#constrained writing

What if, at a point, you found That you lack a critical thing? What if you didn’t know That said thing is missing?

What if you didn’t know it was around? You had many doo-dads and it was working Folks call you unusual as you lack a particular gizmo And you unknowingly go along, ignoring loud hissing.

You accepted the pain and assumed this was life You thought you were broken; you’re just something else Like this poem, you’re better when you use all the letters, No matter who tells you to never use your “e.”

I found an asset reading in between the lines

Of a book drenched in tragedies greater than mine

Deep in your eyes lurks something truly maddening

Maddeningly beautiful, violent, and stunning

Life and death intertwined begging for an order

In one controlled display of wanton surrender

X

I’ve learned to play you, player of nations and schemes

Rewired in depth your mind penning songs of singed dreams

Fight for me, bow to me so that you never break

Seize the freedom of a firm hand for your own sake

And reward you I shall, keeping you warm always

In and out, blowing on long lost embers of praise

[...]

“Anagrams Stink” - a sestet written 12/15/2020

[Seamus Heaney - Digging]

Original:

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.

Lipolation:

Between my index and my thumb The squat pen sits, snug as a gun.

Beneath my window, a choppy, gasping sound Of the swung spade sinking down: My dad, digging. I peek out

And his back and backside in the bushes bend down, come up two decades away Stooping, swooping to the beat of potatoes As he was digging.

The dense boot weighed down the spade, the shaft Against the inside knee was focus and moment. He yanked out the tops, sunk the shine of the edge Deep, to put in potatoes we picked, Hands touching, enjoying the stone skin.

By God, my dad could do with a spade. Just as his own dad,

Who could cut twice as much peat in a day As any young man out on the bog. Once I went out to him with beet juice: When he saw me, he stood up, Downed it, then bent back at once, Nicking neat gashes, heaving sods Out, off, away, going down and down To the veins of good peat. Digging.

The dank stench of potatoes, the squish and mush Of soggy peat, the catch, cut of an edge Past tufts and stalks awakens in my head. But I've no spade to dig as those men.

Between my index and my thumb The squat pen sits. I can dig with it.