Poetry: Selections from John L. Stanizzi

Going Without

-to my son

 

Through high blushes,

amid all that green

it presents its first scarlet leaves,

and the chickadees are little crescents

of light flickering

among the branches.

 

I’m starting to work on

living without summer.

It’s rather like learning

to live without a child who has,

for his own reasons,

taught himself to live without his father.

 

You must learn to say,

Now I will live,

even now, with a stalled hurricane

spinning backwards off the coast,

the drought persisting,

the pond more shallow every day,

its banks bone-brittle,

and winter hiding in the landscape,

gathering its pitiless gray forces.

Daddy’s Work

- A golden shovel – after Terrance Hayes after Gwendolyn Brooks after “We Real Cool.”

 

Every morning Daddy left for what we

Feared would be years, and the sadness was real.

Until we realized one dark and cool

Summer evening late into June that we

Were completely wrong. The truth was he left

On mornings before we headed for school,

And he was nowhere to be found when we

Would get home, after our frightening lurk

Through the trash-laden alleys that, of late

Had begun to frighten us because we

Heard that a bad guy hung there, and he’d strike

You in a second, snatch your cell phone straight

Out your hand, his greasy smile saying We

Sorry kids, in a voice that seemed to sing,

Speaking 3rd person, like 1st were a sin.

Fear rose in us, overcame us and we

Ran terrified through the dank, misty-thin

Air of the alley, which smelled of hot gin.

And looking back now I wonder what we

Were afraid of. Could it have been that jazz

About ignoring strangers? It was June,

And it wouldn’t be too long before we

Knew where Daddy was, knew he’d never die.

We played carelessly, sure he’d be home soon.

Closing Time at the Venus Lounge

It’s 2.15 a.m., closing time.

No one in the joint but us.

Wendy has put her clothes on

and is seated at the far end of the bar

counting her singles

and eating a burger.

 

I’m on the pinball machine

next to the wooden 12 X 12 stage,

eighteen inches high.

Marky is wailing along

with Hot Blooded as he watches me play.

Doc is tossing stools up onto the bar.

 

Phil and Billy are waiting by the door.

Billy is buttoning up his pea coat,

Phil is taking a long haul

off the pint of Black Velvet

he keeps in his inside pocket.

 

Golden, the bouncer implores,

Alla you get the fuck outta here.

C’mon, man. Closing time!

 

Tommy bounces out of the men’s room

zipping up his fly.

What’s goin’ out here, men?

 

You’re leaving, shouts Golden,

as my father raises both arms above his head,

six beers, 3 between the fingers

on each of his meaty hands,

and announces,

Nobody’s leaving, Golden Boy,

Nobody’s leaving ‘til we finish

these fucking beers,

 

and Golden shakes his head,

smiles at my old man,

and takes a seat on his stool by the door.

John L. Stanizzi authored eleven collections - Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Dance Against the Wall, After the Bell, Hallelujah Time!, High Tide/Ebb Tide, Chants, Four Bits, Sundowning, POND, and The Tree That Lights the Way Home. He has been published in Prairie Schooner, American Life In Poetry, New York Quarterly, and many others. His translations appear widely in Italy and his nonfiction has appeared in Stone Coast Review, Ovunque Siamo, after the pause, many others. As a former New England Poet of the Year, John received a Fellowship in 2021 from Connecticut Office of the Arts. He ives in Coventry, CT., with his wife, Carol.