This is something I had written a number of years ago (ten!), followed by the poem that I wrote as a way of closing the chapter on that part of my life. In putting this collection together, I've gone back and forth about how to group poems--chronologically, topically, etc. Right now I have over 90 pages of work that are not formatted, i.e. one poem just follows another, as opposed to the usually poetry format of a poem per page. So basically, over the last ten years I've produced a LOT. One of the questions I'm forced to ask myself is what to include--what's worth putting out there as an example of "early work?" What stands up on its own, years after the fact, and what's just part of some nascent stage that's best left unpublished? A friend told me that the first poem in this series is obviously the work of a younger poet (which stung a little bit), and on its own just a cute young love poem (which stung a lot), but together with the poem that follows, tells a better story (which took away some of the sting). In any event, that's an argument for a non chronological grouping, at least in this particular instance. What do you think?
untitled (after olympia, by manet)
January 2000
she is beside me,
supine under the sheets of the bunk above us,
a worn blue comforter
barely covering her breasts
against the cold,
blue room.
i look at the scar running down her chest;
so close to her heart,
and i think it is mine.
her profile framed neatly by my pillows,
i think of olympia.
in a moment, i’ll climb out of bed,
daring to photograph her quiet body,
make her giggle as she hugs my pillow,
staring coyly at the camera lens.
in a moment.
for now, i let my fingers circle gently,
over the scar i’ve made my own.
try to forget,
this too must end.
after olympia 2010
her last picture abandoned
in pieces outside the apartment
on Coney Island Avenue,
torn and scattered,
for fear of discovery by a jealous lover.
when she wrote again, vague intentions,
those pieces came to life--
eyes closed, i'd hugged her with my lens.
frayed memories of dying leaves,
that fall day, the pictures taken,
passing remembrance.
the poems,
wondering at the betrayal,
the ghost she was,
the woman she became.
those days,
faded and torn,
the always question
of what might have been,
answered--finally
in the tender moments of a lover's kiss,
answered:
her forever touch belongs to then.
Charles Imbelli
2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
fourteen (response for K.B.) Second Draft
I'm trying to allude to something in the final stanza that I don't think is clear. I listened to a dharma talk where a zen master spoke about hope as being the biggest stumbling block for westerner's practices. Not hope for something specifically, but the general sense that I would be happier, if only...
And Zen is about letting go of hope--all hope--to live fully in the present moment. I'm worried that the poem comes across as being about hope for something specific. The letting go that I'm concerned about is the letting go of hope for anything other than what is. Does that come through, or does it need an explanation? Obviously any poem that needs too much explanation doesn't work. I realize things are open to subjective interpretation. That's part of what I love about poetry. But I don't want the general intention to get lost in the specific words. So:
Fourteen (Response for K.B.)
I wonder sometimes
if it’s something you fought for?
Your joy, your love--
so many years, gone on,
so many years, to love,
and never wonder:
what if?
I wonder sometimes:
because to love
with such abandon
would be something else.
We were fourteen once.
We never even kissed.
You were right:
it was the start of something,
the First. The Last.
You let go first.
So what if
I died that winter?
It wasn’t your fault;
it was fate.
And everything since then
is coming back to life.
It’s slow but it’s worth it.
Alive again,
beyond expectation,
beyond hope.
That awful,
clinging hope.
And finally,
the letting go.
Charles Imbelli 2010
And Zen is about letting go of hope--all hope--to live fully in the present moment. I'm worried that the poem comes across as being about hope for something specific. The letting go that I'm concerned about is the letting go of hope for anything other than what is. Does that come through, or does it need an explanation? Obviously any poem that needs too much explanation doesn't work. I realize things are open to subjective interpretation. That's part of what I love about poetry. But I don't want the general intention to get lost in the specific words. So:
Fourteen (Response for K.B.)
I wonder sometimes
if it’s something you fought for?
Your joy, your love--
so many years, gone on,
so many years, to love,
and never wonder:
what if?
I wonder sometimes:
because to love
with such abandon
would be something else.
We were fourteen once.
We never even kissed.
You were right:
it was the start of something,
the First. The Last.
You let go first.
So what if
I died that winter?
It wasn’t your fault;
it was fate.
And everything since then
is coming back to life.
It’s slow but it’s worth it.
Alive again,
beyond expectation,
beyond hope.
That awful,
clinging hope.
And finally,
the letting go.
