Poet Republik-Christine Hamm
This writing exercise for Christine Hamm’s poem, “My Western,” asks you to create a portrait of a place by focusing on tiny, specific concrete details, the plants, animals and colors of a space – and then include as many specific names that relate to that place as possible. The names may be movies or TV shows that are like the space, or names of specific breeds of animals or trees. The names can also be the names of stores or schools that relate to the place. Since this is a list poem, there should be very short sentences and often, just lists of related words–Thanks Christine, for both the poem and the exercise!
My Western
The Outlaw Josey Wales. Grace, Idaho.
Red-tailed hawks. A black eye on a girl
hiding in the corral. A Lady Takes a
Chance. Trip-wires for horses. War paint,
eye shadow. A Fistful of Dollars. Cow-
boy hats reeking of smoke and spoiled pork.
Mule deer. Mud Lake, Idaho. Highways
looping over themselves, empty drive-ins.
Coyote brush. Broken stirrups. Bitter
Springs, Arizona. Cigarettes staining the
ceiling of his trailer, his teeth. Pale Rider.
B.B. guns, hand guns, shot guns. Guns with
the serial numbers filed off. Appaloosa.
Star-nosed moles. Robbing the grocery store,
your father’s restaurant. Raccoons. Copper
Beeches. Yellow dust on your tongue, in
the corner of your eye. A Man Called Horse.
Apache, Comanche. Star sedge. A drunk man
singing in the outhouse. A drunk man singing
by the fire. 6 Black Horses. Saguaro cactus.
Condor shadows the size of sinking boats. Black-
tailed jack-rabbits. The Man from Nowhere. Burning
barns. Horses galloping back in. Eureka, California.
Christine Hamm has a PhD in American Poetics, and is the former poetry editor for Ping*Pong. She won the MiPoesias First Annual Chapbook Competition with her manuscript, Children Having Trouble with Meat. Her poetry has been published in Orbis, Pebble Lake Review, Lodestar Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Rattle, Dark Sky, and many others. She has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize, and she teaches English at CUNY. Echo Park, her third book of poems, came out from Blazevox in the fall of 2011. Erbacce Press of the UK published her chapbook, My Western, in 2012 when Christine was a finalist in their annual poetry contest. New Orleans Review will publish Christine’s chapbook, A is for Absence, in 2014. Christine was also a runner-up to the Poet Laureate of Queens.
Memory of Dublin
10 hour fight. Crying kids tired of sitting and behaving for so long.
“Galway Girl” by Steve Earl in my ears.
Dublin airport in view. It looks so normal-what a letdown.
I’m exhausted, customs is torture, my sister won’t stop complaining.
Reminds me of the brats sitting behind us on the plane.
My brand new passport has its very first stamp and it’s not from Mexico!
Mercedes taxis and busses barely miss each other, all driving on
the wrong side of the road.
Mr. Dunne, the B&B proprietor, is so nice, just as I expected an old Irishman to be.
Sheets stiff with starch (they scratch a little), the hospital smell of laundry soap
and I can finally sleep in peace.
His French-press coffee is better than Starbucks. I drink gallons of it.
Fried egg, tomato, perfect buttery toast and we’re set to go.
St. Patrick’s Day is a bank holiday. And the locals mean business.
Trinity College, Dublin. The Book of Kells cannot be photographed
or filmed. My memory is not the best, damn it!
Entering St. Patrick’s Cathedral, stepping into the sacred past. Tombs, no pews, smaller than anticipated. There is NOTHING like it at home.
Over the River Liffey, across the Ha’Penny Bridge, taking pictures all along-typical tourists!
No shopping on Grafton Street, but lots of rambling. I have a bloody blister on my heel, too bad I can’t wear sandals.
Should a city park be as gorgeous as St. Stephen’s Green? Rain soaks my favorite red coat, it weighs a lot; what a birthday gift from Mother Nature. I love it!
Dodgy-looking popcorn at the Omniplex. Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson-“In Bruge”- brilliant!
Temple Bar is lively, no matter the hour. Foreigners sure love to embarrass themselves.
The steak at that forgettable restaurant was a little tough and tasteless, but OK with some salt and pepper. The ham hock and cabbage still makes my mouth water.
Departure gate, I don’t want to go back. Some tears, convincing words, I’m on that plane again.
