Saturday, September 10, 2011

Fireflies

The firefly city lies under the pond
where the plastic owl stands vigil,
the fountain of stream-worn pebbles
and cement dry since the builder died.
The children follow the lights to find the streets
of that city where the water is pure
and the fireflies become fairies.
White hitapa blossoms sail onto the deck
where we sit, their bird-like bodies
streaked inside with purple painted veins
and a tangerine brush stroke. The red sun sinks
in the humid air. The neighbor
with a steel plate in his skull tells us about the girl
down the street disintegrated by a power line.
"Terrible," I say, living the horror.
He watched men be burned alive in war.
In Singapore, men sold
their wives or daughters for a handful
of food or coins. At the back
of a restaurant, he watched groups
of them fight over garbage
from the meals inside.
His eyes widen as we share a common
vision of the end of children
by electricity or men by flame
thrower. Features tighten, the bad
leg aches more, joints harden.
I pull my daughter close and kiss her hair.
There's pain and agony we'll never know,
cries in the back alleys we'll never hear.
I think it's only the voice in the wind
that hears the cries of the dispossessed.
When it's over, he asks "What's new."
Nothing, I say. Nothing
is new on this night when fireflies
elude children's grasps, and they
only half-believe my stories of fairies,
the city beneath the pond, and wolf
spiders on the window sill.

copyright 2011 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.

23 comments:

  1. what a contrast in the joy of fireflies and the magic they bring and the harsh reality of the man and his stories...so the choice then becomes which you adhere to...nice verse man...

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  2. what a great metaphor charles...you're such a masterful weaver of metaphors and images that hit me right into the stomach and make me re-think them again and again...and hey...i'm honored to share those fragment book pages with you... thanks..

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  3. This poem is heartachingly beautiful, Chaz. "I think it's only the voice in the wind that hears the cries of the dispossessed" This says it all for me. And the poignancy of children grasping at fireflies...never to be caught...giving up the notion of magic and fairies to face some of the bitterness of man's cruelty. A beautiful and thoughtful piece. But then I'm spoiled...you always are thoughtful in your work....and beautiful. Write on!

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  4. Your words really pull me in masterfully, and I can picture the scene vividly and experience the horrors described. And thank goodness children still continue to grasp for fireflies.

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  5. Wow. Wow. WOW! Each line pulls us in closer, each image brings the painting to life a little bit more, each word, perfectly placed, as we are forced through the nightmare to wonder where we may end up. Hold her close and tight and pray with all your might. Let's hope we give our children a better story to tell. This is amazing!

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  6. I'm glad I saved this one for the fresh morning mind, Charles. It repays ever moment reading it with images of indelible truth, twisting through our makeshift lives, mocking our attempts at rationalizing the world, humanizing the animal man, and bringing love out of the darkness--yet we can and do always persist. My favorite line here, esp in its placement and underlining use, is "I think it's only the voice in the wind/that hears the cries of the dispossessed..."

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  7. i am glad you reposted this one charles...it def brings the grit in the glitter...I think it's only the voice in the wind that hears the cries of the dispossessed...it pains me to see kids give up on the magic...on catching those fireflies man...seeing much of what i see going into neighborhoods working with kids...its a harsh reality man...

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  8. This is one of the reasons I don't have children. Excellent write.

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  9. There is so much evil in this world, but, I have to believe we only get to hear about it so much because it is what seems to sell. There is also so much good in the world too, and yet we allow kids to grow up way too soon when they ought to be allowed to keep the magic for as long as they possibly can. This has some wonderful touches but, is horrific for its truth too.
    Powerful write and imagery Charles.

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  10. Back again a second time too, Charles. "Nothing new." I understand that. Nothing really can compare to some of the horrors discussed. Anything you could add would be pale in comparison. Sometimes one just can't add......

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  11. This is just wonderful, Charles. The contrast between the fireflies and the sex slavery. (I'm having a hard time writing as my house is full.) But thanks for this. K.

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  12. the most powerful thing is the children only half believe the stories. did they grow up? or is it because something traumatic happened... that' sad.

    when do we stop being a child

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  13. great to re-read this...a very sensitive take on a heavy topic...esp. loved..
    Nothing, I say. Nothing
    is new on this night when fireflies
    elude children's grasps, and they
    only half-believe my stories of fairies,
    the city beneath the pond, and wolf
    spiders on the window sill

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  14. This is great, such a powerful prevailing metaphor here. The nightmare is offset by the tenderness you show your daughter, holding her closely, kissing her hair, the idea of being fortunate enough not to hear or see, is a great notion here, as it is fortune, but also could be a misfortune, for just not hearing or seeing doesn't make it disappear. The last lines are so strong here. Powerful write. Thanks

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  15. Lovely poem, as long as children still grasp for those fireflies relentlessly then imagination will always be a strong part of life.

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  16. I was struck by the same thought as Brian: the contrast between the magic and the fireflies on one hand and cold reality on the other. Masterly.

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  17. This entire segment is the perfect close and so poignant:

    "When it's over, he asks "What's new."
    Nothing, I say. Nothing
    is new on this night when fireflies
    elude children's grasps, and they
    only half-believe my stories of fairies,
    the city beneath the pond, and wolf
    spiders on the window sill."

    Great write Chaz!

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  18. This is good, it has the bitter of experience in horrible places and the sweet of childhood. Blended so well in a neighborhood visit...thank you for sharing this.

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  19. Every breath of this exhales so much that is readable, and felt ,i became blanketed in it

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  20. A tale of two cities- one of fireflies , one of mans realities....we all start off in the same place -with the fireflies- but then at some point- maybe when we gain that adult 'realisation' we are kicked out and have to set up shop in the other...I just desperately wish there was a way back- but I genuinely don't believe there is....wow! Look at me being all upbeat!! Ha ha- great poem chaz- the stanza about the 'dispossessed' is about as good as any- one of those to be remembered for a long time

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  21. Well this is a really moving piece which swept me off my feet, around the world and back again. Really well done.

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  22. So good. This is an amazing juxtaposition of the fanciful delights of childhood and the harsh realities of the man's stories. My pollyanna side is hoping that his stories are etched into his steel plate and not his reality at all.

    Yeah, I know...

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  23. Such a good poem. It was definitely a story I could not stop reading once I started. I enjoyed how you carried me along the path from fireflies to electrocution to flame throwers and back again. Nicely done sir!!

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