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Notes

Written 13 September 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “All Growed Up” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

________

Original Version

29! Did I just realize that?!?

All Growed Up

The icons are all dead or broken,
ushered off in wheelchairs and caskets of immoral expense to paradises
surrounded by wildness.
My childhood crumbles without the support of the ones I admired and by the weight of my guilts and follies.
That time of heroes is so distant — it no longer even feels like a dream,
no longer feels like a memory.
The blurred fragments of the Sues, the Mikes, the D’Jeilas… they are fading into emptiness,
leaving me with a search for new people to look up to, if anyone.
I miss the me who was in that time, but celebrate his death.
The me of now is an improvement, a focused replica of an aimless child.
The slate has been cleaned and readied for the new icons to place on pedestals.
Soon, I’ll break out of the thin shell of fear that remains and emerge as a fully complete person.
My wings itch to stretch out and let me fly.

9.13.2008

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Open your arms (and welcome Love)

A fervent plea to those people I’ve seen my Church family morphing into, slipping away from me, from Love. A prayer for the many who’ve seen the backs of their loved ones too often, shivering alone because they were misunderstood or openly judged for being human.

My neighbors turned towards themselves
and forgot my face.
Backs towards me with multitudes of assumptions.
My heart feels the hymns,
feels the joy still.
I’m unchanged.
My image fails me; refuses to take the shape of the mold
[the idyllic life]
the person I was supposed to be.
I’m neither broken nor lost.
I’m Love’s child, regardless of whispers and raised eyebrows.
My home,
our home.
I never felt so unwelcome from a family, silently, passively.
Judgments. Silence.
Silence.
From my perch high above the elders,
the deacons, the little old ladies
who wait for death on the third pew from the back,
my mind stretches, finding thoughts far from my body,
dreamily.
I welcome judgment.
Don’t pray for me in anger
or sorrow
or disappointment.
Don’t welcome be back from depravity.
Be family; be true to Love.
Love. Love.
Open your arms — not only to me,
not to selfish or petty concerns of mine,
open your arms because they should be open.
Because they are there for welcoming,
uncrossed and warm,
welcome the children, your family,
forgotten innocents,
the joyful, the content,
the exuberantly happy,
the depressed, and the angry.
Keep you arms open to those whose lives you don’t understand,
whose lives are full of light and laughter,
but cannot find comfort in rigid conformity.
I’ll join them too — march with them
into the auditoriums across distances,
across situational divides.
Be Love.
Kiss your neighbor on the forehead and have them over for dinner.
There is nothing important like Love.
There is nothing but Love.
There is Love.
Love.
And Love will take our hands — yours, mine,
the multitudes huddled in the rain.
We’ll find ourselves then.
We’ll free ourselves and be family again.
And selfish concerns and trivial differences will never be able to keep us apart.

8.21.2008

Featured Image Art: Michelangelo, “The Creation of Adam”

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Birth

And now, this 29th time around the sun is coming to an end.
My trips seems less celebratory than ever, but somehow more satisfying.
I enter the final year of my 20s this very second.
It isn’t a disconnection, it isn’t loss.
Life seems to have only just begun.

8.5.2008 (written at the minute of my birth, 9:01a.m. AKDT; 12:01p.m. CDT)

I’ve begun my 30th trip. How is it that my birthday always feel a little different from other days? I suppose I’ve wondered that before, but leading up to today I really thought that this birthday, more than any other, would feel like just an ordinary day. Perhaps it is the cold I’ve had or the frustration of life not going the way it is supposed to go, but things haven’t been as merry as I’d like. Today, that seems to have changed. I am still waiting for adulthood — or the realization of — to smack me in the face.

My day started beautifully. I had decided to not go over to David & Daniel’s last night after they called and told me they were going to bed instead (the initial plan had been to go over there), but I decided that I wanted the change of scenery. The first minutes of the day were spent rediscovering what it is like to be outside in the dark. It seems like it has been a long time since that happened, with the longer days of summer. It even struck me as odd that it would be dark at midnight. Daniel got up to join me while I used the computer at their house, which was nice. I stayed a couple hours, then came home and slept for a bit. Since waking up this morning, I’ve spent the day updating poems that I had written earlier this year. I’ve also done a tiny bit of writing today, but more editing. Let me know what you think of the revised versions. I think I finally am getting “Whale” where it needs to be. Also, is this “more” thing annoying or not?

Birds

Summer failed to arrive in this grey urbanity.
Anchorage feels naked, empty
without the carpet of ice and snow crunching below.
I was aware of it when lupines and wild roses
heralded the arrival of what should have been June.
I was keenly aware of the missing white when
flowers conceded, accepting the cruelty of warmthlessness.
This city is wet now, as the great lion arrives.
Saddened by this dreary failure, the cat weeps,
drizzles pulling themselves from a sky
that has married itself with concrete.
The world darkens, turning even more grey and distant.
All hope escapes of summer, of warmth.
It’ll return to Alaska now, the familiar cold driving
away smaller birds and welcoming ravens.
In the merriment of an metropolitan buffet,
they’ll shoo the clouds, revealing the sun,
shining brightly on the brief days of a frozen world.

