The Shrine

[brianedwards]

The Shrine

Rising before dawn, she slides into suede slippers,
plucks wing-tip glasses from the unlit nightstand,
this ritual now as mechanical as the scratches
she makes on lottery tickets twice a week—
4 digits from her son’s dog-tags, and the calendar
date, circled in red, the day he returns from Iraq.

Cold breath leads her downstairs where Iraq
waits on television. Bare hands on cold walls, she slips
into the tunnel of day. The draft disturbs the calendar
as she coerces door from jamb: she never could stand
to set it right, he'd spent so long hanging it, the week
before he left for combat. Usually quick to scratch

an itch, but war casts light as well as dark and a scratch
serves only to kill a feeling. She switches on Iraq,
pokes on the kitchen light, lights up a pot of weak
tea, saving the bag in a chipped egg cup. Outside, cowslips
dance in wait of spring and birch withstands
another March. Nature has no regard for calendar

months, she thinks, as she shuffles to the calendar
armed with sharpened pencil, ready to scratch
off another day. Framed by photographs, she stands
and waits for the first wedge of sun to light the dust. Iraq
burns under the same star. Do Iraqi mothers wear slippers
at dawn, waiting for news of the dead, a week-

long skirmish lingering longer than the taste of weak
tea? Pencil between teeth, she flips the calendar
and conducts her daily count, a habit she slipped
into as easily as comfy slippers. Pencil scratches
on a calendar and photos on a wall now define her: Iraq—
her son in uniform pointing a rifle, standing

atop a tank, no longer the 3-year-old fireman stood
on tiptoes, chest out. On tiptoes she sees a week's
worth of dust on every frame. Is it sand in Iraq
that collects on photo frames? Are calendars
with circled dates, stirred by desert storms, scratched
with pencils by mothers on tiptoes in slippers?

She drains the weak tea from her mug, stands
tall in slippered feet and scratches
another day of Iraq from her calendar.











~

[ray miller]

I remember this from the competition, has it been altered at all? I like the repetition of themes and words and the observation of small idiosyncracies in the bigger picture.The stairs as a tunnel leading into the light of day is a nice idea.
Not sure about the point you're trying to make with, "Nature has no regard for calendar months..."

It's important to include Iraqi mothers in this picture, of course, and I was glad you did so.

Nice poem.

[brianedwards]

Thanks Ray. It has been altered in response to some of the feedback it garnered earlier.

Appreciate you looking in. Bit quiet round here recently . . . .

B.

~

[Susan-Morris3]

Awwwwww What a wonderful poem, really enjoyed it. Didn't make my brain ache in the same way as some of the work on here! Very sad and did like the fact that you mention Iraq mothers, sort of made it more personal as only another mother would know. You have a great style of writing, like the way you do it, to read and imagine its the same for everyone. x
Ooops Forgot to say I almost passed it by as I didn't like the title, thought it was going to be a religious poem.( not that I'm against religion) but a lot of religious poetry Ive read usually drones on and on like a sermon, and becomes boring.

[John G]

Very poignant and apt considering the rising death toll.

Especially liked the theme of routine that runs through this – ticking off calendar – scratching lottery tickets- sometimes it’s the routines that help people cope in difficult circumstances.

Also like the line about Iraq waiting on TV, which it does everyday.

And again, echoing what the others have mentioned, good comparisons between the central character and her Iraq counterpart.

Yeah a good timely read.

[Ros]

Interesting emphasis on the words calendar and Iraq throughout this - I'm trying to decide whether I find that just a bit heavy, but on the whole I think it works - certainly takes an accomplished level of skill to make that happen. I think also the repetition of the last word of each verse works, except for perhaps calendar at the beginning of v4, which felt more forced than the rest.

Ros

[Oskar]

Brian

You have chosen another very difficult subject that, not surprisingly, seems to be exercising the creative talents of some high-profile poets at the moment. Trying to find an original way in to war poetry, and dealing with it in a way thay can arouse emotion through reader empathy requires something exceptional. Especially in an area that has more than its fair share of great poets and poems.

Putting youself in the slippers of a mother anxiously waiting for the return of her son from a tour of duty in Iraq is a tough call, even for you! On this ocassion, I don't think you have quite managed to secure the emotional response I was looking for.

On the plus side,I thought S1and 2 were very good - the method of choosing her lottery numbers and the tight door jamb were touching and realistic details.

I think you've successfully managed to create a feeling of 'Iraq' being an all pervading entity in the mother's ritualised life.

Is it sand in Iraq
that collects on photo frames? Are calendars
with circled dates, stirred by desert storms,

Creative and clever stuff.

What I don't think works so well is the repetition of words/ideas. I can appreciate your reasoning behind the continued repetition of calendar, as the countdown to her son's return is a central part of the poem, but the slippers and tiptoe references were over worked, IMO, and possibly prevented you from in bringing other insights to galvanise your writing.

lights up a pot of weak
tea,

lights up?

I remember Brendan/dedalus once saying something about a good poem not being so much about the individual raindrops, but more about the impression of wetness that it leaves behind. I caught a few raindrops with this one, but no more than that.

Regards

[Wabznasm]

Christ, a sestina? Don't know how you have the patience... I commend you for trying/doing.

