Poetry: Selections From John L. Stanizzi

yellow

           “…If only you pay attention to it you will see 

              that certain stars are lemon-yellow…”

                                                             -Vincent Van Gogh

 

             —I sent my grief away. I cannot care forever.

                                              -Dream Song 36; The high ones, die, die. They die.

                                              -from 77 Dream Songs by John Berryman

 

              And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof 
                            With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.

                                                          -My Grandmother’s Love Letters

                                                             -from White Buildings by Hart Crane

 

 

all of us who can see

have been moved at least once

by some expression 

of their power in the air 

and in our hearts        

 

but the perpetual bondage

in which Hart Crane and John Berryman 

must have been locked--

--let’s call it color blindness--

did not allow them,

I believe,

to  see yellow,

especially on their big days

tumbling through the acquiescent sky—

 

Berryman was exhaled 

over the bridge railing

between St. Paul and Minneapolis 

onto the icy Mississippi

its mouth agape 

frozen open

poised to devour

anything that could fly in this cold--

his feet were broken spyglasses

pointing upwards 

at certain stars 

seeming to be moving farther away-

 

and years earlier 

Crane climbing over

the gunwale of the Orizaba in spring

into the Gulf of Mexico

at noon

300 miles from Cuba

his befuddled feet 

pointing upside down

at vanishing stars of lemon-yellow

perhaps like Van Gogh

 

whatever visual impairment

they may or may not have had

is it possible that Crane was blinded

gazing into yellow scotch over ice

lit by the tropic’s midday burn - 

or that Berryman could not see

the yellow streaks firing from the beard

the tilting head

the flailing arms

or hear Mr. Bones complaining 

about the color of his favorite yellow shirt…

The high ones die, die. They die. You look up and who's there?

—Easy, easy, Mr Bones. I is on your side.

I smell your grief.

 

 

 

Muscongus Bay

On the coast of Maine, between Penobscot Bay and John's Bay, 

 Muscongus, the name of an Abenaki village, is nestled there. The

 name means "fishing place" or "many rock ledges."  Despite its 

wonderful lobstering, the abundance of fishing boats and rocky 

outcroppings dissuade many people from recreating there,

but it is these very dynamic qualities that are a large part 

of what make Muscongus so spectacularly beautiful.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                             -Maine Coast Heritage Trust

 

dories at rest in the bayT

hin

pastel fingerprints on morning fog

 

on a short outcrop just offshore

raucous gulls are all commotion

arching their beaks skyward 

 

a cormorant dives

as in my mind

I challenge him to a contest-

who can hold their breath longest

it is of course no contest

 

a lobsterman is hauling in his pots

with a steady hand over hand motion

in time with the rhythm of the bay’s tidal breath

which keeps him alive

 

from somewhere buried deep within the fog

I hear the sharp striking of a hammer

tempered by mist

 

it is early

six a.m.

miry air smelling of fish and the sea

swathes the lobstermen along the fish wharf

where all is silent 

but for the chunk of a breaker knife 

driven into the timber of a dorsal

 

reaching out of its universe

the disarming voice of the bay

touches the shore 

where it breathes with the heavy haze

the lobstermen emerge faintly

from a place behind them I cannot see

 

suddenly the water along the shore 

blackens with millions of brits flashing for their lives 

as schools of mackerel rage after them with ravenous instinct

children run along the shore screaming 

 

breathing hard trying to keep up with 

the shadowy murmuration of this astonishing thing

 

mothers smile and wave at their children

but the children are too busy to notice

chasing this galaxy of fish

as the tide presses in undetectable

 

*

 

a fisherman is sitting on a lobster pot

his focus is on a massive net

he is sewing a black patch into a tear 

in the old brittle webbing

which is spread out before him

like an enormous sea monster collapsed

 

he tells me the net is a mile long

a hundred feet wide

a small buoy every ten feet at its hem

he must mend the net he says

to keep the good fish from pouring out

like stars in the swirling ink of a black hole

I imagine-

 

even after the net is patched and spans the bay

air- fish- and light- will still surge through it 

illuminating all that is beneath the sea

imperceptible as light that passes through me 

invisible          driven by the earth’s rhythm

drawing me closer to dawn’s dew 

which is in its autumn

and finally the fog begins to lift

for a time

(Near the end of Eugene O‘Neill’s play Long Day’s

Journey into Night, Mary Tyrone, through an impenetrable fog of      

morphine, utters into the air, “Yes, I remember. I fell in love with

 James Tyrone and was so happy for a time.”)

 

 

 

Tomato Can

                Boxing -  A “tomato can,” is a fighter with

                     a poor record, whose skills re substandard 

                     or who lacks toughness and has a glass jaw.

                                   

in the house of my childhood

a warped little Cape into which

no light was allowed

there were daily protracted conflicts-

chases     punches    slaps

the soundtrack?   timeless expletives

which plastered the floors and walls

 

I was a child                seven or eight     

weak and afraid 

it was resolvency alone 

that shook me awake each morning

shoved me into 

the breaking point

 

every morning the fear was newborn 

and short-lived

how could I have known 

I was not yet looking 

through the miasmic eyes of an old man

 

-

 

gradually I began to defend myself-

my barbs were discharged 

with increased velocity from my irrepressible mouth

 

this always set her off

and she fired back cruelty 

which carved into 

the exhausted knotty pine cabinets

cutting across the linoleum floor worn to wood

 

when she couldn’t grab me

the first thing she saw would suffice-

this time it was an airborne milk glass duck-

-a creamy howitzer     

-an impulsive decoy

 

she threw with all the power she could marshal

but like always

she missed me

and it burst to pieces 

when it detonated 

off the filigree of the stair post

 

how often I chuckled at her 

which fired her rage

I snorted at her minced duck

 

a struck match on her wrath

she turned on me

and launched 

with all the strength 

she could possibly generate 

a whole frozen chicken 

 

oh the reflexes of a newly minted seven year old

I moved a smidge to the left 

watched the chicken’s naked gawky wobble-flight 

smiled as this boulder of a bird 

crash through the thick wooden doors 

of the hutch in the dining room

the air a mist of glass and wood-splinters

a murmuration of debris

 

her heavy breathing    her voice coarse and hoarse 

she threatened me…

WAIT ‘TIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!!

            I couldn’t help myself. 

I tried to force back a laugh,

and spoke through that thinly veiled suppression…

 

…my father gets home??

I snuffled. 

Talk about an iffy, unlikely, stupid fucking comment.

 

-

 

I was a tomato can, I remember.

But not for very long.

 

I spoke again, smirking…

 

Ya’think that chicken’s still good?

 

 

 

 

 

John Stanizzi is the author of fourteen poetry collections, most recently SEE, Feathers & Bones, and POND, published by Impspired Press (U.K.). His work has appeared in more than 200 journals, including A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Prairie Schooner, The Cortland Review, New York Quarterly, and Tar River Poetry, among many others. A former New England Poet of the Year, Stanizzi received a Fellowship from the Connecticut Office of the Arts. His essay “Pants” was named Best CNF of 2021 by Potato Soup Journal, and he was the winner of The Ekphrastic Review’s “Ekphrastic Marathon.” He spent many years teaching literature and directing theater in Connecticut.