Yelling

by guest poet, David Starkey

Oh, when I think of all the places
my ex-wife yelled at me!
                                         Throughout
the house: in the kitchen and
in the bathroom, in the living room
and on the stairs, in the basement
by the washing machine,
and standing by the bookcase, throwing
books and yelling.
                         She yelled
at the supermarket check-out counter
when I thumbed through a copy
of Watch Your Weight, and on the corner
of Randolph and Michigan
during the biggest blizzard
in fifteen years.
                         In the backyard,
her voice growing hoarse
and raw with the madness
her mother and grandmother
and great-great grandmother
bequeathed to her, she yelled
until the neighbors looked over
our rickety back fence
(then she yelled at the them
for listening).
                         In the car,
especially in the comfort of the car:
on a five-minute trip to Burger King
or a ten hour drive to another
state. She yelled about the traffic
and her grievances at work
and what I had or hadn’t done
that day.
                 She bitched and belly-
ached, she fretted, carped and groaned.
She delivered tongue-lashings
and gave everyone every last
piece of her mind. She bewailed
and bemoaned her treatment
at the hands of strangers. She bellowed,
griped, groused and grumbled.

She even kvetched
occasionally, but primarily
she yelled.
                 She yelled at midnight
and at midday and
in the twilight—nothing about her voice
the slightest bit crepuscular.
She yelled at noon and
in the afternoon and early
in the dawn, before the stars
had faded, before I’d fully
come awake.
                         From what I hear,
she’s doing fine without me
there to listen, alone in the house
I gladly signed away, alone
with the wide world that made her
so desperately unhappy,
alone, alone but yelling still…

        

        

David Starkey is the poet laureate of Santa Barbara, California, and director of the creative writing program at Santa Barbara City College. Among his poetry collections are Starkey’s Book of States (Boson Books, 2007), Adventures of the Minor Poet (Artamo Press, 2007), Ways of Being Dead: New and Selected Poems (Artamo, 2006), David Starkey’s Greatest Hits (Pudding House, 2002) and Fear of Everything, winner of Palanquin Press’s Spring 2000 chapbook contest.

Other People’s Poetry: All too Brief

The bustle in a house

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, –

The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

 

Emily Dickenson

***

Lament for Shy Man

He would have hated this
the man who turned his face
to hedgerows rather than risk
a greeting on a country road.
It would be another death
to know the details of his life
were being discussed over
breakfast, at church gates,
in hazy snugs as far as
Moate and Mullingar.

 

Nessa O’Mahoney
Courtesy of the anthology, “The Backyards of Heaven”

April’s Top Five Videos

5. Dave Allen – the man who used to be on before the Benny Hill Show – gives you Christianity, through the eyes of a 4-year-old.

 
 

4. How to be sexy, according to Doctor Steve Rooster. Please keep in mind that this gentleman appears to take himself very seriously and, sadly, that there are probably women out there who indeed find him very sexay. How do I know that he is trying to appeal to women? Because this is the ‘cleanest’ of his videos. Click here to see a more educational segment.

 
 

3. Hit the 1:30 mark and look away from the screen for the duration of the song. Now the question I have is: Is it good because the singer is a good singer, or that the voice is coming from the body of a young Taiwanese man in a red bow-tie?

 
 

2. What David Attenborough doesn’t want you to know about spiders.

 

1. Tom Waits performing ‘The Piano Has Been Drinking’ on a 1977 talk show I’ve never heard of, for a host I find only vaguely familiar, and a co-host who’s now probably more famous than either.

 
 

Song of One Who Goes On

by David Whyte

Above Manang

What I have left behind
has not left me.
Those I have failed
have not failed me,
and those I have not loved
will love me
even in my worst.

What I have not seen
or failed to see
I leave as a gift.

The lands I have not walked
will offer their paths as I sleep.
This earth I have not loved
will hold me
even as I am laid beneath it.

To everything that is
I give everything I am not.

To the life through which
I have walked blindfold,
I give it in the sight of my weakness.

To life I give thanks for this-
one strength through great failure
with marvelous opportunity for all.