260 Childhood poems

After Les Murray Inside the sandpit you are playing for your life. Your bucket and spade that smiled all day long, like family in your satchel, now work hard. Your material is sand. It weaves a universe where you are huge, the cellar behind you, eclipsed by twelve chestnut trees and their pigeon gods. On and on you burrow, into your sanctuary, devotion’s priest. There are rituals to do, like counting leaves on the sky’s loom. Any lapse and you tumble back into the brain’s forks, rick-racking the minutes for the lock that unclicks, the coffining dark, the hooded stranger with Papa’s voice, the makeshift bed.

July 13, 2013 Saturday afternoon: in the driveway between buildings they blow up balloons—yellow, red, blue—for a 3-year-old’s party. The intermittent pops startle me like random gunfire—remind me of birthdays brown boys will no longer celebrate. The DJ, having set up the speakers, begins to play—the music, a rapid fire of bass thump, commandeers the apartment. We have no choice but leave. An art show: canvases colored with boxes and lines—a grid of red on a backdrop of yellow. We speak of the abstract with wine in our mouths. Meanwhile, in an antechamber, six are sequestered. They speak of mali- cious intent, blood, evidence, testimony—murder versus manslaughter. We arrive home to a throng of brown bodies, hands clutching red cups, and music: its insistent treble stabbing the ears. Inside, we slam all windows, but the music still blares as my niece shoots people on the video game—its sounds are too realistic to bear. Instead, the news, a verdict is in: not guilty. And everything is a blur of sound, my heart beating so fast I put a hand to my chest. I watch the TV screen: a collage of abstractions—spotlights, microphones, smiles, handwritten signs. I stare, as if it were a painting— a smear of twisted faces smothered in gesso and oil, a grid of red on a backdrop of yellow—to make sense of. The party continues. The 3-year-old probably in bed dreaming of melted ice cream, and I am tired of partying. There is a police station a half block away and I want it to burn. Instead, only the smoke of weed, the meaningless music droning on, the popping of balloons. Sunday morning, the birds are angry—their chirping a noisy chant: NO NO NO NO. Outside, the rubbery flesh of balloons color the driveway like splotches of paint. In an instant, those still lives of heave and breath—gone in a pop.

When the strange girl skips rope her hair flies like a porpoise. She collects things that melt and things that tick, circles and cubes and checkerboards in a drawer she can pull out from her navel. Other children, alerted by the rumble of marbles in her chest, chase her across the field. She insists she is only hungry, but they pin her down and open her up. Cockroaches rush out and bullies run and squeal, crushing carapaces underfoot. She gathers as many as she can, tells them she’s sorry there is no lock. She’s sorry, but good children shouldn’t have secrets.

I The sidewalks were long where I grew up. They were as veined as the backs Of my Grandma’s hands. We knew every inch of pavement; We jumped the cracks Chanting rhymes that broke evil spirits, Played tag at sunset Among the fireflies and sweet maple trees Or sang wishful sonnets about boyfriends To the tune of whipping jump ropes. The sidewalks wrapped around corners Like dirty ribbons lacing the old houses Together in tight knots; Maple trees bordered The all-white cemetery. Sometimes we’d watch Priscilla’s uncle Sway down the dirt alley towards home. We called her Pussy, called him Crazy Max. He was feebleminded and took to fits, Barely making it from alley to pavement, Loping down the street like a drunk. We paced his jagged walk Against tumbling tunes, Taunting each pigeon-toed footstep With rhyme. The boys      bolder, louder The girls       tagging along Braids flopping like twisted hemp, Ending in brightly colored ribbons. We turned our black faces into silence When he finally made it home; Watched him grope up the broken concrete stairs, Clutch the wooden railing, Lunge for the broken screen door And his medicine. His tongue flopped wildly, Parrot noises drowning his sister’s cries As she rushed from the black pit Of their house. One day, he leaned away from the safe umbrella Of his sister’s voice; Leaned into the sky, Hanging on the porch rail like a rag doll, Then fell into the cracks of the sidewalk. We rarely chanted after that, Always passed Pussy’s house in silence. Sometimes I’d sit in the sweet stillness Of Grandma’s moldy basement And draw his outline on the wet fuzzy walls. The grey concrete backdropped my stick figure As it fell into nothingness. II Bumpsy played the Dirty Dozens As we jackknifed the length of the block, Forcing grown-ups off the street. We linked arms like soldiers, Our black legs scissoring in precision. One’s a company, two’s a crowd Three on the sidewalk is not allowed— Last night, the night before Twenty-four robbers at my door— Po-lice, po-lice, do your duty Make this boy stop feeling my booty— Mary, Mary, tell me true Who is the one you love? Tin soldiers, wooden guns, and sharp tongues. We got comic books for the price of one In blitz attacks at Old Man Farrow’s dirty store. Garages were secret places for dirty jokes, Our folks couldn’t afford cars. When we got older, we played house for real Until we found Terry’s baby sister’s body Behind a stack of tires; The melodies we’d sung still seemed to bounce Off the dirty walls and stacks of comic books. III Our houses ended at the sidewalk, Whitewashed steps gleaming like teeth Against the blocks of grey pavement. We walked three blocks just to find A vacant lot to feed Mildred’s thirst For green grass. Fat Vaughn could eat a whole sheet Of newspaper in less than three minutes. Once, I licked the damp cellar wall, But the taste didn’t match the sweet smell. Ten years later, I searched through Grandma’s Things before they were sold for auction. I found her picture, three comics and the wind-up Victrola we had used to put on our version Of Cotton Club musicals. We traded days so we could all be stars; The rest sang chorus until the Victrola Ran out of steam, the record moaning Like a sick calf. I found the stack of old pillows We collapsed on, giggling and tumbling Against each other like puppies, While the needle stuck in one groove Cutting circles in the records.