I hate big cities, but I fell hard for Dublin, Ireland.
My Founding Father
Market street,
An arm full of baguettes,
The Young and the Restless,
Cobblestone secrets,
Poor Richard’s Almanac
Free advice, Dr. Phil
Lowercase letters,
Tray on the floor
Independence,
Freedom from tyranny,
Dumping tea in the harbor
Common Sense
Nearsighted bifocals,
Library books,
Heated and seated,
“Necessity is the Mother of Invention”
Plain Truth,
Lightning and a kite,
Ponies and Postage stamps,
“Join or Die”
Speaking French,
Forming an alliance,
Twist and Gout
“Benny and the Jets”
Simplicity
Sierraville, California, population 200.
No one locks their car doors.
Worries stay afar.
Keys and locks don’t exist.
My family lies beyond these wooden walls.
“Heart Break Hotel”
plays on the portable radio
I hear it from my room.
It’s 5:00 A.M. and the sun is hovering
tickling and teasing the tops of the mountains in the distance.
Momma wakes me and little Jake.
I look out the window of our cabin,
green meadows lay like a blanket
awakening with the morning light.
Porridge and apple smoked sausge heat on the wood-burning skillet.
The smell of maple and pinewood lingers in the rustic air.
Smoke dances without a hurry from the chimney into the pink sunrise.
Pine trees
I run through them chasing after Jake
dodging their thick stumps.
The sun gleams through the cracks of the tall mountains
illuminating the valley in its ray of glory.
The sound of crunching brush and grass beneath my boots
sync harmoniously with the chirping of robins
and the voices of the cattle.
Giggling effortlessly in my abundance of naivety
I gallop through the pasture in peaceful captivity
of this home that I call mine.
Levi jeans
more muddy than they are blue.
The other boys and girls come over before supper.
We play outside
riding our rusted bikes on old dirt roads
building sling shots with sticks
and playing tag is our favorite.
Fosters Freeze
the only cure for summer’s heat.
Mr. Nichols works behind the counter
he only charges us 2 quarters for a vanilla cone.
We walk back on the side of the poorly paved road
ice-cream in hand and a bottle of coca-cola in the other.
One beat-up Chevy drives by.
We stop and talk to our neighbors on their porches for a brief moment.
We hear Momma’s cowbell ring.
We know it’s time to hurry home.
Broadway
Literary novels and neighbors have described to me the other world.
Times Square and Hollywood.
Fast cars, city lights, tall buildings.
Frankfurt Hot Dogs and Soft Pretzels on street corners.
I dream of the other side and the glamorous people living in it.
Palm trees and shiny things.
I wonder if they get consumed in the pace of life there.
I wonder if they will ever see the things I see, the way that I see it.
Unhurried, untouched, and simple.
Changes Resemble
Smoking Kills
Betty lights her cigarette while waiting for her doctor to come in. “Mad Men”
Both parents must work to survive
Alice cleans the house and takes care of the kids while Mom stays home. “Brady Bunch”
My son drops a plate on the floor and a shard of glass gets stuck in my foot causing me to scream.
Die Hard saves an entire shattered building barefoot.
The Plague, Recession, Health Care Reform
Zombies….The Walking Dead
Square, simple
Not exactly complete, not exactly settled
Papers on the wall
Leading to a
Stairway to Heaven
Leading to smoke
Exhaled
From Bob Marley
Mismatched blankets
Soft and disoriented
Unlike my structured square
Traces of Quentin Tarantino
Lying on the desk, ready to play
“Say ‘What’ again!”
A Boston terrier peers at me
From under the sheets
While I listen to Walt Disney on Pandora
Smells of cannabis and my Versace perfume
Everything is manly
Except for the bobby pins on the night stand
My mark, my tiny spot of territory
In a square that is not mine.
