By Robert Detmering
The poems inspired by James are perhaps my favorites in the collection. The first one, "on a snow-bank in the distance," comes from the story "Daisy Miller." In this poem, I attempted to speculate on the feelings Winterbourne might have had after the loss of Daisy, and allude to the guilt he may have experienced in her death. The other two poems, "portrait of a power outage" and "summer portrait" are attempts at Jamesian portraits. "Power outage" was partially inspired by Isabel Archer and Gilbert Osmond, though it isn't a direct representation of their relationship. "Summer portrait" is an attempt at turning life into art, in the same manner James did with his fiction.
Of the Dickinson poems, "first line," a title inspired by Dickinson's untitled work, is perhaps the best. It is a tribute to her unique style, as well as an examination of her feelings toward religion. I hope the simplicity of language and use of punctuation works. "Shaking things up" and "mean(ing)" are two attempts at thematically emulating Dickinson, in terms of nature and existence respectively. The last poem, "Salvation is the Righteous Father," is an attempt at a Dickinson-esque definition poem, where she defines a term in a unique way. Again, I tried to emulate her style, hopefully to some success.
Overall, this was an incredibly challenging project. Still, I'm glad I attempted it, as I think it was an exercise in improving my poetic skills. I don't think I'm even close to Henry or Emily, but hopefully I've created a humble tribute to their greatness.
Portrait of a Power Outage
The candle held the room's attention, a glowing
disciplinarian dictating illusions of grandeur to
the furniture, painting its iron elegance in shadow
across our upholstered faces:
I was attempting to pretend to read the latest
New Yorker,attempting to pass away the time
while she sat before the empty idol of the
television and prayed to its witch doctor
for: technicolor medicines, spiritual
and again, she clicked that lifeless remote.
She clicked for control, chanting, 'There's nothing.
It's just
'Everything's dead,' I dismally replied, ruining
my cover: the guards, prone to dreaming, had
fallen asleep while nameless intruders scaled
the walls to
pillage memory with delusion.
Her eyes grew wide, disgusted and disgusting, her
face a blank canvas smudged only by shadow,
painfully obscure. The candle,
its reluctant burn, shrinking from within itself,
silently counting out time as she returned to her
nervous clicks. We entered a
cosmopolitan portrait so
locked away, every little thing is
looked to her simple features, delicately stroked in
delicate hues, melting away in the heat. Together,
we bathe in this moat of pretense and ancient wounds,
filled to overflowing with charcoal and ash.
the machine-gunner in the clock tower, has custody.
Blow it out.
Blow it out.
Just:
blow.
Meaning
Atheists and Faitheists
will never reconcile,
to concede the answer's lacking
isn't scientific style.
They add up their Experience
and calculate a Mean,
but one must check their numbers,
the gods are in between.
first line
"They all pray to an eclipse they call their father." -Emily Dickinson
There's a Halo of Souls
I've often seen,
Who beg for Mercy -
Celestial Dreams!
They link their Hands
And weep their Eyes.
They pray for Sleep
In Mournful Cries.
"Join In!" they say,
There's much Ado,
To be Redeemed
From being you!
I like their Dreams -
So tough to shake -
But I'm content
to stay - Awake.
May they live
On clouds - Snow-White -
And join the Angels
In their flight.
To be Lifted
From the Depths of Sin -
So Almighty He
Can push them off - again!