This blog is devoted to a select group of poets. We're starting with poets from the Ann Arbor area, but, hey, if you're from Detroit, Grand Rapids, Saginaw or the Upper Peninsula, then that is okay, too.
Our goal is to provide you with a prompt every day from which you are to garner inspiration and submit a poem. How to submit will be very easy. Just put your poem or short story in the comments section and hit post. You may not immediately see your post, but it is there under the "Comments" section. You may need to click on "Comments" to see your poem. It is there on another page.
Today's poem or short story prompt is "gradual".
Our goal is to provide you with a prompt every day from which you are to garner inspiration and submit a poem. How to submit will be very easy. Just put your poem or short story in the comments section and hit post. You may not immediately see your post, but it is there under the "Comments" section. You may need to click on "Comments" to see your poem. It is there on another page.
You may need to have a Gmail account to post in the comments section. Most of you do have Gmail, but for those of you that don't it's extremely worthwhile to open up one now! That way you've got a chance to get your work out there in the world.
Today's poem or short story prompt is "gradual".
7 of 7
ReplyDeleteC' 'na luna mezz'u mare
Mamma mia m'a maritare
Joe closes his eyes. He knows that the sound is in his head, not in the air around him. That's fine, he doesn't care. He leans the bike against the wall and sits down cross-legged on the garage floor. His right knee brushes lightly against the rear wheel of the bike. It feels good. It grounds him.
He listens.
Silence.
His mind wants to help. "The moon over the sea, mama," it offers. He asks it to be quiet - he'd rather listen. It nods and steps back a few feet, obedient but hopeful. He'll come and ask for the sounds soon enough. His mind has time. At least as much time as he has.
Sempe lu pesce mane tene
Se ce 'ncappa la fantasia
But I don't want to marry, Joe thinks. The luck of the draw. Of the tens of thousands he's heard over the years, this is the one that sticks. He smiles. The fisherman will bring the one-eyed fish, my daughter, says mamma. But I don't want to marry, mamma.
The sound fades slightly and Joe opens his eyes. The garage is suddenly dark, too dark for the few minutes he's been sitting there. He looks at his watch. 11:23! How? He walked outside at 8. He smiles. Time and space don't mean much anymore, do they? Hm? Not now that he's alone.
He hears the singing. Che la luna, mamma. He thinks he knows which direction it's coming from. He gets on the bicycle - HIS bicycle - and rides out into the street. The sound retreats and he pedals faster. It begins to rain, big, fat drops that hit him and explode, running down his face and neck.
He laughs. Before long, his shirt is soaked and he's chilly. He hasn't been this chilly since the two of them got caught in a downpour at Elmhurst park. They'd been walking along the edge of the water, looking for stones to bring home to add to the small collection they had just started. It was a game. They would only collect stones that were completely smooth, completely black, and no bigger than a tennis ball. They had only three. These were elusive creatures. Often, dark rocks at the edge of streams looked black when they were wet. When they dried in the sun, they revealed their true colors, much like people do when left in the light too long.
Uei cumpà 'na scuppetta c'eggi'accattà
Who sings that to a child at bedtime? Obviously someone who doesn't know their Italian.
Uei cumpà 'na scuppetta c'eggi'accattà
He turns another corner following the sound. It is a dead end street that he's never been down before. They'd lived in this neighborhood for over nine years. It had revealed itself to them gradually, a tree here, a flowerbed there, small bits of awareness coming to them the way two people get to know each other over years and years. A lifelong striptease act, never everything revealed, secrets taken to the grave.
There are no houses on the street but many trees. He keeps riding, the sound getting louder (even though 'loud' isn't the right word. It is still no more than a whisper, but less of a whisper with each turn of his wheels).
Directly ahead of him, in the middle of the street, a woman is sitting on a tall wooden stool. She is dressed like a gypsy - long flowing skirts of bright colors, black hair pulled back and wrapped, gold and silver bracelets reflecting light from somewhere he can't see. She is brushing her hair, the bracelets making light jangling sounds with each stroke.
She keeps singing. He parks the bike and climbs off. After a few seconds, his curiosity gets the better of him and he takes a few steps closer.
"Why?" she asks, not even turning her head to look at him.
He stares at her for a moment, then turns around to look at the bicycle.
It's gone.
"Why?" she asks again.
He stares at her for a long time. He wants to be lost in her hair. He doesn't know why. She has cast a spell on him.
His voice says: "Desidero un coniuge."
- Mike Fedel
Aug, 2013