Fallen
A silent toy maker’s window
Two gold encrusted toy trains
A wrenching ailment burrowing
Laying down tracks within my frame
A child’s game He plays
Wickedly teasing the temperature of my mind
A deep fog clutters the paths
Trains collide within
Exhuming my remains underneath His eyes
The Devil’s vermin rip through my core
Gorging on my stock, cravings vanquished
Subsided swollen bellies
Engulfing lymph by lymph
Cheeky buzzards crouch overhead
Sunken eyes peering from shadows
Underneath children’s beds
Midnight’s henchmen swathed in death
They carve men into puppets
Souls to hang on strings of fated sisters
Stripped from the innards of a fashioned muse
Eurus’ kisses of Yersinia pestis
Bells shroud darkened skies
Trumpets wail for lips now lost
Avenues backed up with past existences
Heaping pyramids of forgotten spirits
Torn cloth atop withered shells
Heated arrows forged in Devil’s spit pierce the skin
Buboes tender to your touch
Liars, bastards, men all the same
Tubes of hot iron poured down our drains
Spiting, shouting, whimpering in fear
Hunched over ladies tossed from heaven’s gates
Barrel for those who are healthy
Burn the diseased!
I wince in my pain
Caught upon a post
A faint flickering light I can make out
But only the bolded name
Bubonic Plague.
The taste of peppermint
Like a candy cane you picked off the Christmas
The sight of snow
Like in the Alaskan postcards
The smell of hot chocolate
Like when you would go to grandma’s house
The feel of a soft sweater
Like that of the one you wore on that cold night
The sound of the rain
Like when you sat next to your windowpane
Taste, sight, smell, feel, sound
Reminisce on those good old days
Sitting around the tree like in “The Wonder Days”
When nothing mattered but family and those winter Christmas nights
Boy meets girl. Love, fate, and heartache.
(500) Days of Summer. Tom & Summer.
Unfair and one-sided love.
“It’s these cards and the movies and the pop songs,
they’re to blame for all lies and the heartache,
everything.”
This reminds me now, “I’m free, free fallin’, fallin…”
Free Fallin’ by Tom Petty.
These words allow actions to speak for themselves.
These feelings. Unwanted. Broken.
Yet, I still have hope.
Wishful thinking. Charlie & Sam.
Is love true like they say?
The Perks of being a Wallflower
Young. Attractive. In Love. Yet, alone and confused.
A twist of fate.
“We accept the love we think we deserve.”
If what you say is true then let me unravel my thoughts
And let me speak in other’s words.
In the small city surrounded by fields
Where people mostly drive and never walk
The crimes rate is too high
That it feels you’re watching CSI
Surrounded by fields
John Steinbeck described it very clear
It’s surrounded by life of an immigrant
In Grapes of Wrath
You can see it all to clear
If you grow up here you dream of moving away
To a bigger city to fulfill dreams
Just like Kelly Clarkson sings in Break Away
But many choose to stay it’s close to great city’s
Like San Jose and Monterey
The beaches are always near
Marina Monterey Carmel the waters are so clear
And we all wait for the Santa Cruz
Beach Boardwalk to open
A place where films have been made
No one can forget the Lost Boys
Once a year crowds of cowboy dressed as in
The Wild Wild West will come
To visit the biggest rodeo in California
This city is small but it’s home
Just like Dorothy said in the Wizard of Oz
There’s no place like home
Years ago, I found my “happy place” in Barcelona, Spain. Along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, close to the Planet Hollywood restaurant, there is a small pier. The pier is made of cement, and there is no fencing along the edges. One could walk right off the pier, onto the jagged rocks that surround the base of the pier. I laid right at the edge of the pier, with my arm hanging down towards those rocks, mesmerized by the glitter of the water brushing up against their sharp points, reflecting the sun above.
Located near the Marina Village of Olimpic port, the edge of the beach is lined with tables for playing chess. Old men, some dressed only in their underwear, sit all day at these tables, enjoying the Sun and company of friends-some old and some new. From a boom box, next to one of the younger chess players, I could hear Aqua’s “I’m a Barbie Girl” and Cher’s “Do you Believe in Life After Love.”
The tattoo parlor along the Marina was closed for siesta, along with many other businesses close to the shore. Two martial artists practice their forms behind me in the sand of the beach. Slow and synchronized, I could see their muscles flex in unison as their arms fell in front of their faces, into a defensive stance. Everybody seemed to have found their “happy place” along with me.
Is It a Dream
I look around the room,
and sadness is what I see.
On my uncles faces.
My aunts faces.
My sister’s face.
My mother’s face.
We all stare at the bed.
Where my father lay.
I look at the monitors.
And they’re off.
He’s gone.
Its quiet.
No one says a thing.
Coughing is the only noise that’s heard.
I walk out.
Passing rooms with patients.
Patients that don’t have much to live.
