In Montreal, in the long gape
of my twenties, I dwelled on the rip
of wind in my childhood, the dull hiss
of the Pacific, which I called home.
People with problems
remember. I remembered better
than anyone without a problem,
drew the seismograph
of my days, the happy ones
tallest. This, I thought, was how time
should be measured,
by height, the bad days small
and fast. I passed a friendless summer,
riding my bike down windless streets.
The only secrets I could keep
were my own.
I don’t remember Montreal.
I think I must have liked the heat.
I took too many pills, the blue ones,
and scribbled on packs of cigarettes
to hide pictures of disfigured jaws
and yellow lungs. In Montreal,
at the hard start of my twenties—
I remember that, at least.
I remember being scared.
I think I must have liked the heat.
I must have imagined that something would come
of all that blue.
The pills I took, the wrong ones,
made memory kick and gasp.
What did I remember?
Moon-gulped hills. Being mad
at everyone.
I wrote emails to enemies
that I did not send.
I wrote letters, real ones,
in the scrawl I’d perfected
in chemistry class.
I wanted to be Rimbaud.
I was too old, already,
to be Rimbaud, so who could I be? Outside,
I read long books about Canada, the alien
continent that Frye had described
in The Bush Garden.
I read Wuthering Heights
and did not finish.
I rode my bike down old hills.
I sold my bike in winter,
and went home.
In San Francisco, in the thin coil
of my twenties, I armed myself
with the names of streets. I kept them
in a notebook. How else to know a place?
A doctor once told me, You will never hang
onto pictures. You can’t keep them
in your head. The pills I took
couldn’t fix that. The pills I took,
the right ones, made me forget sadness,
so I gave it up. To someone else,
a city is a different city, a world
of one's invention, mythologies blank
or inhabited, histories faint
or aching. I was lucky to forget
what memory said.
In Montreal, in the long gape of my twenties, I called memory home. People with problems remember. I remembered better than anyone without a problem, the rip of wind in my childhood, the hiss of the Pacific, which I called home. I passed a summer, friendless, riding my bike down windless streets. The only secrets I could keep were my own. I don’t remember Montreal. I think I must have liked the heat. I took too many pills, the blue ones, and scribbled on packs of cigarettes to hide pictures of disfigured jaws and yellow lungs. In Montreal, at the hard start of my twenties— I remember that, at least. I remember being scared. I think I must have liked the heat. I must have imagined that something would come of all that blue. The pills I took, the wrong ones, made memory kick and gasp. I don’t recall what I remembered. I rode my bike down old hills. I sold my bike in winter and went home. In San Francisco, in the thin coil of my twenties, I memorized the names of streets. The litany of names made me feel armed. I kept the names in a notebook. How else to know a place? A doctor once told me, You will never hang onto pictures. You can’t keep them in your head. The pills I took couldn’t fix that. The pills I took, the right ones, made me forget sadness, so I gave it up. To someone else, a city is a different city. I was lucky to forget what memory said.
Hi flowerburgers.
Enjoyed being baffled by this.
I liked the contradiction of discursiveness
and repetitions, the easy, rambling,
conversational style. Having got to the end
I immediately started again.
The only significant issue I have with it is the first stanza.
(And, to be honest, the title.)
While there are some really good sonics (the hiss of the pacific)
and images (riding...down windless streets),
I don't find it very engaging. 'long gape' seems (comparatively)
poor. Particularly when contrasted with S2 L6 & S5 L1
Bearing 'baffled' in mind, I wonder if you considered cutting the first
line completely, and transposing the remainder to the end?
S2 L1 would make for a stronger, and more interesting start, I think.
In Montreal, in the long gape ... of the Pacific, which I called home. I passed a summer, friendless, riding my bike down windless streets. The only secrets I could keep were my own.
(The 'own'/'home' rhyme is slightly intrusive)
I don’t remember Montreal.
I like all of this stanza, especially the last two lines.
I think I must have liked the heat.
