Origins, Part 2
After the introduction from two days ago I wanted to give you a little more perspective. The previous blog entry was associated with why I write, but the purpose of this blog is to understand what my project is about and why I am doing it.
I will introduce the project concept as we go along, but for now all you need to know is why the Raven is important to me personally.
I wrote the following poem when I was 16. This was the beginning of it all and it is a true story.
Blackbird
A phone call at two in the morning
I didn’t even wake
only an hour earlier
I woke to no sound at all
and no trouble
Sleep came easily back
nothing else ever does
It was 6:45 before I knew
that he had died
The blinds swing
as they always do
when the heat comes on
in the early mornings of winter
the light on the wall
cast through the holes
blinking on and off
on and off
with the swaying
Walking through the day
Tightly bound to the Earth
Heavy steps carry me while my mind
stops caring and my heart
grows stiff
Blinking over red, dry eyes
I see the crow, hear it utter
a low lamenting cry
I look not for where
his shadow touches the ground
but where his wings
touch the air
I fly with him
over the red brick pavement
and for a moment I am free
The next day we drive to Arizona
to see the empty house with new carpet
new paint on the walls
with the ghosted scent of cigarettes
in everything you sit on
in every breath you take
Two sons, three daughters
a new wife and four grandchildren
make up the family of the man
made corpse
lying on a mortuary gurney
in a blue suit
under a white sheet
Some of us pop Vicks and Halls
to make the pain in our throats go away
It is still there
We hold ourselves back and pretend
to listen to the elevator music
piping into the dead room
not giving in to the tears in our eyes
or the cry of our hearts
trying to laugh, nod, be brave and stoic
instead of being real
They block out the real
cover windows with curtains
drape dusty fabric flowers
in recycled vases
lay a gold painted
plastic crucifix on his chest
This is not my grandfather
I try to picture something
other than years of cancerous decay
of fumes and surgeries
and tube fed silence
but I cannot see beyond the pale flesh
until my father walks
to his father’s side
and whispers God bless you Dad
and breaks into tears
I remember
The war hero who flew sixty three missions
Saved the life of a pilot
by pulling him out of a burning plane
consoled a friend
by giving him a poem he wrote
when his mother died
gave his granddaughter a tree to climb
I never said goodbye
So I light all the candles I can find
they burn a real flame
I promise to grow roses, marigolds, trees
never to place a curtain over a sunny window
and when winter comes
the dawn light shining through
the swaying blinds
blinking on and off
I will think of you
At night when the sun is gone
and the candles quenched
I will join you on the wings of a blackbird
whose shadow
never touches
the ground
I will introduce the project concept as we go along, but for now all you need to know is why the Raven is important to me personally.
I wrote the following poem when I was 16. This was the beginning of it all and it is a true story.
Blackbird
A phone call at two in the morning
I didn’t even wake
only an hour earlier
I woke to no sound at all
and no trouble
Sleep came easily back
nothing else ever does
It was 6:45 before I knew
that he had died
The blinds swing
as they always do
when the heat comes on
in the early mornings of winter
the light on the wall
cast through the holes
blinking on and off
on and off
with the swaying
Walking through the day
Tightly bound to the Earth
Heavy steps carry me while my mind
stops caring and my heart
grows stiff
Blinking over red, dry eyes
I see the crow, hear it utter
a low lamenting cry
I look not for where
his shadow touches the ground
but where his wings
touch the air
I fly with him
over the red brick pavement
and for a moment I am free
The next day we drive to Arizona
to see the empty house with new carpet
new paint on the walls
with the ghosted scent of cigarettes
in everything you sit on
in every breath you take
Two sons, three daughters
a new wife and four grandchildren
make up the family of the man
made corpse
lying on a mortuary gurney
in a blue suit
under a white sheet
Some of us pop Vicks and Halls
to make the pain in our throats go away
It is still there
We hold ourselves back and pretend
to listen to the elevator music
piping into the dead room
not giving in to the tears in our eyes
or the cry of our hearts
trying to laugh, nod, be brave and stoic
instead of being real
They block out the real
cover windows with curtains
drape dusty fabric flowers
in recycled vases
lay a gold painted
plastic crucifix on his chest
This is not my grandfather
I try to picture something
other than years of cancerous decay
of fumes and surgeries
and tube fed silence
but I cannot see beyond the pale flesh
until my father walks
to his father’s side
and whispers God bless you Dad
and breaks into tears
I remember
The war hero who flew sixty three missions
Saved the life of a pilot
by pulling him out of a burning plane
consoled a friend
by giving him a poem he wrote
when his mother died
gave his granddaughter a tree to climb
I never said goodbye
So I light all the candles I can find
they burn a real flame
I promise to grow roses, marigolds, trees
never to place a curtain over a sunny window
and when winter comes
the dawn light shining through
the swaying blinds
blinking on and off
I will think of you
At night when the sun is gone
and the candles quenched
I will join you on the wings of a blackbird
whose shadow
never touches
the ground
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