Thread: Rubbernecking

A crowd-puller
house of some kind of tragedy
wooden womb for a woman,
as slight as a child,
Their tick-tock eyes wild wide
voracious vermin, loitering.
red tongues doing roof Hell Dance.
scandal smoke from chimney
grey as a rat.
Basement window oozes
blood of generations boiled.
No grave concern, just a neighborhood
as hungry as Haiti
Grandmother bunches up memories
in silver frames, she in charred slippers
touching favorite sodden armchair
as slowly as the blind.
Heroes walk her out into the sun.
she squints a tear
old woman torn like a car wreck
This is what they really came to see.

Laurie,

I love the title "Rubbernecking". I think it's very appropriate for this poem.

A crowd-puller
a house of some kind of tragedy,
wooden womb for a woman
as slight as a child.

I think this is wonderful imagery--"a house of some kind of tragedy, a wooden womb for a women".
and

Their tick-tock eyes wild wide
voracious vermin addicts loiter.

great imagery-- wild eyes just stand there, loitering, watching.

And " Would the scandal smoke from the chimney
as grey as a rat"
Makes one ponder why was this house on fire.

I love the last line:

This is what they really came to see.

It reminds me so much of how often people do just standby and watch in my situation.

Give me a minute. You make your poetry so complicated!

Thank you, Nellie. Yes. Why is the house on fire? Not even I know. It's all about the aftermath experience. And I'm always saying I write about The Nature of the Human Condition which I do here, pointed out by the

tick-tock eyes wild wide voracious vermin loitering.

What I imagine as being residents of a suburban neighborhood.

It reminds me so much of how often people do just standby and watch in my situation.

You and I share the same "situation". (You know I had to clear this with you!) People do just stand by and watch when we go into a episode of Epilepsy. Too busy gawking to call 911. Perhaps, this is partly the reason this poem was birthed, subconsciously. But, Oh! The long list of famous writers who had/have Epilepsy. No drooling oddities but truly brilliant people. If anyone's guessed, I'm an Advocate!

I always, truly enjoy your feedback~ Laurie

You try to include too many thoughts into your poem.

Example: You have "Grandmother bunches up memories"

Where did the grandmother come from? You then follow the line of thought from the "grandmother's" prespective for a few lines after that, even though there is very little to connect it with the first few lines. It's a persistent problem of modern art. We live in a world of "google this" and "bing that." It doesn't mean we, as humans, actually function in this way.

I would really recommend you read Emily Dickinson. She was very adapt at honing in on how a human feels.

Thank you, Reese. I've read Emily Dickinson. And what you have had to say is absorbed.

And, sweetie, if reading my poetry is not your thing or a source of frustration don't feel obligated to read it just because it's up on the board. Plenty of people pass up on poems for their own particular reasons.

Laurie

Reese,

I think that the "grandmother" is mentioned in the 3rd and 4th lines of the poem:

wooden womb for a woman
as slight as a child.

No, that doesn't reference a grandmother Nellie.

Laurie, that isn't my reason for commenting. I think your poetry is very apt. Which is the only reason I comment at all.

Hi, Resse. From the horse's mouth...

wooden womb for a woman as slight as a child.

...does reference the grandmother.

Thank you. I'm glad you think my poetry is apt. Laurie

"a women as slight as a child" does not make me think instantly of a grandmother. It could mean a woman who is shy. It could mean a woman that is scared for some reason. I've found lots of women are scared...for many legitimate reasons.

Also, wooden womb...what were you trying to relay with this line exactly? Maybe the two have something to do with each other, but I'm just not getting it?

Just let me know. I'm always ready to learn.

OK. Now poetry is always up for interpretation. That's what makes it interesting. "wooden womb" is her safe house.

"wooden womb" is her safe house."

Ah, I didn't see that. But why...? Just because it's wooden, rigid and impregnable? Do you see how there is TOO much interpretation? You kind of have to simplify it a bit. If you're writing purely for yourself, then please let me know. Writing can be very theuraputic. But if your writing for a reader...then it's kind of different.

This is simply superb, Laurie. I echo Cindy (Nellie) from title to final line. Not a single nit to these eyes. You've brilliantly captured something that irks the hell out of me, the tragedy fan club. These people flock to trouble without an ounce of empathy, just to "look" and then revel in the fact that it didn't happen to them. I'm not saying all lookers fall into that category, but it does apply to many. How one can rush to see the destruction of another human being is beyond my comprehension. If they have no intention of helping, stay the hell home. Sorry, this reminds me of Cindy's (Gumby) piece about nosy people. and both themes set my blood afire. Excellent work, love.

Lisa, thank you, for appreciating the poem. I recall when I was living in Manhattan. Snowy and very icey. I'm walking along Amsterdam Avenue. There's this woman in a fur coat walking carefully on the ice. I as well but trying to speed up to get a gander at her coat (against fur, now). Then...a cab skidding off the street, hit her, throwing her up into the air. She fell face down with her spine split open. I prayed that she was dead. In an instant a "crowd" round gawking. I ran to the nearest storefront, I think a shoe repair shop. I told the man I needed to use his phone (no cell phones back then) to call 911, that a woman got struck by a cab. He said "No. I'm closing". (Not all New Yorker's are like this!) I can't tell you what went through my mind. I storm out and he stops me "Here, here. Use my phone. My wife just left minutes ago". There you go....

Laurie,
I thoroughly enjoyed this piece from beginning to end (not in a dumb-struck gawk way).
Technically I especially enjoyed you linking L2 with L21. It looks great and sounds great.
I love that this poem (like other fantastic ones) is at once succinct and open to interpretation.
I also loved:
'tick-tock eyes'
and this section:

Originally Posted by SilverMoon

No grave concern, just a neighborhood
as hungry as Haiti
Grandmother bunches up memories
in silver frames, she in charred slippers
touching favorite sodden armchair
as slowly as the blind.

It's so evocative and powerful and I can really hear your voice clearly.