Laughter - a reading (on YouTube)
Growing up, I remember laughter.
Laughter when my heart was broken.
Laughter at my pain.
Laughter that still whispers
You will always be alone.
I remember the summer accident,
Teenaged boys racing ten-speeds,
Our competition crashing to an end
When my pedal found his spokes.
I awoke to tears, his not mine.
We lamented separate injuries,
His bike lay bent and twisted,
My body bruised and sore.
Tentative movement revealed
No wound beyond repair of time,
A gash, a sprain,
A road rash eruption.
I lay back upon the easement,
Cradled in evening grass,
A drunken daydreamer poised
To study passing clouds or stars.
His mother’s concern soon eclipsed my sky,
First touching her unscathed son then me,
Scolding him for crying over a bike
When his friend might not be whole.
She retreated to call my mother,
Returning slowly, mechanically,
Pale and glazed as if she, too,
Had collided with a wire cyclone.
“She laughed …” she said
In a confused Swedish accent.
“I told her you were hurt,
… And she laughed.”
Her eyes pled with me for clarity,
As if I had any to provide,
Was this some American idiom
She couldn’t understand?
My mind offered only lead and ashes.
That page of my family lexicon,
While boldly written,
Remained beyond translation.
So I levered up my battered psyche,
And limped home,
Fresh wounds stiffening
To a shameful ache inside.
© 2016 Edward P. Morgan III
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ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
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I sketched this one out over Thanksgiving after telling Karen the story. It came together fairly quickly when I picked it up again this week.
I’m always hesitant to post poetry. It feels self-indulgent. I don’t like drawing attention to it. Yet the first piece I wrote that wasn’t for a class in school was poetry not prose. While I know not as many people read the poems as the stories, there are one or two who encourage me with them privately. Worth sharing if only to connect with those select few.
Picture Notes:
ReplyDeleteNeither Edward nor I own a bicycle. So that presented a challenge. Until I remembered that several people in the office ride to work each day. Maybe I could just borrow one. Who did I ask if I could borrow their bicycle? My boss, Nathaniel. Being the good sport he is, it was not a problem, even though I felt I needed to explain why. I had to wait for the sun to come out, as it was cloudy all morning, but in the afternoon the sky broke. It was better light, even though I did take the picture in the shade. The colors were brighter than if it had remained overcast. I likes the contrast between the orange of the frame and the green of the grass. And now I am sure that a number of the people at work think I’m wholly crazy. Why else would I be sitting in the grass in the courtyard at work, camera in hand leaning in close the the spokes of a bicycle lying on the ground.
Fiction or not, the poem broke my heart - HH
ReplyDeleteI post poetry on the fiction side because the creative effort feels closer to the stories than the essays. This one was based on a real incident when I was 13-14. Sadly not the only one. Not sure why they come back to mind now. Perhaps I've achieved enough distance to be able to use them as inspiration.
ReplyDeleteEd, I really enjoy reading your stories and poems. I don't usually comment however, because I still often think and feel very badly about the "truly ignorant" question I asked about some of the "characters" names in one of your stories. I didn't realize YOU were the author, and was actually genuinely curious for an answer. For the way I came across though, because of my own ignorance, I deeply regret. I have felt sincerely very stupid and sorry ever since. But this poem you've written has touched me too deeply not to finally respond. I just had to say how incredibly courageous I think you are for digging down this deeply and exposing yourself, your vulnerabilities, and your childhood pain. More, than any other, you have revealed the true you... the Ed inside, your beautiful heart. I don't know that I could ever become this real, so openly for the world to see. I'm incredibly inspired, however, and maybe, someday, because of this deep admiration and respect for your struggle and overcoming with great strength to finally share, I will too. Thinking of you, and thank you... for just existing in the world ... you make mine a better, more interesting and inspirational one. I'm so proud of you!
ReplyDeleteTina Wenner
You have nothing to regret. Questions are never a problem. I don't remember that you came across as anything but curious. If I made you feel something else, I am truly sorry.
DeleteStories I write for other people, mostly Karen. Poetry I write just to express myself, because I don't know what else to do with some of the things I see and feel. Maybe it helps someone else feel less alone in their experiences.
Thank you for reading. Posting here means nothing without readers like you.