I make it to the balcony, and see the city.
The city alive.
I look down at the balcony.
And I wonder.
If I jump, will I wake up?
Fitting rooms with clothes piled as high as Mount Everest
Customers demanding a dollar for a pair of shoes
Store policy of smile and say hi
When honestly I’d rather smile and never come back
Essay after essay
Lecture after lecture
Mind overflowing with past, present, and future knowledge
Physical and emotional stress beginning to take over
Me against the world; who will win?
In order to keep my sanity I travel to the past
Back to the blue-green liquid gem of my childhood; Capitola California
The weather today allows the baby blue color of the sky to be seen and not veiled by the cotton balls of the sky
As I near the shore in the distance I see people in colorful wetsuits on surf boards becoming one with the sea
Children building sand castles and motes in the sand
Couples writing promise in the ground
They say the American dream is having the white picket fence, perfect pastel colored house
But I think the American Dream actually refers to California living
Specifically near the ocean
The ocean has a calming, carefree effect on people
This is where the stress of the day flees away and I am the winner of this battle
Capitola California is the place that keeps me sane
The place I call home, is not actually my home.
My husband lives there.
My daughters live there.
But so do my demons,
Is it so hard to understand that my home is southern California?
The warm sun, the beach sounds,
the laughter of my brothers and sisters all around.
San Diego, what’s not to love?
Less sirens to hear at night,
no friday night helicopter flying over my roof.
And the top story on the news is not another gang violence shooting.
Need I really say anymore?
My family is my everything,
they are,
but, I’m my everything too.
One cannot love others before loving yourself first.
Yes, I am lost,
I am weak,
but strong.
In this place which has been forced onto me,
to be my home.
I am unhappy,
I cry,
A lot.
With no worry of running into the man who ruined my life,
Yes, he ruined my life,
forever.
He is my demon.
First, open flat planes
Tall grass
Dry rusty grounds
Then, in a close but fare distance
Arisen rocky Mountains
Deep Earthy colors
When mountain top brushes against light blue skies
Light brown, greys, yellows, oranges
Dive into a sea of blues
Kick hey
Strength Power Black coat
Majestic four legged animals
empowers through
Wind races
Long hair blows
A long face full of strive races through earth
Horse shoes drill through the planes with speed
A wild horse
Living by the Ocean
Young girl, fun girl,
Beach day and night,
Sticky sand sticky hands,
Ocean bright in blue and gloomy at noon,
Relax and breathe, enjoy the steam,
Beach boardwalk is where I Belong
Most sang song, young and old,
Daily trips with whomever tagged along,
Big rides, small rides, all were used,
From morning to night, fun was alive,
Still favorite place to spend
My First Dog “Babash”
2months old
Tiny and sticky
Full of joy, brought thrill to my life
Cute as it can be, hated baths and ran away
Love being out doors, wished I would have had more time to give
12 years old, my joy left with him
Puppy love I will never have
Puppy love I’ll never forget
Memory of Dublin
10 hour fight. Crying kids tired of sitting and behaving for so long.
“Galway Girl” by Steve Earl in my ears.
Dublin airport in view. It looks so normal-what a letdown.
I’m exhausted, customs is torture, my sister won’t stop complaining.
Reminds me of the brats sitting behind us on the plane.
My brand new passport has its very first stamp and it’s not from Mexico!
Mercedes taxis and busses barely miss each other, all driving on
the wrong side of the road.
Mr. Dunne, the B&B proprietor, is so nice, just as I expected an old Irishman to be.
Sheets stiff with starch (they scratch a little), the hospital smell of laundry soap
and I can finally sleep in peace.
His French-press coffee is better than Starbucks. I drink gallons of it.
Fried egg, tomato, perfect buttery toast and we’re set to go.
St. Patrick’s Day is a bank holiday. And the locals mean business.
Trinity College, Dublin. The Book of Kells cannot be photographed
or filmed. My memory is not the best, damn it!
Entering St. Patrick’s Cathedral, stepping into the sacred past. Tombs, no pews, smaller than anticipated. There is NOTHING like it at home.
Over the River Liffey, across the Ha’Penny Bridge, taking pictures all along-typical tourists!
No shopping on Grafton Street, but lots of rambling. I have a bloody blister on my heel, too bad I can’t wear sandals.
