Poetry: Selections from John Stanizzi

BEACH

At the same moment

we began a heated argument

the temperature arrived

in the guise of a flaming caravan,

the throbbing, screeching, heckling,

of a tatty winged locomotive,

 

The hotness landed on the sand,

mica-quartz infused and sparkling-

might we talk about that a bit

instead of battling one another?

 

I was instantly saturated with sweat

which oiled my rising anger.

so it could shift more effortlessly.

 

--

 

The heat took a moment

to allow its pennaceous feathers

to cool down.

 

I thought,

That should be worth a sentence or two, no?

 

​​I’ll start.

 

Gee, I think the heat has let up,

​​it might be getting a bit cooler.

 

Something like that?

 

*

 

We were sitting on a treasure chest,

the beach.

 

It was covered with myriad caches of favors.

I could not keep that thought at bay.

Wasn’t bringing together this astonishing miscellany 

of whittled down pieces of our world enough

to shut down a preposterous disagreement.

 

…driftwood from trees or boards, 

slivers of boats, cockle shells, clam shells,

 

the Vampiresque egg casings 

of skates and rays (Mermaid purses), 

mussel shells, oyster shells, snail shells, 

the fossils of sea urchins,

 

the occasional shark tooth, sea glass with 

its frosted surface that could be 50 years old 

or more in the making, whelk shells riddled

with acorn barnacles, a fish-eye harvested by a gull,

unidentifiable pieces of metal, skulls and other bones.

bottle caps, even a smoothed white domino.

 

How could this not be sufficient enough

to turn the burner down on the hostility?

So many riches against the endless scrim 

of the chiseled sparkling earth

and we could we not find

one thing to speak civilly about?

 

How sad.

 

We must have done that, spoken civilly to each other,

at one time,

very long ago.

Now it seems we’ve forgotten how,

as if we never really knew how 

in the first place.

 

Scallops, conches, quahogs,

crabs and clams, cuttlefish bones, 

lobster claws, starfish, old buoys,

and the hollowed out

helmets of skates.

 

*

 

There was a mist of small birds in the treetops.

They disappeared when the rain came.

 

I wanted to stay

– don’t ask me why –  

but you had become incensed

and wanted to leave…

…immediately

like those birds,

 

but I was still scanning the beach

for something of value

from this storehouse of surprises

 

*

 

But we left of course.

That’s what you wanted

so there was no discussing it

 

I really wanted to tell you 

about what I had seen-

 

Some might describe these treasures

as ordinary. That’s what happens 

when we are swallowed,

when all the glinting in our brains 

has  been scooped out,

and the trash left behind becomes banal.

We become uninterested,

or worse, apathetic.

 

*

 

May I tell you what I saw?

I’ll be honest,

that’s the reason I asked you to come along today,

so I could tell someone about the riches I had seen

and to remember to include in my description

the affection, the awe

that completely satiated all of me.

 

When two people gaze long enough,

they become lovers-

sandpipers, an oystercatcher,

an elderly woman wearing a large

straw hat that wanted to blow away

I saw young boys throwing around a football

while the girls watched, 

I recognized a man from back home

who was dying…

 

…once we’re this splintered

there’s no 

putting us back together.

AMBER ALERT

Police must believe an abduction has occurred. They must be certain that the child is at risk of serious injury or death. Police must have the child’s description, and a description of the captor or captor’s vehicle. The child must be child must be 17 or younger.

 

“You are her last hope.”

*

​​​cars on the road      

ribbons on the doll 

its eyes open 

filling with rain

how can there be so many cars 

did no one have eyes

to see the doll in the soft hands

of the child

see her cry

looking around wildly

at nothing familiar

*

birds everywhere     

ribbons tied to trees

signs stapled on telephone poles

birds must have seen something

something they might even speak of

landing in the branches

pretending not to see

*

bones in the field     

sun sets over half-buried bones 

birds’ music sewn into the branches

like lace so delicate it cannot be seen

though we are sure of its presence

 

after the girl was stolen

the man kept the doll

which now had one arm missing

lost as the girl fought for her life

the doll’s ribbon dripped with thick wet mud-

-its eyes slammed shut 

when the man crushed the doll

with the heel of his boot.

THIRST

"Nothing is as important as passion. No matter what 

you want to do with your life, be passionate.”

 

​​-T.S. Eliot

​​

 

One bit of evidence

that proves I’m an old man

is the fact that by 5 p.m.

I must struggle to make it to 6.

 

I try to sleep, 

pain crawling 

all over me

all night long,

insects of anguish.

 

But my mind

is off on its own-

affliction of disquiet.

It can’t forget

the room filled

with imagined boxes,

the boxes

where my days of passion 

have been locked shut

and put away.

 

What can be left of them?