Charles Imbelli 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Problems
I seem to be having difficulty formatting anything using this post template. The poem below, thirteen, is supposed to have stanza indentations in certain places, but when I try to reformat it, the entire poem disappears. So. If the poem doesn't have the intended emotional impact, it's not my fault, it's Google's. I apologize on their behalf.
Yours,
Charles
Yours,
Charles
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thirteen
Thirteen
with thanks to David Eaglemen
It was “Our town”;
Death spoke for us.
Death came today:
It was playing on the radio.
You, across the country;
how happy
we’d each become.
On the radio,
A meditation on death,
wherein there are three deaths:
the first when we breathe our last,
the second when we’re buried,
and the third when our name is spoken
for the last time.
I didn’t put it together until just now:
You were the first--
fourteen was built
on your fragile bones,
that brittle foundation.
I never said love.
I didn’t know that word yet.
I had no words,
until you gave them to me.
Our town.
We shared a single lollipop,
on Madison,
between your school and mine.
There were four of us:
Patrick would give me
my first cigarette later.
And when his mother found out,
blame it on me.
And another girl, a blonde.
I can’t remember her name.
I’ve lost so many names.
She liked me, wanted to kiss me,
Patrick would tell me, later, too late.
She would have been my first kiss.
The wrong one had the crush, and I never bothered to ask.
We shared a lollipop;
it’s all I remember.
I passed it to you,
swollen red orb
in the afternoon sun.
You told me, “No,
do it like this,”
licked around it,
drew your teeth
over the curved surface,
following your lips.
“So you don’t leave any spit on it.”
It was the closest we came.
I remember that day;
I remember your name.
Fourteen lived in fear,
for eleven years,
that if I died,
in some far off place,
she couldn’t bear it,
it would have been murder.
But thirteen had already slain.
It was our town,
and somewhere,
still is.
Your gave me the words.
I remember you:
I remember your name.
Charles Imbelli 2010
with thanks to David Eaglemen
It was “Our town”;
Death spoke for us.
Death came today:
It was playing on the radio.
You, across the country;
how happy
we’d each become.
On the radio,
A meditation on death,
wherein there are three deaths:
the first when we breathe our last,
the second when we’re buried,
and the third when our name is spoken
for the last time.
I didn’t put it together until just now:
You were the first--
fourteen was built
on your fragile bones,
that brittle foundation.
I never said love.
I didn’t know that word yet.
I had no words,
until you gave them to me.
Our town.
We shared a single lollipop,
on Madison,
between your school and mine.
There were four of us:
Patrick would give me
my first cigarette later.
And when his mother found out,
blame it on me.
And another girl, a blonde.
I can’t remember her name.
I’ve lost so many names.
She liked me, wanted to kiss me,
Patrick would tell me, later, too late.
She would have been my first kiss.
The wrong one had the crush, and I never bothered to ask.
We shared a lollipop;
it’s all I remember.
I passed it to you,
swollen red orb
in the afternoon sun.
You told me, “No,
do it like this,”
licked around it,
drew your teeth
over the curved surface,
following your lips.
“So you don’t leave any spit on it.”
It was the closest we came.
I remember that day;
I remember your name.
Fourteen lived in fear,
for eleven years,
that if I died,
in some far off place,
she couldn’t bear it,
it would have been murder.
But thirteen had already slain.
It was our town,
and somewhere,
still is.
Your gave me the words.
I remember you:
I remember your name.
Charles Imbelli 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Columbus
untitled (columbus)
Tabonuco,
bought at the Bear Mountain Pow-wow
from the single Taino booth,
first thing I smelled,
that sweet wafting resin,
carried on the wind,
drawing me in.
Tabonuco
burnt in clay pots
as tribute to a past
I can't remember.
In the rain,
in Harriman,
I read about Columbus
and his account
of my people
as gregarious
as joyful
as generous.
So generous, in fact,
that his demands for tribute unmet,
he cut off their hands,
left them to bleed out
on the jungle floor.
We disdain Columbus
for what he did
to the North American Continent,
this half truth shared in classrooms,
forgetting
it wasn't the red man
but the brown
that Columbus first broke,
that joyful people
with insufficient offerings
and no longer hands
for giving.
I share those bloodlines:
my parents met, dated, married
in the Bronx,
like Sharks and Jets.
