PoetryToTheMasses Weekly Feature 95

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Welcome to ~PoetryToTheMasses' weekly feature.

Each week I will feature one poem suggested by deviants with some information about the poem and the poet. I will also include links to two other suggested poems which you can read if you wish.

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Ground Swell - Mark Jarman


Suggested by ~airehkah

Is nothing real but when I was fifteen,
Going on sixteen, like a corny song?
I see myself so clearly then, and painfully--
Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform
Behind the candy counter in the theater
After a morning's surfing; paddling frantically
To top the brisk outsiders coming to wreck me,
Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's
Gravel and sand; my knees aching with salt.
Is that all I have to write about?
You write about the life that's vividest.
And if that is your own, that is your subject.
And if the years before and after sixteen
Are colorless as salt and taste like sand--
Return to those remembered chilly mornings,
The light spreading like a great skin on the water,
And the blue water scalloped with wind-ridges,
And--what was it exactly?--that slow waiting
When, to invigorate yourself, you peed
Inside your bathing suit and felt the warmth
Crawl all around your hips and thighs,
And the first set rolled in and the water level
Rose in expectancy, and the sun struck
The water surface like a brassy palm,
Flat and gonglike, and the wave face formed.
Yes. But that was a summer so removed
In time, so specially peculiar to my life,
Why would I want to write about it again?
There was a day or two when, paddling out,
An older boy who had just graduated
And grown a great blonde moustache, like a walrus,
Skimmed past me like a smooth machine on the water,
And said my name. I was so much younger,
To be identified by one like him--
The easy deference of a kind of god
Who also went to church where I did--made me
Reconsider my worth. I had been noticed.
He soon was a small figure crossing waves,
The shawling crest surrounding him with spray,
Whiter than gull feathers. He had said my name
Without scorn, just with a bit of surprise
To notice me among those trying the big waves
Of the morning break. His name is carved now
On the black wall in Washington, the frozen wave
That grievers cross to find a name or names.
I knew him as I say I knew him, then,
Which wasn't very well. My father preached
His funeral. He came home in a bag
That may have mixed in pieces of his squad.
Yes, I can write about a lot of things
Besides the summer that I turned sixteen.
But that's my ground swell. I must start
Where things began to happen and I knew it.





This poem is from Questions for Ecclesiastes published in 1997. 




Mark Jarman was born June 5, 1952 in Kentucky, USA, and is a poet and critic. He has written ten books of poems and two books of essays and has co-authored a book of essays with Robert McDowell.






He always watches, but he has no eyes.

He laughs behind you, but he cannot speak.

He follows you everywhere you go, but he does not walk.

He always smiles, but he has no mouth.

He stands a great height, but he is given no advantage.

He is in the back yard, but he does not announce himself.

He is known as the slender man, but he has no name.


If you like this poem, please :+fav: the original!





Artist's comments:
"Remember to give a WATCH.

I upload bi-weekly!

EDIT: Whoo! 100 favorites! That's a new record for me personally :) I'm glad I'm finally getting somewhere with all these posts."

This poem was submitted October 7, 2012.




~Mugeenman, or Caleb Black, is a writer from Canada and has been on deviantART since Oct 24, 2010.




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P2TM is offering 50 points to whoever has suggested the most poems or song lyrics by March 1 2013. More info: [link]

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Next feature: 5/6 Jan 2013


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