Today's poem is by Bin Ramke
49 Views of Childhood
But he was a quiet child, I was, he was never
one, such a one as would wanderinto wilderness aloneuntrue, he was
one to play at death as boys will.I was small when I was small and then
I was no longer. Dolls are delicate. Legsand arms articulate to sit them
around you and tell them stories, to have themtell you stories tell him stories make them
up. Dress them. If an end comesit will come the sky will remain sky
and weather will be simple, simplywhere we live during it. Another version
of this world engages these little onesaround us, about our feet, small humans
who have forgotten the future whosplash happily as if weather were a cure
for childhood. We didn't, he didn't, knowbetter than to sulk heavily as if
I did not watch secretly gatheringclouds, gathering under them
into likely groupsaction figures. Us.It was better when birds did not
gather so forcefully, mournfully backbefore ravens and crows had moved
into cities following the pioneerpigeonsboys walked under groups
would dismally look down, boys and blackbirdscrossing Sunday paths home
back before sparrows wouldso cravenly eat from our hands;
children of today know onlysmall wishes and crooked feet,
articulated legs and artificial voicesto cry Mama or Papa at whim, at the least
tipping of self into horizontal . . . .They do not see the green sky
we knew then, such empty grandeur:in silence such insolence, solitude's
reward for being good, which is partof every eros of childhood. In all parts
of this world there are childrenexcept in the coldest southernmost,
Antarctica as imagined goal, to gatherthere his dolls, my wish, his need
for clean weather and snowarticulated weather; is there no
child to sleep on that continent?No child's dream floated ever above
the white horizon of an ice containmentbends the bodies to its will,
makes a wish. Like birdsthe bodies fit in the fist. The still
children play those little gamesthe birds of the air the lilies
of the field, the insolence of the wholeagon; suicide as self expression
is paradox, as is sex as self. He madelittle houses for his dolls to sit
through afternoons to peerout narrow windows and be
invisible to have things to see.I have, he has, things to say, he has
he had things. To say he wasa boy belonging to the end
of habitation, health and happiness.If this doll could sin she would sing
to him I would sing also, to herit is like forsythia, logical because
the branch wavers and blossoms bloomwhile wind does what wind will?
A dance is like this: to consoleas to clasp these hands, touch there
in the air away from bodiesand then to angle the arms, turn
the hips and some part submergesdrowned as the doomed self would
like voodoo, dolled up and doomeddancing anyway ever. He could sing
and does deliberately, the child, itfollows that anguish is not me,
nor do we suffer who make those cries.He would drown his dolls slowly
slide into agonized waterswhich reflect the intricate lace
of the bridge which trembled abovethem, a bridge which fell in the end
vortex shedding and resonantoscillations, a dance the bridge did
with the air, not the words the windis the reason for suffering. A past
is anything's childhood is a reasonflares into mind like burning
burning which might have beenmind, a doll could have one
and could dance like anything.
Copyright © 2002 Bin Ramke All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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