I'm torn here. On the one hand, it seems your intention is to avoid a direct stance on war, and in doing so you neatly skip away from all of the tedious platitudes people could write about. I like that sense of indirection. On the other hand, there a certain hollowness here, as if the poem - like the mother - is constantly looking for something to fix its attention on. It works as a suitable 'in the life of' moment, but I think this needs to be part of a sequence if it wants to work, because at the moment I just feel there is a lack of end/direction/centre here which stops this from being a very accomplished sestina (because the form works - it doesn't grate at all). In a way, the form serves as the centre directing all of this, but I still don't find that satisfying enough.

And I don't want to intrude on the writing of this, but there's something oddly compelling in this image: Cold breath leads her downstairs where Iraq
waits on television -- the idea of not her son but Iraq itself as returning and waiting with open arms.

Dave

[Elphin]

Brian

First of all huge plaudits for a sestina - I like in particular the variations on some of the end words.

I think this is technically accomplished - what could be more a suitable way of portraying a mother's days of wait than a sestina with its repititions? I think too the enduring images of the calendar, the weak tea and slippers are the mundane that counterpoint the action that is happening in Iraq.

I think the difficulty is that the poem needs the distance of time for its power to truly resonate - I suspect that during war its the sentimental that has the impact but the truly perceptive need the perspetive of history. Is that true of the great WW1 poetry? I dont know.

My only quibble would be the plethora of adjectives in l1 and l2 - do we need to know the glasses are wing tipped? A minor nitlet though.

Job well done.

elph

[brianedwards]

Thanks for all the notes.

Been a bit busy with the family recently so apologies for not addressing each comment individually, and for not weighing in with more comments generally. I'll try to get back on top of things soon.

I once read something about sestinas that likened the form to a car with a hanging bumper, with the end words acting like bumps in the road: when we hit one, sparks should fly. Not saying I have achieved that here by any means, but just wanted to pass that idea on as I think it's wonderful. Will try to dig up the quote when I have time.

Cheers.

B.

~

[Arian]

An evocative study of motherly concern, I thought, Brian, with a nicely judged mood of wondering and wishing. I thought the enjambment across stanzas, and the last/first line repetition scheme worked well. Personally, I found the repetition of words such as calendar a trifle jarring, but not so much as to ruin the read, which I enjoyed.
All the best
peter

[brianedwards]

Thank you Peter. This is actually a sestina and the end word repeats are essential to the form.
Appreciate the kudos.

B.

~

[Arian]

Ah, interesting. I didn't know that. Thanks.

[brianedwards]

The sestina is a frustrating and addictive beast. Here's one of my favourite examples:

Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape
by John Ashbery

The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits
[tab][/tab]in thunder,
Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,
From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country."
Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How
[tab][/tab]pleasant
To spend one's vacation en la casa de Popeye," she
[tab][/tab]scratched
Her cleft chin's solitary hair. She remembered spinach

And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
"M'love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out
[tab][/tab]in thunder
Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched
The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant
Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my
[tab][/tab]country."

Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
When the door opened and Swee'pea crept in. "How pleasant!"
But Swee'pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib.
[tab][/tab]"Thunder
And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall
[tab][/tab]Popeye's apartment
Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or
[tab][/tab]scratched."

Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as
[tab][/tab]you know to flee the country
One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened,
[tab][/tab]duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
And all that it contains, myself and spinach
In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant

Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the
[tab][/tab]scratched
Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and
[tab][/tab]thunder."
She grabbed Swee'pea. "I'm taking the brat to the country."
"But you can't do that--he hasn't even finished his spinach,"
Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.

But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
Succumbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it's quite pleasant
Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from
[tab][/tab]spinach
Then I don't mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon
[tab][/tab]over"--she scratched
One dug pensively--"but Wimpy is such a country
Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder

Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.





And here's a journal dedicated to the form:

McSweeney's

Cheers.

B.

~

[Arian]

Thanks, Brian, an amusing example. I'll definitely check out McSweeney's.

[David]

Holy sestina, Batman.

From a strict grammatical point of view - not always the best vantage point, I agree - would that not be a comma rather than a full stop at the end of L2?

I've never managed a sestina yet - as I may have mentioned before - but I wonder whether a less loaded term than Iraq might be useful as a line ending. Obviously you have to have Iraq in there, but perhaps not coming round in each verse. Your choice, of course.

"The draft disturbs the calendar" - pun intended? Of course there's no draft at the moment (I think, anyway), but that meaning did occur quite forcefully to me.

You need to replace a "that" with a "than" in S5.

"no longer the 3-year-old fireman stood
on tiptoes, chest out."

That's the most moving image in the poem, and it's extremely effective. It moved me. The whole thing is very very good. (And that's one of the Ashbery poems I'd already decided that I really like.)

Cheers

David

[brianedwards]

Bloody hell --- good catches David. To be honest, I think that second line did once end with a comma and I can't now remember my reason for changing, but you're right and I have amended.

I hadn't even noticed the draft pun --- is it a distraction for you?

I usually get the sestina bug at least once a year --- just posted another if you're interested!

Cheers.

B.

~

[David]

I do find the draft a bit of a distraction, which may be over-picky of me, but I can't see any reason why you (as a Brit) couldn't use "draught" anyway, in which case the confusion would go away. Wouldn't it?

[brianedwards]

Having lived outside of the UK, in various ex-pat communities, for almost a decade now, I can't claim to use strictly British English these days David. And being exposed to World English every day, I find that many of the British spellings are becoming increasingly marginalised. . . not saying I celebrate that at all, just an observation. Might be useful here though, in situating the poem.

Having said that though, "Draught" makes me think of beer. And then I feel homesick . . . .

Thanks for coming back, shall think on't some more.

B.

~