In My Father's Books

[Ron Wallace (Scotshawk)]

In My Father’s Books     {Revised}

I have found his stolen words,
his voice echoing
in pencil marks on margined pages
          like a rifle shot among the trees.

He is alive, here in Sackett’s Brand,
and with each page turning,
he turns
          back into denim and leather;
muscles made swinging a nine pound hammer
flex beneath khaki sleeves
          as he walks away from the wreckage,
                    the cage of failing flesh
that tried to pen him in the final hours.

I am reading lines
          my father’s once blue eyes
faded-grey,
held in the coming light of winter;
words from these pages burned into him,
oils from his fingertips bled into this paper
where he rose before me.




In My Father’s Books

I am reading my father’s books
          his faded-grey, blue eyes once held
these lines in the coming light of winter;
words from these pages burned into his brain,
oils from his fingertips bled into this paper.

I have found his stolen words restored,
his voice echoing
in pencil marks on margined pages
          like a rifle shot among the trees.

He is alive, here in Sackett’s Brand,
and with each page turning,
he turns
          back into denim and leather;
muscles made swinging a nine pound hammer
flexing beneath khaki sleeves
          as he walks away from the wreckage,
                    the cage of failing flesh
that tried to pen him in his final hours.

[Jonathan Morey Weiss-Namaste47]

I am always touched by the deep, deep love you express for your father, as he has become a part of you forever. My dad just turned 87.............I treasure the times I have with him.....he's in AZ and me back east in Jersey.

Great echo of turns..............and the final 2 lines are very strong.

[David Nelson Bradsher]

Ron, as always I'm pulled into your words and sentiments like a comfortable chair.

One thing before I go back and re-read again and again. Do you mean "faded grey-blue eyes" rather than "faded-grey blue eyes"

[Marion Poirier]

A wonderful emotional ride as always when reading your
poems, Ron. My comments would be a matter of
interpretation and preference rather than picks with
one exception that David has mentioned about blue-grey eyes.

In S2, I wonder at the use of stolen words and your
intent; I am thinking along the line of silenced words as
in a silenced voice - on consideration. i offer lost words, as in lost - then found.

Also, this line reads awkward to me;
muscles made swinging a nine pound hammer
flexing beneath khaki sleeves Perhaps restructuring
the line. Muscles flexing beneath khaki sleeves from
swinging a nine pound hammer . . .

for your consideraton only.


Marion

[LynnDoiron]

Oh my! I have too long away from reading your wondrous journeys into the hearts of the loved. You will know how to hande my suggestions below. As ever, my voice does tend to intrude . . . but a couple of these might serve the poem and stay on track with the loveliness here. Best Wishes and Merriest Days !! lynn

I am reading my father’s books
my father's faded grey-blue eyes once held,
these lines he read in the coming light of winter;
words from these pages burned into his brain his imagination,
oils from his fingertips bled into this paper.

I have found his stolen words, restored,
his voice echoing
in pencil marks on margined pages
like a rifle shot among the trees.

He is alive, here in Sackett’s Brand,
and with each page turning,
he turns
back into denim and leather;
muscles made swinging a nine-pound hammer
flex ing beneath khaki sleeves
as he walks away from the wreckage,
the cage of failing flesh
that tried to pen him in. his final hours.

[brianedwards]

Lovely Ron. Just damn good writing.

B.

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

Like always, Ron your words are powerful and the details sharp. I think the poem as ordered steps on its best lines in the first stanza. I would suggest getting into the poem in the midst of the story and ending it with the first stanza. This way I think a linear narrative takes on a magical quality that is surprising when we find out at the end… oils from his fingertips bled into this paper. Very nice! And your title “In my Father’s books” helps the reader to understand the context well.

My writing teacher has worked a lot with me on this technique. Often I think as storytellers we tend to tell our works in linear fashion. However, as I have thought about this technique in greater depth I have come to realize that most often poems, whether narrative or lyrical, are best told starting in the midst of. In studying Faulkner, who started as a poet, I am intrigued how he was mediocre at poetry when he attempted to write in structured forms in a Romantic style. He even went so far as to cal himself, “A failed poet.” However, if you look at Faulkner novels and think of his “Stream of Consciousness” prose techniques I think one comes to realize that Faulkner was not really “a failed poet” but rather one of the great long form/prose poets of our time. And his works are often told in varying chronology and he starts a chapter with a story that doesn’t have full context until you read about it later in another chapter. In this sense he rivals not so much Hawthorne or Melville but more Whitman and Homer. Here is a good site that talks about Faulkner as a poet.

www.mcsr.olemiss.edu/~egjbp/faulkner/lib_poetry.html

Here is my suggested rewrite:

I have found his stolen words restored,
his voice echoing
in pencil marks on margined pages
like a rifle shot among the trees.

He is alive, here in Sackett’s Brand,
and with each page turning,
he turns
back into denim and leather;
muscles made swinging a nine pound hammer
flexing beneath khaki sleeves
as he walks away from the wreckage,
the cage of failing flesh
that tried to pen him in his final hours.

I am reading my father’s books
his faded-grey, blue eyes once held
these lines in the coming light of winter;
words from these pages burned into his brain,
oils from his fingertips bled into this paper.

As always a special treat to read your work.

P.S. Can you make it to LA for a reading at Beyond Baroque in February? I am planning on reading with Juan Felipe Herrera and perhaps seeing if I can coax Tina out.

[alfredo]

Truly lovely almost devine, feel to this
I wish..

To father from son
A very special tribute
Focuses on a talent
As it should….
Indicating respect
Between them but
more importantly love
Son to father
as it should

I have to confess I like Leo’ approach also

[Marion Poirier]

Ron, the title tells what the poem is about
so the first stanza could be moved down -
if not for that - it would not occur to me
to change stanza's around.
Not a bad idea or else rename the poem.
Why repeat the title in the first line?
Marion

[purplejacket]

Yeah, smile, sigh. Hmmmm...
(That means I like it.)

In the last line, I read it at first as though he was trying to write - pen. Which was interesting against the books he'd read. But ultimately it didn't work, and I had to change my interpretation.

I like Lynn's changes, mostly, especially moving the word father. Can't say I'm fond of "burned into his brain." Ahhh, but so much to attach to here. The skin oil, the muscles, the khaki. Wonderful details.

[Ron Wallace (Scotshawk)]

Thanks for a ton of help on this one. I'm still keeping it open for more tuning, but the idea for a new opening, was inspired, Leo, and Lynn, Amanda and Marion's ideas fit well. Thanks to all who read and offered comments; they made a difference. Ron

[alfredo]

In a sincere way to me, this is marvelous. I returned to it today with not a little envy, not only for its choice of words, form, theme, images but the feelings conveyed here between son and father e.g. the opening lines ...


"I have found his stolen words,
his voice echoing
in pencil marks on margined pages
like a rifle shot among the trees.

He is alive (indeed he is) , here in Sackett’s Brand,
and with each page turning,
he turns
back into denim and leather...


Just to hold it up once more!

[mfwilkie]

Cowboy,

Read this again today and I was bothered by the word 'stolen'.

Made some suggestions to tighten it up a bit.

My father's voice lingers
in the margins of his favorite books;
his thoughts, in pencil marks
mingled with oils from his fingertips,
rebound off my heart like a shot in the woods.
assaults your ears.

And images come—
my father in denim and leather
as he powers a nine pound hammer.

I'd like to see more of him, Ron.

re: future reprints of the book, I think they can reset a page for you if it was typeset.

Maggie