Whoa, Emily actually wrote stuff

This is a revamped version of the Christmas poem I brought at the beginning of the semester -- it decided it wanted to be prose.

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“Merry Christmas, God bless,” mutters the raisin-faced Salvation Army worker. From behind a scarf, a teenage girl imagines Santa Claus or Jesus someone propping the old man there, leaning against the pole, and telling him to repeat these words, over and over. The old man doesn’t raise his head as the girl’s gloved hand drops a pocketful of change into his bucket. “Merry Christmas, God bless you,” he mutters. “You, too,” says the girl.

The girl also sometimes says “Merry Christmas” to particularly harried customers, though she knows it’s supposed to be Happy Holidays. She takes her post in ladies’ sleepwear, occupying her mind by wondering about the recipients of the gifts customers are buying.

A round man, well past middle age, greets her cheerily. He’s looking for a nightgown, he says. He pulls a slip of paper out of his pants pocket and holds it at arm’s length, squinting. Shaking his head, he pulls out his spectacles from his breast pocket, puts them on, then reads, “Long-sleeved, size extra large.” It’s for his mother, he tells the girl. That’s about all she needs these days, pajamas.

She’s a hundred and two.

He chuckles nostalgically. Every year since nineteen forty-five, he’s gotten her a box of chocolate covered cherries. Every year since nineteen forty-five. She’s a hundred and two now. The man turns his face a way. Every year since nineteen forty-five, he says, his voice cracking a bit. Since nineteen forty-five. But this year, she can’t —

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come right now, I’ll be back later —” he says, crumpling his slip of paper and hurrying away. The girl watches him as he leaves, brushing his eyes.

Briefly neglecting her register later in the shift, the girl rummages through the nightgowns (taking note of all the long-sleeved, extra large ones appropriate for a hundred-and-two-year-old woman), in case the man should come back. She wants to tell him, “Merry Christmas, God bless you, and God bless your mother.”

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Here's the original:

Merry Christmas, God bless you,
Mutters the raisin-faced Salvation Army worker.
She leans against a pole like a plank of wood propped against a tree.
She doesn’t raise her head
As a gloved hand out of a bundle of warm clothes
Drops a pocketful of change in the bucket.
Merry Christmas, God bless you, she mutters,
Her cheerful bell tinkling.
You, too, a voice says from under a scarf.

The girl under the scarf
(Who occasionally says Merry Christmas to particularly harried customers,
Though she knows it’s supposed to be happy holidays)
Takes her post in ladies’ sleepwear.
A round man – well past middle age –
Greets her cheerily.
He’s looking for a nightgown, he says,
Long-sleeved, size extra large,
He reads off a slip of paper.
It’s for his mother.
She’s confined to a nursing home now, he tells the girl.
That’s about all she needs these days – pajamas.
She’s a hundred and two.

He chuckles nostalgically.
Every year since nineteen forty five,
He’s gotten her a box of chocolate covered cherries.
Every year since nineteen forty five.
She’s a hundred and two now.
The man turns his face away.
Every year since nineteen forty five,
He says,
His voice cracking a bit.
Since nineteen forty five.
But this year she can’t –
Can’t eat them –

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come right now, I’ll be back later,
He says, crumpling his slip of paper and hurrying away,
Brushing his eyes as he leaves.

Briefly neglecting her register later in the shift,
The girl rummages through the nightgowns,
(Noting the loveliest,
Softest,
Silkiest,
Long-sleeved, extra-large gowns)
In case the man should come back.
She wants to tell him,
God bless you,
And God bless your mother.

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Specifically, I'm wondering about the paragraph that begins "He chuckles nostalgically." That was my favorite stanza back when it was verse, but I'm not quite sure how to handle it in prose. Suggestions on any part are welcome, though.

So this is still a very rough draft. I suspect that before I'm finished, the whole thing will be metered. The free verse stuff captures the general language and imagery that I'm liking at the moment. I don't have a copy of the first draft with me, so those of you who haven't read it or don't remember it, just treat this as a first draft.

A little background for those who aren't familiar with the story of Tantalus and Pelops: Tantalus was a Greek king who was the favorite of the gods. One day he threw a banquet for the gods in his palace, and served as the main fare the flesh of his son: Pelops. Demeter was the first to taste the meat, and as soon as she did, the gods realized what Tantalus had done. They were enraged, sentanced him to be chained to a rock in hell, with a pool of water at his feet that dried up every time he tried to drink of it, and a bunch of grapes hanging from a branch above his head that were blown out of his reach by the wind every time he tried to grab one. He is starved and thirsty for eternity. His son was restored to life, except for a chunk missing from his shoulder where Demeter took her bite.


Spit in thine eye, cries Tantalus the Man
To gods who sit in judgment
Over inadequate welcome-gifts.

The sacrifice of Abraham once made,
And once accepted though returned unused,
Now offered freely, unsolicited
Has been found lacking.

Worse than lacking: offensive, cruel.

But not cruel in the mind of a father,
Unless it be the cruelty of gods
Who do not make their wishes clearly known
And arrive uninvited for dinner.

For Tantalus the Man is not Abraham.
He has no manna from on high,
No ambrosial fare fit for Holy guests
And knows no hospitality but this:
That he lay down the life of his son,
Precious fruit of his man-flesh
To feed the appetite of immortals.

But now he stands alone, accused, alone,
Condemned by those he sought to honor most.
For there does Pelops wait in shadowy wing
Behind the throne of Zeus, and makes his case.
Plaintiff phantasmal showing tattered eye
And masticated shoulder now in shreds,
He does not comprehend his father’s choice
But only feels the slash of gruesome blade.

So Tantalus the Man recieves his doom
And slouches toward the everlasting hunger.
As Charon anchors manacles infernal
The gods nod in approval, sated, full.


Still a long way to go I think, but its getting there. This poetry stuff is kind of fun.

shipwreck poem, modified

Here's the poem the way I brought it last time:

I have been shipwrecked on the coast of God,
And ankle-deep in frigid, lapping froth,
I scanned the dim horizon for a sail.
To build up fires of curling signal smoke
I stooped and found dry branches from the trees
Whose fragrant fruit leaned down around my head.
I thirsted, splashing in no inland springs,
But sullen on the sandy, rocky shore
I strove in useless straining to escape
The crushing truth: I know no other land.

Karyn pointed out that "fragrant" in the 6th line was too easy, and we also had problems with the last two lines and said the images there needed to fit better with the rest of the poem. Here's the new draft. Attempts to address those two issues are the only changes:

I have been shipwrecked on the coast of God,
And ankle-deep in frigid, lapping froth,
I scanned the dim horizon for a sail.
To build up fires of curling signal smoke
I stooped and found dry branches from the trees
Whose fruit on tenuous stem swung near my head.
I thirsted, splashing in no inland springs,
But sullen on the sandy, rocky shore
I set my mind to dry the pounding, blue
Enormous truth: I know no other land.

What do you think? I don't know if it works yet.

Ground rules?

Hiya,

A couple of brief organizational suggestions, and I'll try to post something real in the next couple of days.

- Let's try to keep comment conversations all in one place so people can follow them. So instead of posting the reply to someone's comment to that person's other blog, keep the thread together. When you comment you can check "email follow-up comments to me" so it'll email you if other people comment.

- For longer works, could maybe we number paragraphs/lines for reference? If that's too much of a pain or turns out aesthetically offensive it isn't a big deal, but it might be helpful.

Anything else?