Must be nothing,

though I do recall

how it felt 

to possess passion,

a kind of passion so feral 

it needed to be held back,

leashed,

muzzled.

 

I can only say to you

that which I believe.

We are not taught passion.

It grows with us,

like muscle or bone.

It’s not some preternatural mystery-

desire, sensuality, lust.

 

I remember a dark silent dirt road

running alongside a large lake.

 

It was there 

that simply being alive erupted into 

 

 

 

a world of pleasure-

population, two.

 

Here was desire that expunged

any ignited sadness those days

winter or summer.

 

I recall so distinctly being oblivious 

to any temperature change 

other than the one 

we kindled with our bodies.

 

But for decades

repulsive barges 

pushed us slowly along

in opposite directions/

Our cargo?

The catastrophe of our pasts.

 

The present will always be buckled

by the inflexibility of what came before it,

the two of them bonded together

giving the impression

that there were no past events​

and the present has always been

exactly what it seems.

 

Look closely, carefully.

You will find no fine lines of separation-

it appears as one long story

changing imperceptibly

except for our growing knowledge

that we can never

resume the journey.

DREAM 

A certain nobility is implicit in saying what I don't believe 

and hoping you believe it. 

​​-Terrance Hayes

 

 

 unsure if I’m awake or not

I must wait until something transpires

that could only occur in sleep

 

…and it does

…a quick very quiet Pooof!

 

then I’m standing in the yard

in perfect blackness

 

I feel a ramping of energy

the engine

of this recurring dream

 

I’ll stand still as a fencepost

arms above my head

reaching into the sky

 

bend my knees slightly

through groaning arthritis

and gently push off 

planet earth

 

that’s it

 

I’m off

airborne

flying

 

miles and miles up

I see my breath

as if I’m being pulled along

by a tiny cloud

 

I travel

in the direction I look

 

Revealing my intentions

I think Up! Up!

 

or look toward the ground

and with fleet nonchalance

precipitously jet  

between close branches 

wheeling​ tumbling​running 

across the firmament

 

then I’m standing in my yard again

in flawless darkness

 

during one small part of a moment

I’m soaring through space--

in another acre of the same moment 

I’m standing in the yard

trusting entirely

in what I just experienced

 

*

 

back in the house

I sit by the window

and watch the jewelweed climb

 

I know I should 

keep these things secret

lest someone suspect me

of beginning to lose it

but it’s impossible

 

Night of gypsy moths,

of heat,

of death staring twice

at children,

that spineless son of a bitch

 

I rise from my chair

turn and gaze at myself

in bed

where I seem wide awake

watching myself at the window

the look on my face

a stiff mask of terror

SLEEPWALKING…AGAIN

-An ekphrastic sestina.

…after Sleepwalking, photography by Alex Bramford (UK) 2023

 

For the poem’s sake let’s use the word unconscious. 

A place this idyllic, with its dirt road,   

and in the distance behind me, the cliff, 

protected by the guards of four chimneys,  

is made graceful on the wings of four birds   

flying off the narrow beach and the shore.

 

Thoughts of college and Wordsworth on the shore,

with big thoughts of adventure, unconscious

about everything but the boat and birds

performing stall turns above the dirt road,

then over his house with its four chimneys,

and out to sea, their scrim, the massive cliff.

 

The shore pressed heavy on the mammoth cliff,

and my spine quaked as wind pushed us to shore.

Afraid to move but knowing the chimneys

were behind me as I grew unconscious.

In a moment I felt the stone dirt road,

Still asleep I could sense the flight of birds.

 

They’re here. I know they are. I saw the birds!

Almost like a leg of lamb, the sliced cliff.

I’m sure I’m awake, walking the dirt road.

That quiet sound is the ocean’s low shore

against the cliff base. Am I unconscious?

Pebbles hurt my feet. I smell the chimneys.

 

I seem to recall there were four chimneys,

and the endless screeching of sea birds.

Perhaps I’m not awake or unconscious.

I’ve grown anxious. When I turn, will the cliff

still be there being reshaped by the shore?

I should head for home along dirt road.

 

You see! Now I’ve confused myself. What road?

Hurry! I’m sure I don’t recall chimneys!

But I know they are there, facing the shore.

It is deathly quiet now. No more birds!

Were I closer I would jump off the cliff.

Oh Lord! Not again! I am unconscious.

 

I’m far from shore, but I still hear the birds.

Still on the dirt road and I smell chimneys.

Unconscious no more, and there is the cliff.

John Stanizzi is author of 15 books, among them - Ecstasy Among Ghosts, Sleepwalking, Chants, POND, Feathers and Bones, SEE. Besides A Thin Slice of Anxiety, where he is a frequent contributor, he has been published widely -  Prairie Schooner, Cortland Review, Rattle,  Tar River, Potomac Review, Paterson Review, and others.