These are old. I don't remember writing them but they were in a file of senryu in my "working" folder. I couldn't decide which one to post, so here's both.
Secrets slither down hallways concealed by doorways eclipsed by shadows
Secrets slither down concentric arcs of complex silk disturbances
Here's a long one. This was published in the Cortland Review, which is a pretty tough nut to crack, so I feel good about that. And it maybe needs a little background. I got this sort of surrealistic idea of selling secrets to the Russians that were secrets a kid would have, and it spiraled from there. Uncle Wystan is W. H. Auden, who went from being a lefty fellow traveler to a conservative Christian (not like today's), Aunt Lillian is Lillian Hellman, who was always a lefty, and was involved in a famous literary feud with Mary McCarthy, who said on TV that every word Hellman ever wrote is a lie, including "and" and "the." Uncle Gadg is Elia Kazan, who earned the undying hatred of the left for naming names before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Mary is Mary McCarthy, and the detail about underpants mended with a safety pin is from the short story that first won her literary attention. So it's a literary-political satire. But anyway, here it is.
SELLING SECRETS
I.
I sold my first secret to the Russians in 1936, those days of ideals, none of us in it for the money, and on holidays, Uncle Wystan would come by, Aunt Lillian, Uncle Gadg, and we’d sing union songs around the fire, and they’d let me put just a little rum in my egg nog.
That was one of the secrets I passed on to my first control, Uncle Dmitri, about the rum, and that was how I learned there was no Santa Claus, only Uncle Dmitri, in a red suit, down at Rafalowsky’s; I can blame the party for that.
Later, I reported to an agent named Mrs. Fallon, a librarian, who gave me books by Lynd Ward and Don Freeman, and later Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair, and warned me, on September 2nd, 1939, not to talk to Uncle Wystan any more.
I smuggled secrets to her on the due-date cards in the back of library books. I told her I had seen Mrs. Whitmer’s underpants once, when she bent down to pick up a book, and her garters, and the white skin above her stockings. Moscow sent back word to push books off her desk, but not too often, just when there were small groups of kids around.
I didn’t tell her that I was secretly sneaking out to meet Uncle Wystan, who had a room at the YMCA. I didn’t think anyone in the party could explain what we did there to me, except Aunt Lillian, and she left the room if anyone mentioned Uncle Wystan’s name.
II.
My control in college was my English professor, naturally, but I asked Moscow for a transfer. I couldn’t trust him with my secrets: I didn’t understand Ulysses, I was scared of Richard Wright, and I was starting my first affair
with a woman. Her name was Mary. She was an English professor too, and the first time we undressed, I noticed she’d mended the elastic in her undies with a safety pin. Uncle Gadg liked Mary, but Aunt Lillian came to campus, told me I was never ever to talk to Uncle Gadg again, and not long after, in a conversation peppered with “and” and “the,” said I was never ever ever ever ever to see Mary again. I started going out
with a girl who wouldn’t go all the way, but gave he hand jobs. I later discovered she was an undercover FBI agent, so I sent a communiqué to Moscow: here’s how you can tell the provocateurs. No sex, just hand jobs. They cut off communication for a long time after that.
III.
Now I’m just in it for the money, idealism long gone. Aunt Lillian died a while back, but I hadn’t seen her in years, anyway. I sell my secrets to the highest bidder. I told the Israelis that I was worried about my gastric ulcer, the French about incipient erectile
dysfunction. An agent from Uzbekistan didn’t pay much, so I only told him about the porn sites on the Internet – barely legal teens! And they could have found out for free, by gaining access to my computer, reading my cookies. What do I care
about Uzbekistan, anyway? Would Burgess and McLean have fled there? I think not. Iran doesn’t want my secrets; Iraq doesn’t want to pay. And frankly, I don’t think I’d sell anyone the only good secret I have left: I still miss Uncle Wystan.
And the detail about hand jobs came from a friend of mine who, as a campus activist in the 60s, had a girl friend for a while who would not go all the way with him, but would only give him hand jobs. He later discovered she was a spy for the FBI.
the sweet taste of your soul the smell of the forbidden the fragrance of flesh warmed with desire the places scattered hidden from view a discreet hotel beyond the city on the beach back in the woods the basement of that church secrets explode with desire and sensuous moments and somehow the shrouded beauty of youthful intimate ardor and the smiles of fresh happiness endure...
These are old. I don't remember writing them but they were in a file of senryu in my "working" folder. I couldn't decide which one to post, so here's both.
ReplyDeleteSecrets slither down
hallways concealed by doorways
eclipsed by shadows
Secrets slither down
concentric arcs of complex
silk disturbances
Interesting. I like the first one better,or I ought to say, it works better for me.The metaphors are curiously original.
DeleteAnd I kinda like the second one better. I like the sounds in it, how they change from the second line to the third.
DeleteDid anyone get the 2nd one is a spiderweb? LOL
DeleteI certainly should have, especially since I was caught up in the web of language.
Deletei liked both of them
Deletethe second one was
terrific because the alliteration made a secret sound...