As cars pass, laboring through the slush, a boy, bundled against the stiff wind in his snow suit, gloves, and scarf, leans on his upright toboggan, waiting his turn atop the snow-packed overpass— the highest point in town. First one car exits, and then another, each creeping down the icy ramp. The brown grass pokes through the two grooves carved in the short hill. As the second car fishtails to a stop at the bottom, brake lights glowing on the dirty snow, the boy’s turn comes. His trip to the bottom is swift— only a second or two— and he bails out just before the curb. It’s not much, but it’s sledding in Wichita.

for Nicholas Fuhrmann I   Pig I was in the outhouse I heard somebody at the pump I looked out the chink hole It was the two fishermen They stole fish One man gave the other one some money He flipped a fifty-cent piece up I lost it in the sun I saw the snake doctors riding each other The other man said “You lose” He took something else out of his pocket It shined They had a tow sack I thought they were cleaning fish I looked up I saw the snake doctors riding each other I took my eye away It was dark in the outhouse I whistled I heard the pump again It sounded broken I looked out the chink hole It wasn’t the pump It was the pig The guitar player cut them out The midget helped him “Pump me some water, midget” he said The pig ran off The guitar player washed off his hands The midget washed off the nuts He got a drink My eye hurt He laughed He cleaned the blood off his knife    He wiped it on his leg He started singing The dog tried to get the nuts But the midget kicked him The guitar player picked them up He put them in his pocket The dog went over to the pig He licked him I pulled my pants up I went outside I got the pig I walked over to the pump I said “Don’t you ever lay a hand on this pig again” The guitar player laughed He asked me if I wanted the nuts back He took them out of his pocket He spit on them He shook them like dice He threw them on the ground He said “Hah” The midget stomped on them I had the pig under my arm He was bleeding on my foot    I said “Midget, I got friends on that river” II   The Acolyte The men rode by I passed them on the road They smelled like dead fish The one in front had a guitar on his back The other one had a chain saw I was riding the hog He weighed three-hundred pounds I called him Holy Ghost The midget flashed a knife He thumbed the blade He smiled at me He called me “Pig Rider” I rode over to Baby Gauge’s I was on my way to church I had to get the red cassock I tied the hog to the front porch Baby Gauge was swinging in a tire Born In The Camp With Six Toes was sleeping in the icebox Baby Gauge said “Be at the levee at three o’clock” I put the robe on I said “I almost got drowned last time” “Going to have a mighty good time” he said “Going to be an eclipse” Born In The Camp With Six Toes said I rode the hog to church I took the new shoes off I lit the candles I changed the book I rung the bell I was drinking the wine I heard Baby Gauge yell I ran down the aisle I saw the men at the trough They were beating the hog over the head with sledge hammers It was like the clock in the German pilot’s shack One of his eyes was hanging out And the trough was running over with blood They held his head under the water He was rooting in his own blood He pumped it out in a mist Like a buck shot in the lung It was black He broke loose I ran down the road yelling I stepped on soda bottle caps I ran through sardine cans I tripped on the cassock The hog was crazy He ran into the church He ran into tombstones I said “Somebody throw me something” Chinaman threw me a knife I ran after the hog He was heading for the river I jumped on his back I rode the hog I hugged his neck I stabbed him seven times I wanted the knife to go into me He kept running I ran the knife across his throat And the blood came out like a bird We ran into a sycamore tree When the cloud passed over the moon Like a turkey shutting its eye I rowed out into the slew Not allowing myself to sing gospel music I woke up in a boat It was full of blood My feet were dragging through the water A knife was sticking in the prow And the sun was black It was dark But I saw the snake doctors riding each other I saw my new shoes I put them on They filled up with blood I took the surplice off I threw it in the river I watched it sink There was hog blood in my hair I knelt in the prow with the knife in my mouth I looked at myself in the water I heard someone singing on the levee I was buried in a boat I woke up I set it afire with the taper I watched myself burn I reached in the ashes and found a red knife I held my head under the water so I wouldn’t go crazy It was some commotion I rowed the boat in a circle with one oar A hundred people were in the water They had white robes on Some of them had umbrellas They jumped up and down on the bank They rowed down the levee They were yelling and singing One of them saw me I saw a horse with tassels I put my head under the water I thought I was dead I hit it on a cypress knee Two Negroes came riding through the river They rode towards me on the moon-blind horse One of them was drinking soda water “Where are you going, boy” Baby Gauge said The horse swam back to the levee I was with them The boat drifted away A man said “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego” III   Hambone They tied his hind legs together And hung him in a tree with a log chain I saw them I was on Baby Gauge’s horse I threw a knife at the midget So they hung me up by the feet too I saw them break his neck I saw them pull his legs apart like a wishbone I wished the dead came back The midget stood on a bucket He reached up in the hog’s throat And pulled the heart out The dog was lying on the ground With his mouth open It took all day to butcher the hog I got dizzy I saw the snake doctors riding each other They turned the bucket over It filled up with blood They made a fire The guitar player beat his hand over his leg He put some meat on the fire They tried to make me eat it The midget spit a bone on the ground The other one picked it up He put it on his finger He went over and got his guitar He tried to play it like a Negro There was too much grease on his hands He got blood on the guitar The midget danced around the campfire