Tabonuco,
burnt in clay pots,
in tribute
and mourning,
for a past I can’t remember.
Raised eating pasta
and red sauce,
sfogiatelle and crown roast
at Christ's Mass,
my white skin,
and the arias
that would float through our home
so many evenings.
forgetting
an incompatible legacy,
that burns inside.
Charles Imbelli 2010
Tabonuco,
bought at the Bear Mountain Pow-wow
from the single Taino booth,
first thing I smelled,
that sweet wafting resin,
carried on the wind,
drawing me in.
Tabonuco
burnt in clay pots
as tribute to a past
I can't remember.
In the rain,
in Harriman,
I read about Columbus
and his account
of my people
as gregarious
as joyful
as generous.
So generous, in fact,
that his demands for tribute unmet,
he cut off their hands,
left them to bleed out
on the jungle floor.
We disdain Columbus
for what he did
to the North American Continent,
this half truth shared in classrooms,
forgetting
it wasn't the red man
but the brown
that Columbus first broke,
that joyful people
with insufficient offerings
and no longer hands
for giving.
I share those bloodlines:
my parents met, dated, married
in the Bronx,
like Sharks and Jets.
Tabonuco,
burnt in clay pots,
in tribute
and mourning,
for a past I can’t remember.
Raised eating pasta
and red sauce,
sfogiatelle and crown roast
at Christ's Mass,
my white skin,
and the arias
that would float through our home
so many evenings.
forgetting
an incompatible legacy,
that burns inside.
Charles Imbelli 2010
Rear Window
i woke in a flash, like i’d been drawn into my body from somewhere else,
like a tunnel that’s fast fast fast fast fast, tumbling, then light
and my eyes open as the scene focuses into view.
i move to the table, light candles, open a notebook
and stare at their laughter through the trees.
a dog is barking at some terrible distance.
the tea is on. she is sleeping.
there’s a candle across the way--
there’s laughter in the window.
they laugh so rarely.
i would see him some times, standing at the window, smoking.
before they put the shades in.
before the air conditioner,
which appeared only after we had watched them for nights,
watched them scream and yell and fight and cry--
they felt our eyes, saw us watching somehow,
and closed themselves against it.
the time before last, when they fought,
she screamed, “you’re disgusting.”
she screamed, “i hate you.”
she screamed, “i’m wasting my life with you.”
she tried her hardest to get him to hit her,
before collapsing, balled on the floor.
I stayed away from the window after that--
stayed where I couldn’t hear them.
“I remember when that apartment was gutted,” Kristina says.
you could hear them then, too, throwing things out the window,
crashing in to the courtyard.
“and now, some sad, lonely people live there.”
they’re laughing now.
she says beautiful things when she’s stoned.
terrible, beautiful things.
i listen to her and think, “how true.”
i listen to her and think, “i wish she’d stop talking now.”
i listen to her and think, “i love this woman.”
i listen to her and think, “who is this person that we’ve become?”
what does it look like to them, in the apartment across the courtyard,
through the budding tree?
there are plants in our window,
a jungle of plants stacked on shelves,
hanging from nails, crawling up the expanse of glass.
a lit candle
lots of tea and lots of nakedness
and writing at the table
and looking across, wondering,
do they feel this, too?
the fear and joy,
vacillating with infinite possibilities, infinite failures.
the cars in the street, the passing music.
the box fan’s shadow refracted from the other room,
into the corner.
i used to watch the sun rise--you should see it sometime.
everything’s changed. everything’s exactly the same.
enough already.
the sun comes up on four of us.
our candles go out.
Charles Imbelli 2010
like a tunnel that’s fast fast fast fast fast, tumbling, then light
and my eyes open as the scene focuses into view.
i move to the table, light candles, open a notebook
and stare at their laughter through the trees.
a dog is barking at some terrible distance.
the tea is on. she is sleeping.
there’s a candle across the way--
there’s laughter in the window.
they laugh so rarely.
i would see him some times, standing at the window, smoking.
before they put the shades in.
before the air conditioner,
which appeared only after we had watched them for nights,
watched them scream and yell and fight and cry--
they felt our eyes, saw us watching somehow,
and closed themselves against it.
the time before last, when they fought,
she screamed, “you’re disgusting.”
she screamed, “i hate you.”
she screamed, “i’m wasting my life with you.”
she tried her hardest to get him to hit her,
before collapsing, balled on the floor.