Here's a long one. This was published in the Cortland Review, which is a pretty tough nut to crack, so I feel good about that. And it maybe needs a little background. I got this sort of surrealistic idea of selling secrets to the Russians that were secrets a kid would have, and it spiraled from there. Uncle Wystan is W. H. Auden, who went from being a lefty fellow traveler to a conservative Christian (not like today's), Aunt Lillian is Lillian Hellman, who was always a lefty, and was involved in a famous literary feud with Mary McCarthy, who said on TV that every word Hellman ever wrote is a lie, including "and" and "the." Uncle Gadg is Elia Kazan, who earned the undying hatred of the left for naming names before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Mary is Mary McCarthy, and the detail about underpants mended with a safety pin is from the short story that first won her literary attention.
ReplyDeleteSo it's a literary-political satire. But anyway, here it is.
SELLING SECRETS
I.
I sold my first secret to the Russians
in 1936, those days of ideals,
none of us in it for the money, and on
holidays, Uncle Wystan would come by,
Aunt Lillian, Uncle Gadg, and we’d sing union songs
around the fire, and they’d let me put
just a little rum in my egg nog.
That was one of the secrets I passed on
to my first control, Uncle Dmitri, about
the rum, and that was how I learned
there was no Santa Claus, only Uncle Dmitri,
in a red suit, down at Rafalowsky’s;
I can blame the party for that.
Later, I reported to an agent named Mrs. Fallon,
a librarian, who gave me books
by Lynd Ward and Don Freeman, and later
Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair, and warned me,
on September 2nd, 1939,
not to talk to Uncle Wystan any more.
I smuggled secrets to her on the due-date cards
in the back of library books.
I told her I had seen Mrs. Whitmer’s underpants
once, when she bent down to pick up a book,
and her garters, and the white skin
above her stockings. Moscow sent back word
to push books off her desk, but not too often,
just when there were small groups of kids around.
I didn’t tell her that I was secretly sneaking out
to meet Uncle Wystan, who had a room at
the YMCA. I didn’t think anyone
in the party could explain what we
did there to me, except Aunt Lillian,
and she left the room if anyone
mentioned Uncle Wystan’s name.
II.
My control in college was
my English professor, naturally,
but I asked Moscow for a transfer.
I couldn’t trust him with my secrets:
I didn’t understand Ulysses,
I was scared of Richard Wright,
and I was starting my first affair
with a woman. Her name was Mary.
She was an English professor too,
and the first time we undressed, I noticed
she’d mended the elastic in her undies
with a safety pin. Uncle Gadg liked Mary,
but Aunt Lillian came to campus,
told me I was never ever to talk
to Uncle Gadg again, and not long after,
in a conversation peppered with “and” and “the,”
said I was never ever ever ever ever
to see Mary again. I started going out
with a girl who wouldn’t go all the way,
but gave he hand jobs. I later discovered
she was an undercover FBI agent,
so I sent a communiqué to Moscow:
here’s how you can tell the provocateurs.
No sex, just hand jobs. They cut off
communication for a long time after that.
III.
Now I’m just in it for the money,
idealism long gone. Aunt Lillian died
a while back, but I hadn’t seen her
in years, anyway. I sell my secrets
to the highest bidder. I told the Israelis
that I was worried about my gastric ulcer,
the French about incipient erectile
dysfunction. An agent from Uzbekistan
didn’t pay much, so I only told him
about the porn sites on the Internet –
barely legal teens! And they could have found out
for free, by gaining access
to my computer, reading my cookies.
What do I care
about Uzbekistan, anyway?
Would Burgess and McLean have fled there?
I think not. Iran doesn’t want my secrets;
Iraq doesn’t want to pay. And frankly,
I don’t think I’d sell anyone the only
good secret I have left:
I still miss Uncle Wystan.
And the detail about hand jobs came from a friend of mine who, as a campus activist in the 60s, had a girl friend for a while who would not go all the way with him, but would only give him hand jobs. He later discovered she was a spy for the FBI.
Deletethis is quite
Deletedetailed ...i liked the little bit of insanity and the secrets were fun!!
Complex...
Deletetl;dr... JK... LOL... Interesting read but it didn't feel like a poem to me, more flash fiction.
Delete
ReplyDeletethe sweet taste
of your soul
the smell
of the forbidden
the fragrance of flesh
warmed with desire
the places scattered
hidden from view
a discreet hotel
beyond the city
on the beach
back in the woods
the basement of that church
secrets explode with
desire and sensuous moments
and somehow
the shrouded beauty
of youthful intimate ardor
and the smiles of fresh
happiness endure...
Really like this! Nice vivid poem with luscious impact.
DeleteI love the recurring "s" sound throughout the poem, making it sound very secret.
Delete
ReplyDeleteKeeping Secrets
I wasn't supposed
to keep secrets
from the priest.
He told me
it was wrong for me
to play with myself.
I didn't want him
to know
I didn't stop,
so I didn't tell him.
I kept my secret.
I didn't tell him
what the gardener
did to me
either.
Wow. Powerful turn in the last stanza! I like this a lot.
Deletethat was a very very touching piece...i enjoyed it very much!!!
DeleteVery good. Taut, tight, understated, powerful.
ReplyDeleteThanks to all!
ReplyDelete