I wanted to cut his throat The dog bayed at the moon And the blue Andalusian rooster played with a snake I was bleeding out my nose The fish bandits loaded the hog on Baby Gauge’s horse They threw blood on the fire And filled the bucket up with guts for fish bait When they rode off I yelled “Peckerwoods” I dreamed I saw Holy Ghost walking around the campfire He was a wild hog with blood on his tushes Along about midnight I heard a boat but no rowing Somebody short came walking out of the woods With a light on his head The light went out I couldn’t see He drew something out of his boot He grabbed me by the hair I saw a knife in the moonlight “Sweet Jesus” I said Born In The Camp With Six Toes cut me down IV   Chainsaw The man cut his hand off at dawn I heard him yell I set up in bed He ran past the window “Don’t let the dog get it” he said I got out of bed I had the long handles on It was cold I threw some wood on the fire I put the dime around my ankle I put my boots on I put a knife in the boot I walked out to the road The blue Andalusian rooster followed me It was dark I heard the chainsaw in the woods I heard him singing all night He was cutting firewood He was drunk The dog quit barking I drew the knife out of my boot I looked for the midget I saw the blood and I tracked it I saw the sun and the moon I saw the snake doctors riding each other The hand was in the sawdust It was moving The hambone was on the finger It was morning The dog didn’t get it I did There was blood on the chainsaw I told the blue rooster “He thought it was a guitar” I walked around the hand seven times I poked it with a stick I sung to it I picked it up like a snake I took the hambone off the finger I put Holy Ghost’s bone in my boot I put the hand on a stump I danced on the hand I peed on it I broke a wine bottle over it I threw it up in the air and a hawk hit it The dog licked the blood out of the dust I saw the fish bandit’s guitar The blue rooster pecked it I beat the hand with it I threw the guitar in the river The snake doctors lit on it It floated away I went down to the bank I got a pole I put a hook through the hand I washed it off When I touched the wound with my knife it rolled up in a fist Somebody came by in a boat They held up a big fish So I held up the hand They jumped out of the boat They thought I crossed them One of them said “That wasn’t no hoodoo, was it” It was Baby Gauge I said “No, it was the guitar player’s hand” They swam to the bank I told them how I came by it Born In The Camp With Six Toes said “It won’t Take another fish off my lines” I asked them “You want to shake it” Baby Gauge said “No, I want to spit on it” We spit on the hand They left I wrapped it up in newspaper like fish I took it home I put it under Jimmy’s pillow and he knocked my teeth out I put it in a cigar box with a picture of Elvis Presley I took it to town I walked over to the dance hall The guitar player was bleeding in the back of the pickup I gave him the cigar box He passed out The midget pulled a knife on me I picked up the hand He ran off On the way home I ran folks off the road When the truck came by the house The guitar player raised up in the bed He said “Give me my hand back” When it was dark I tied fish line to it and hung it in the outhouse I sung to it The moon shined through the chink hole on the hand I took it down I threw it in a yellow jacket nest I stomped on it I took it to the palm reader I said “Sister, read this” A lot of evenings I listened for them I knew they would come back When a stranger got a drink at night I thought it was the Holy Ghost And sometimes a cloud went by like a three-legged dog And the thunder was someone with a shotgun Letting him have it Now the moon was a fifty-cent piece It was a belly I wanted to cut open When the flies got bad I kept the hand in the smokehouse V   Swimming at Night The midget ran his finger across his neck The other one said “Give it back” I waited in the outhouse I had a sawed-off shotgun The men rode off In the afternoon they sold fish They cleaned them at the pump The scales dried up on their faces They loaded the meat on stolen horses At night they rode up shooting pistols I slept with an ice pick under my pillow One night they rode up drunk The midget was sitting in the guitar player’s lap He said “Come on out” They tied a bale of hay to Baby Gauge’s horse They poured coal oil on it They set it on fire They laughed The horse with the moon eye pranced around them He galloped home I carved wild hog out of a cypress knee I made it the handle I made four tushes out of the hambone I used the blade I brought out of the fire And sealed the pig with It was the blade I put the burning horse to sleep with I called the knife the Holy Ghost To make me go crazy I took all my clothes off And jumped down the hole in the outhouse I grabbed the yellow jacket nest And held it over my heart I pumped cold water over myself And wallowed in the mud I walked through the snake den barefooted I swam the river at midnight With the hand and a blue feather in my mouth And the Holy Ghost around my neck And the hooks caught in my arms    they caught in my legs I cut the trot lines in two I saw the guitar player stealing the fish I was swimming beneath the shack Under the sleeping midget With the fish bandit’s hand in my mouth I climbed through the trap door I crawled under the bed I cut the hooks out I believe I was snake bit I put the hand in the slop jar I reached up and tickled his nose with the feather He got out of bed He turned the lights on He let down his pants He reached under the bed for the slop jar He took the lid off He screamed I brought the knife across his leg I hamstrung the midget I swam under the water With the hand in my mouth I came up near the guitar player’s boat He was running the lines I swam to the other end of the trot line I put the hand on a hook I jerked the lines like a big fish The guitar player worked his way down He thought he had a good one I let go of the line He saw his left hand He screamed He fell out of the boat I swam back through the river I buried the knife in the levee I was sleeping in the Negro’s lap He was spitting snuff on my wounds Born In The Camp With Six Toes cut me with a knife Baby Gauge sucked the poison out Oh Sweet Jesus the levees that break in my heart

