poem: Nuremberg Valley, PA

for Todd

 

The last time I was home, I took some time

    sat up at the old Big Rock

   remembering when we thought

       you could see the whole world spanned

     in the bounds of the Nuremberg Valley.

         Someone's leftover beer cans

              littered the soil around the rock

    a cigarette stub marked

        where a person sat and smoked

      maybe pondering dreams of

        escaping the prison marked by

     deceptively lush hills and fertile fields.

 

You took the beer when you visited,

     I took my pen. You lived in the reality

   I rejected when I walked out with a few

       possessions in a cardboard box,

      all I thought I needed in the world at the time

  a pocket knife, some trail guides,

    Angie's old jewelry pliers

      an Indian blanket and a few pairs

      of tight-fitting jeans; a haircut like your

         sister's, I so wanted to be beautiful,

       like her. Do any of us remember 17?

 

I walked into a world that judged me

    for knowing what color beech leaves

   turned in the fall, as much as I judged

       them for not knowing how to whistle

    a screech owl's call under a white pine.

       I was so envious of your easy rapport

     with the ones I left behind. I was always

 awkward  in both lands. I wonder sometimes

   if you all were afraid to reach out me,

       or just thought I no longer needed

           support because I found better words

     to use to describe my pain?

 

We all came together one last time for you.

   I wonder if anyone else

       could have done that. Even Chuckie, with

     his beautiful smile and his limp,

         and Aunt June, with her distrust

 of, well, everything. We stood in that room

     to say goodbye to you, and hardly anyone

      even remembered that you and I were

       siblings, once, under the laws of extended

     family that permit you to choose who

  you want to hold out your heart to. And

     even though you actually thought

 I would find Hispanic jokes funny after

    I left, we still once climbed the Big Rock

 together and we dreamed our way through-

    you to hold on, me to let go. And in the last

       spell you wove, maybe we remembered

 at last, how to let go of differences

      and be family. I think I recall someone

          else, once upon a time who did that

                  for a few folks.

 

Do we forget our lessons so easily?

    Maybe we should all spend more time 

        sitting on mountaintops,

   communing with the dead.

 I'll come see you the next time I am town.

       I'll even bring a beer from you,

   if you promise to inspire my pen. Help me

       see them as you did- help me

    better bring peace to troubled homes.

     You, the gentle giant- you did that

    without ever even trying. I tell you, they

       think you have come back

      in your nephew's son. I sure hope so.

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

I was never seventeen. That person was an equiangular churchgoer, methodical and silly.
I looked at pictures from my high school year book to compare the faces and names with
the picnic I attended last month and was horrified by the rules of perception. That
person, like the speaker in this poem, was rehearsing for a more informed future performance.
Not knowing anything but thinking you know everything is a curse. Not knowing everything
but pretending to not know anything is maturity.

I agree with my brother Diego. This is a moving poem.
And with great respect, well done my friend.

dana

[Tree]

Very happy I came across this today. It was a poem very similar to this, that first brought your work to my attention. And yes, to your question. It's hard to remember 17, but photographs, and long talks with old friends and family help... This was a moving poem, Marie. Your tone, and craftsmanship brought forth the deep respect, and sentiment, that this ode for Todd no doubt deserved.

Well done, poetess.

Diego

[Marie Anzalone]

thank you for acknowledging this tribute piece, Diego. Todd was like a brother to me, and he was one of the linchpins of our family. His loss was tough for all of us. It's funny, you know, the place memories that you can encounter when you retrace footsteps of your youth. Places, songs, and smells- I think three of the things with the most ability to make us believe that the past actually happened.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Maybe we should all spend more time
sitting on mountaintops,
communing with the dead. -- *sigh* I know that I certainly do...

The things that we knew to be solid as concrete when we were 17 years old, today seem to be the hazy fog that lingers over an ocean that we suddenly realize has boundaries. This piece hit close to home for me because of my own ill-fated romance with a first love who is now, sadly, living with the angels. I still go to the places that we went and I still feel the things that I felt back then, but the feelings seem somehow distant and not quite as real. It's a tought thing...for me at least. A very vivid and descriptive write. I really enjoyed the imagery, which brought me easily and smoothly into the story and the concept.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, Sarah. I wrote this for my cousin Todd, who left us 2 years ago, way too young. Where we grew up, it seems that life itself is a risk factor. The boy I went on my first date with, is dead form an overdose. The one I had my first kiss with, also dead from an overdose. My first crush, dead 3 months ago in a one-person car crash. You think you can get used to great losses, but really, they never quite go away. They sneak back in quiet moments. I think sometimes if you sit quietly enough, they pull up a bench or a patch of moss, and share those moments with you. I left home when I was 17, Todd stayed behind. We grew apart over time, but you never forget a big brother.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

I understand completely... My first love jumped out of a moving vehicle at 70 mph on the freeway...completey shocked everyone, and even though he and i hadn't talked for a while, I felt that instant sense that all the things I ever wanted to say would now be forever unsaid; I felt it like a weight bearing down on my shoulders, pressing my heart to bursting. This was a great piece...

[Marie Anzalone]

I am so sorry for your terrible loss. I, too, have learned the hard way; the value of finding the courage to say what needs to be said.