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Classic Case History
Though I was blind, it wasn’t hard to see
That blindness was a gift at least as good
As any other. People seeing me
As someone less insightful than he should
Have been were blurry shadows on a field
Of murky gray, and I was able to
Ignore them. Nowadays my lips are sealed;
I hold my breath until my face is blue,
But nonetheless my vices are revealed,
And everyone assumes the worst is true—
Another knock against the code of silence.
(The penal code is far too esoteric,
Enough to lead a peaceful man to violence.)
Next time, my tropes won’t sound so faux-Homeric,
Which doesn’t mean the characters I draw
Won’t be heroic, for their pains will touch
Raw nerve: Each agony and fatal flaw
Will force a wince and leave not quite as much
To be desired. Though lame, I never crawl,
And folks will recognize me by my crutch.
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Before the Tower
On the broken terrain below the granite tower,
A seam of yellow clay runs through the overgrowth
Of scattered tufts of tawny grass and scrub. No flower
Or glint of quickened green has burgeoned yet. A path
Debouches from a nearby wood down where the clay
First surfaces, and pausing there to catch his breath,
A boy in flannel shirt and denim jeans. The way
Was steep that led him through the shade; untempered light
Attempting arson in the middle of the day
Is momently blinding. The boy looks to his right
Then to his left, and starts unbuttoning his shirt
And soon begins to feel the rising appetite
Inside his growing frame. So now he bends, alert
To possibility, and off come both his boots
And both his socks, and then his toes invade the dirt
In front of him, disturbing many shallow roots
Of plants whose sole relations with the living earth
Are starkly physical; but still the boy salutes
Them, his coequal partners in the wanton mirth
Which he’s possessed by. Shyly, now, he eyes the blocks
Of stacked granite, a tower—such arresting girth
And stature! Not today. He spies far better rocks
A mile away, where he can spend a boundless hour
Without the stifling pall of calendars and clocks.
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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
Vintage Anderson with poetic preciseness wickedly blurred by prosaic enjambment.
The skill serves to gild the subject of each of these well-crafted poems. The first a witty, introspective walk through the spectral eyes of a Homeric figure who promises to be less “faux-Homeric” in the future with gloves-off honesty in the characters he will create for future generations to both savor and treasure. The second a masterful terza rima (with closing rhyme reflecting and completing that of the opening stanza) that takes time to leisurely paint the scene in a way that reflects the boy’s own idyllic escape from the terse pace of deadlines and clocks.
A graceful way to begin my day.
Very little gets past you, James. Your comment about the final stanza picking up the third rhyme of the rhyme pair in the first stanza bespeaks a masterful attention to detail, because there is no way that this could be picked up by the mind’s ear — they’re too far apart. There are at least three ways to end a terza rima poem. Usually a couplet is employed, but here I used a trick that I learned from Dr. Salemi, from his poem “The Woman Who Froze”, I think.
I still have deadlines, and I still own clocks, but have you ever noticed that, at our age, the real deadline is undetermined, and clocks are mostly useful when it comes to the art of cooking?
If I cooked, then I would agree with you! As for the terza rima trick, I noticed it because it is my own preferred way of “wrapping things up” as well as around.
That’s very funny, James. The call of The Barred Owl, according to Richard Wilbur’s poem is: who-cooks-for-you!
When I started to read the first poem, I thought for sure that it was about Homer himself, the blind epic poet. But then in the middle I saw this was not likely, and that this was actually a personal statement either by Anderson himself, or by a fictive speaker who represents all poets as they grow old. The last stanza is quite powerful, and indeed “forced a wince.”
“Before the Tower” shows how excellent a carefully crafted terza rima poem can be in English. It’s serendipitous that Michael Palma’s new translation of Dante’s complete Commedia (in perfect English terza rima) has just been published. For my review of it, see my most recent essay at Expansive Poetry Online.
Ah yes, Joseph, the eternal fictive speaker, or narrator (not necessarily the author), as I prefer to put it. Terza rima is fairly easy to write, provided the writer does not paint himself into a corner, and sure as hell it’s easier than a good villanelle. It might not surprise you, but both of these poems were written in 2009.
16 years ago (the age of my wheezing car) I might have empathized with this youth in this quest for sheer physical thrills. Now I have to focus on the challenges you set yourself, CB, in bringing every line ending into fruitful, relevant rhyme. (I regard your comment about terza rima sceptically.)
To me, “Case History” is a bit prickly and also portentous: the author has been distinctive, alright, but what has been the nature of the crutch?
2 most intriguing poems!
The good thing about cars is that you can buy a new one. I don’t climb many rocks these days — stairs are trouble enough. If you can write an ABAB quatrain, you are only a step or two away from terza rima.
What does “Case History ” portend? I hope you didn’t mean “pretentious.” The crutch is merely a tool associated with lameness. Is Byron our only lame poet?
Loved both poems as well as the informative responses. Thank you all!
Yeah, jd, the responses are everything.
Where responses are everything, I must make one or two. Your “Classic Case History” seems to be its own genre, more resembling the medical than the legal, both of which can read as difficult unrhymed riddles. Yours moves in a kinder and briefer way, still finishing off with an identity clue. “Before the Tower” I have never quite understood the thrill of climbing either rocks or structures. I am glad you confine yourself to stairs, as I would imagine you more inclined toward garden soil. If so, I ordinarily agree with maintaining a level, earth-oriented perspective even while looking up. I do, however, like the outlook on time that calendars can provide. Keep up the good words!