for Kathe Izzo I was 6 and I lost my snake. The table shook I can do better than this and shambled to the kitchen to the scene of the crime I was green I put my sneaker down, little shoe I felt the cold metal tap my calf moo and everything began to change. I am 6 turned into lightning wrote on the night At 6, I was feathers scales, I fell into the slime of it, lit You think you are six, it yelled. I am face to face with a frog a woman alone in bed. The square of the window persists. I am 6. The phone rings It’s my sister blamm I dropped a plate. Sorry. Now the clouds slide by afraid, awake my feet are cold but I’m fearless I am 6. Under here with bottle caps and stars adults and low moans, busses slamming on brakes I am 6 the cake is lit it’s round the children sing. I will never return. We are so small. My husband turns his fevered face. I put the medicine down. Click. I am 6. The movie rolls on. Tramping feet, music blaring at the end of the war. I am frightened hold my hand The round face of the woman upstairs, moving the faucets, strips of vegetable slithering down, her reptile child will never return. The telephone rings. It’s me. I’m six.

My mother sends the baby pictures she promised— egg hunting in Shelby Park, wooden blocks and Thumbelina tossed on the rug, knotty pine walls in a house lost to memory. I separate out the early ones, studying my navel or crumbs on the tray, taken before my awareness of Sylvania Superflash. Here I am sitting on the dinette table, the near birthday cake striking me dumb. Two places of wedding china, two glasses of milk, posed for the marvelous moment: the child squishes the fluted rosettes, mother claps her hands, father snaps the picture in the face of time. When the sticky sweet is washed off the page, we are pasted in an album of blessed amnesia. The father leaves the pine house and sees the child on weekends, the mother stores the china on the top shelf until it’s dull and crazed, the saucer-eyed girl grips her curved spoon like there’s no tomorrow.

After Kristen Sze-Tu the likelihood of forgetting the dress she wore when she was young the road to Likas Bay pictures fell down in the earthquake we could keep them we could throw them all away everything I never asked my grandmother I can understand but I can’t speak no one has played that piano since New Zealand is so far away from here let me translate for you the poem on the wall

(from Twelfth Night ) When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man’s estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, ’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads, For the rain it raineth every day. A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that’s all one, our play is done, And we’ll strive to please you every day.