Wouldn't mind a slight variation here; Yes, I must have liked the heat ? I must have imagined
Do you need this 'I' ? that something would come of all that blue.
either 'from all...'
or 'out of...' ? ... I rode my bike down old hills. I sold my bike in winter and went home.
I really love these last three lines.
And if you wanted to add just a little
more descriptive detail...
In San Francisco, in the thin coil of my twenties, I memorized the names of streets. The litany of names
do you need 'of names'? A litany that made me feel... ? made me feel armed. I kept the names
('made me feel armed' seems slightly odd) in a notebook. How else to know a place? ... couldn’t fix that. The pills I took, the right ones, made me forget sadness, so I gave it up. To someone else, a city
'forget sadness, so I gave it up'
very nice is a different city. I was lucky to forget
a city is a different city? Got lost here.
(Either too deep, or way too shallow) what memory said.
People with problems remember. I remembered better than anyone without a problem, the rip of wind in my childhood, the hiss of the Pacific, which I called home. I passed a summer, friendless, riding my bike down windless streets. The only secrets I could keep were my own.
... People with problems remember. I remembered better than anyone without a problem, drew the seismograph of my days, the happy ones tallest. This, I thought, was how time should be measured, by height, the bad days small and fast.
I like the seismograph idea, though, according to google,
a seismograph is the instrument that draws a
seismogram. And given the San Francisco section... (Preferred the Richter scale to a calendar)
What did I remember? Moon-gulped hills. Being mad at everyone. I wrote emails to enemies that I did not send. I wrote letters, real ones, in the scrawl I’d perfected in chemistry class.
Don't think these lines are that successful.
N keeps saying 'I don't remember'
so the question here seems jarring.
(To what/whom is it a response?)
Is it the intention for 'moon-gulped'
to modify the meaning of 'being mad'? I wanted to be Rimbaud. I was too old, already, to be Rimbaud, so who could I be? Outside,
the repetition of Rimbaud doesn't work for me,
makes for a rather 'unnatural' sentence.
Would suggest;
I wanted to be Rimbaud,
but was too old already, so who... I read long books about Canada, the alien continent that Frye had described in The Bush Garden. I read Wuthering Heights and did not finish.
really want to add an 'it' to the end of this sentence I rode my bike down old hills. I sold my bike in winter, and went home.
In San Francisco, in the thin coil of my twenties, I armed myself with the names of streets. I kept them in a notebook. How else to know a place?
Armed seems such a strong word, I keep waiting
for another military attribute to appear (in the notebook
itself or in the order/formation of the lists or...) A doctor once told me, You will never hang onto pictures. You can’t keep them in your head. The pills I took couldn’t fix that. The pills I took, the right ones, made me forget sadness, so I gave it up. To someone else, a city is a different city, a world
Why is this not To everyone, each city is a different city? of one's invention, mythologies blank or inhabited, histories faint or aching. I was lucky to forget what memory said.
I think this is a bit loose. ... a different city, [an individual invention]; histories faint or aching, mythologies blank or inhabited. I was lucky to forget...
(Blank/inhabited don't work that well I think)
Just a suggestion: In San Francisco, in the thin coil of my twenties, I armed myself with the names of streets. I kept them in a notebook. How else to know a place? To someone else, a city is a different city, a world of one's invention, mythologies blank or inhabited, histories faint or aching. I was lucky to forget what memory said. A doctor once told me, You will never hang onto pictures. You can’t keep them in your head. The pills I took couldn’t fix that. The pills I took, the right ones, made me forget sadness, so I gave it up.
(Purely personal, obviously, but I think offers a stronger ending.)
I still find that the first stanza doesn't draw me in.
In S2 the first line invites the response 'why don't you..?'
For me there's no similar engagement with S1.
I'm not sure about 'concrete', but I'd like a slightly
stronger sense of direction (and destination).
(And the title's still unhelpful).
Best, Knot.
PS. 'The rip of wind in my childhood' is not a phrase that travels well,
(arrives here as comedic flatulence).
