. She finds it disturbing but the Toddler doesn't seem affected. And then we wait. This is where Mom's internal monologue always seems to take over.
Remember, don't look. Everytime I look at her, comforting, adoring, whatever, she stays awake. Must convince her Mom . . . gotta stop referring to myself in the third person dammit . . . I'm not available any more today. I'm not going to play, kiss, laugh or tickle. I am a comforting body, no more. Besides a watched kid never sleeps. Though a watched dog seems to do just fine. Crashed out in the dark doorway, oblivious to the world. 7:51. Why do I bother? Lately she never goes to sleep before 8:00 anyway. Like clockwork. This is my kid -- a mini cuckoo complete with small arms and a delicately carved face. Nap is one hour from when I leave the room, to the minute almost. Bedtime is 8:00. Doesn't matter if we start at 7:05 or 7:35.
I get so restless every night as I sit here. I used to think if I had to sing "Baa Baa Black Sheep" one more time I would scream, but now it's just rote. Like dishes, or brushing teeth. The Buddhist philosophy book I'm reading encourages staying in the moment, expereinceing life as it happens. But it's so hard when it's the same every night. The same viewpoint, the same observations to make. It's hard not to get lost in your own thoughts. Apparently I've still got a long way to go in moving toward stillness of the mind.
She is cute though, curled up on her side with that thatch of blonde covering her one eye. Her arm of purple fleece laying so gently across the blankets. Shit! I know better than to look at her! Now I can hear the arm flop. Once, twice, as she finds that comfortable place again. And the yawn. That sweet little exhale of breath. Like when I pick her up and the force of it creates a whoosh of air on my cheek as I settle her onto my hip. 7:56. Almost.
She is my life in moments like this. I can't escape it. There is nothing else to do, and I am trapped. Like the Sherman traps Mike uses to catch small mammals, it's not uncomfortable. It's roomy, secure, still. But too much stillness, too small, too much time staring at the same walls will drive you mad. Good question -- do the clinically insane stay insane forever, or does the manner in which we lock them up create a self-prepetuating cycle. Again, random morbid thoughts as I put my kid to bed. Great. 7:58.
And now I get to go back to my life outside. The husband I adore. The bank account that scares me and the shortness of breath that is my reality as the seasons change. Like surfacing from a dream, or a bad meditation session. I'm not sure which.
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