I stayed away from the window after that--
stayed where I couldn’t hear them.
“I remember when that apartment was gutted,” Kristina says.
you could hear them then, too, throwing things out the window,
crashing in to the courtyard.
“and now, some sad, lonely people live there.”
they’re laughing now.
she says beautiful things when she’s stoned.
terrible, beautiful things.
i listen to her and think, “how true.”
i listen to her and think, “i wish she’d stop talking now.”
i listen to her and think, “i love this woman.”
i listen to her and think, “who is this person that we’ve become?”
what does it look like to them, in the apartment across the courtyard,
through the budding tree?
there are plants in our window,
a jungle of plants stacked on shelves,
hanging from nails, crawling up the expanse of glass.
a lit candle
lots of tea and lots of nakedness
and writing at the table
and looking across, wondering,
do they feel this, too?
the fear and joy,
vacillating with infinite possibilities, infinite failures.
the cars in the street, the passing music.
the box fan’s shadow refracted from the other room,
into the corner.
i used to watch the sun rise--you should see it sometime.
everything’s changed. everything’s exactly the same.
enough already.
the sun comes up on four of us.
our candles go out.
Charles Imbelli 2010
fourteen (response for K.B.)
I wonder sometimes
if it’s something you fight for?
Your joy, your love--
so many years, gone on,
so many years to love
and never wonder,
what if?
I wonder sometimes,
and wondering,
wallowing really
because to love
with such abandon
would be something else.
You were right:
it was the start of something,
the first. The Last.
You let go first.
So what if
I died that winter?
It wasn’t your fault;
it was fate.
And everything since then
is coming back to life.
It’s slow but it’s worth it.
Alive again,
beyond expectation,
beyond hope,
that awful clinging hope,
and the letting go.
Charles Imbelli 2010
if it’s something you fight for?
Your joy, your love--
so many years, gone on,
so many years to love
and never wonder,
what if?
I wonder sometimes,
and wondering,
wallowing really
because to love
with such abandon
would be something else.
You were right:
it was the start of something,
the first. The Last.
You let go first.
So what if
I died that winter?
It wasn’t your fault;
it was fate.
And everything since then
is coming back to life.
It’s slow but it’s worth it.
Alive again,
beyond expectation,
beyond hope,
that awful clinging hope,
and the letting go.
Charles Imbelli 2010
Tarrytown, August 2010
We’re to be married,
in august, ten years to the day
from our first kiss.
I feel so much.
I feel nothing at all.
Head in hands,
the gentle pressure of my palms against my eyes,
a kaleidoscope appears
in the middle distance,
at its radiating center
a purple Buddha.
She speaks of her mindfulness
in everything she does.
How does it feel, she wonders?
The image before me,
like a tearing--the fabric of my soul,
scattered on the wind of her words,
our fateful kiss.
As time stops for us,
she is the thread
permeating everything i touch.
Iridescent wind
casts shadows across the water
her hand shines,
points of light
piercing the way
ahead.
Ten thousand autumns
taking each step for granted,
forever moments threaded through
season after season of heartache--
the fear and the loss,
stitched together.
Fragments of awe,
carried by the gentle wind
of her breath at my back,
pushing always forward.
The birth of a thousand lifetimes shared.
How perfect, she draws me forward;
what failings, my heart breaks
with longing:
a thousand lifetimes,
shared forevermore
Charles Imbelli August 2010
in august, ten years to the day
from our first kiss.
I feel so much.
I feel nothing at all.
Head in hands,
the gentle pressure of my palms against my eyes,
a kaleidoscope appears
in the middle distance,
at its radiating center
a purple Buddha.
She speaks of her mindfulness
in everything she does.
How does it feel, she wonders?
The image before me,
like a tearing--the fabric of my soul,
scattered on the wind of her words,
our fateful kiss.
As time stops for us,
she is the thread
permeating everything i touch.
Iridescent wind
casts shadows across the water
her hand shines,
points of light
piercing the way
ahead.
Ten thousand autumns
taking each step for granted,
forever moments threaded through
season after season of heartache--
the fear and the loss,
stitched together.
Fragments of awe,
carried by the gentle wind
of her breath at my back,
pushing always forward.
The birth of a thousand lifetimes shared.
How perfect, she draws me forward;
what failings, my heart breaks
with longing:
a thousand lifetimes,
shared forevermore
Charles Imbelli August 2010
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