Should a city park be as gorgeous as St. Stephen’s Green? Rain soaks my favorite red coat, it weighs a lot; what a birthday gift from Mother Nature. I love it!
Dodgy-looking popcorn at the Omniplex. Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson-“In Bruge”- brilliant!
Temple Bar is lively, no matter the hour. Foreigners sure love to embarrass themselves.
The steak at that forgettable restaurant was a little tough and tasteless, but OK with some salt and pepper. The ham hock and cabbage still makes my mouth water.
Departure gate, I don’t want to go back. Some tears, convincing words, I’m on that plane again.
I hate big cities, but I fell hard for Dublin, Ireland.
My Founding Father
Market street,
An arm full of baguettes,
The Young and the Restless,
Cobblestone secrets,
Poor Richard’s Almanac
Free advice, Dr. Phil
Lowercase letters,
Tray on the floor
Independence,
Freedom from tyranny,
Dumping tea in the harbor
Common Sense
Nearsighted bifocals,
Library books,
Heated and seated,
“Necessity is the Mother of Invention”
Plain Truth,
Lightning and a kite,
Ponies and Postage stamps,
“Join or Die”
Speaking French,
Forming an alliance,
Twist and Gout
“Benny and the Jets”
Simplicity
Sierraville, California, population 200.
No one locks their car doors.
Worries stay afar.
Keys and locks don’t exist.
My family lies beyond these wooden walls.
“Heart Break Hotel”
plays on the portable radio
I hear it from my room.
It’s 5:00 A.M. and the sun is hovering
tickling and teasing the tops of the mountains in the distance.
Momma wakes me and little Jake.
I look out the window of our cabin,
green meadows lay like a blanket
awakening with the morning light.
Porridge and apple smoked sausge heat on the wood-burning skillet.
The smell of maple and pinewood lingers in the rustic air.
Smoke dances without a hurry from the chimney into the pink sunrise.
Pine trees
I run through them chasing after Jake
dodging their thick stumps.
The sun gleams through the cracks of the tall mountains
illuminating the valley in its ray of glory.
The sound of crunching brush and grass beneath my boots
sync harmoniously with the chirping of robins
and the voices of the cattle.
Giggling effortlessly in my abundance of naivety
I gallop through the pasture in peaceful captivity
of this home that I call mine.
Levi jeans
more muddy than they are blue.
The other boys and girls come over before supper.
We play outside
riding our rusted bikes on old dirt roads
building sling shots with sticks
and playing tag is our favorite.
Fosters Freeze
the only cure for summer’s heat.
Mr. Nichols works behind the counter
he only charges us 2 quarters for a vanilla cone.
We walk back on the side of the poorly paved road
ice-cream in hand and a bottle of coca-cola in the other.
One beat-up Chevy drives by.
We stop and talk to our neighbors on their porches for a brief moment.
We hear Momma’s cowbell ring.
We know it’s time to hurry home.
Broadway
Literary novels and neighbors have described to me the other world.
Times Square and Hollywood.
Fast cars, city lights, tall buildings.
Frankfurt Hot Dogs and Soft Pretzels on street corners.
I dream of the other side and the glamorous people living in it.
Palm trees and shiny things.
I wonder if they get consumed in the pace of life there.
I wonder if they will ever see the things I see, the way that I see it.
Unhurried, untouched, and simple.
Changes Resemble
Smoking Kills
Betty lights her cigarette while waiting for her doctor to come in. “Mad Men”
Both parents must work to survive
Alice cleans the house and takes care of the kids while Mom stays home. “Brady Bunch”
My son drops a plate on the floor and a shard of glass gets stuck in my foot causing me to scream.
Die Hard saves an entire shattered building barefoot.
The Plague, Recession, Health Care Reform
Zombies….The Walking Dead
Square, simple
Not exactly complete, not exactly settled
Papers on the wall
Leading to a
Stairway to Heaven
Leading to smoke
Exhaled
From Bob Marley
Mismatched blankets
Soft and disoriented
Unlike my structured square
Traces of Quentin Tarantino
Lying on the desk, ready to play
“Say ‘What’ again!”
A Boston terrier peers at me
From under the sheets
While I listen to Walt Disney on Pandora
Smells of cannabis and my Versace perfume
Everything is manly
Except for the bobby pins on the night stand
My mark, my tiny spot of territory
In a square that is not mine.