7.27.2008

Lightning Bugs

It hasn’t been enough to love people
to grasp at them, lightning bugs
I want to jar and admire.
They’ve been too quick, lighting up
and confusing me.

I’m no longer willing to feel
punished by time, by God (or god),
by the will of those who just
don’t want me.

5.15.2008

Whale
ode to my vanity

I sneak upon you, surprising you
from beneath your feet.
From not knowing to knowing,
I grow enormous and fill you field of view,
become your entire world for a few moments.
I press on away from you towards newness,
fading slowly away into the blue and into
the recesses of your mind,
an image of something that was,
but that is no longer so impressive.
I long to rekindle the wonder you felt
the first time I allowed you to see,
but the second time I swim by
you’ll think you remembered me larger.

3.29.2008

Sun Vs. Son

Sun
Falling rays prove merciless;
the hospital all robed in pink fills with babies,
exhausted mothers
breathless
from rising heat.
Son,
colored like the sun and screaming,
comfort taken too hastily.
The minty green dressed men and women
put the baby in a box, shine lights,
drain the sun from his skin.
Rejoicing, the sun burns more fiercely.
The world sighs.

8.4.2008

The Short Reign of a Queen

Heather warmly picked up the old girl,
dusted her off and proudly placed her
high on a pedestal.
Norma purred, closed her eyes.
The two fell in love among yaps
and slobbers.
Comfort, home, family, importance.
Heather’d created a queen and Norma
was content to be crowned.
Amid celebrations of the new monarch,
Norma’s life quietly expired.
Heather’s heart broke and tears flooded
the world; nobody could be as they once were.

7.11.2008

The Short Reign of a Queen is a revised version of a poem I had been afraid to post. I think it captures the situation now, so I offer it to the world.

Smoking, Waiting

With clouds of nothing else to occupy my time,
I’ve paced the walkways in front of jobs
where I arrived too early, cigarette in hand,
waiting for purpose.
Work is not and cannot be life or love,
the search for these things prevents
nervousness and the need to smoke.

4.16.2008

Featured Image Art: photo by David Clode (via Unsplash)

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Birds

The scheming magpies’ plan must’ve worked;
summer failed to arrive in this grey and spiraling urbanity.
Anchorage feels naked, empty
without the carpet of ice and snow crunching below.
I was aware of it when lupines and wild roses
heralded the arrival of what should have been June.
I was keenly aware of the missing white when
flowers conceded, accepting the cruelty of warmthlessness.
This city is wet now, as the great lion arrives.
Saddened by this dreary failure, the cat weeps,
drizzles pulling themselves from a sky
that has married itself with concrete.
The world darkens, turning grey and distant.
All hope escapes of summer, of warmth.
It’ll return to Alaska now, familiar cold eventually driving
away those smaller birds and welcoming the giant cousins,
the benevolent and ominous ravens, keepers of my soul.
In the merriment of an metropolitan buffet,
they’ll shoo the clouds, revealing the sun,
still hanging where they’d first placed it.

7.27.2008

What do I think of this poem? I almost feel like I was trying too hard. I’m still blocked and the words are not coming in waves. They take effort, like these, to release. I nearly like it, but may need to scrap an animal reference.

Featured Image Art: vintage illustration of a magpie

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Notes

Written 22 July 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Meeting with Tlāloc” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

__________

Original Version

untitled

Life’s all pauses and breaks;
my feet don’t seem so eager anymore to get to those places
I’ve always kept close to my heart and deep in my dreams.
There’s something soothing about stasis,
something unnerving as well.
I’m peering through cracks and holes of a life that is always shifting,
searching for someone who might be peering back at me
from the other side… of what?
The winds are picking up and I can feel change creeping over the horizon.
Storm’s comin’ and I’ve not gotten ready for it this time,
thought I’d enjoy more of this part of life,
thought there’d be more,
thought I could find comfort in being alone.
Blow me into bits; create something new and magical,
something more than I’ve ever been.
Grasping for hands to hold, I realize that there is only me.

7.22.2008

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I think the previously posted poem Hiking At Kennicott will either will be edited to be shorter or fleshed out to be an essay. I like it, but it is almost begging to be prose. I find myself rather blocked this week. Perhaps it has been the turmoil this past week seems to be in. Things are in disarray. It causes me to not want to face myself and I slink into my corner and pretend I don’t want to write. In reality, nothing would bring me greater joy in difficult times. Facing myself always seems to convince me that I like me more than I thought and still troubles me because I don’t understand how I can still be alone. I’m feeling rather desperate to have what those around me have and desperation causes foolishness. I hope I can keep the antics at bay. In the meantime, I’ll risk a poem on here that could potentially offend those mentioned in it. It is about three people I love a great deal — a family of sorts. Like all families, it is the quirks of individuals that sometimes receive the focus. It rarely means that those quirky people are thought of any less.

Reflections On My [Alaskan] Family

The pariah’s made up in all shades of green,
needlessly feeling pain, self-induced and unwarranted.
It’s hard to feel unconventional in world of unconventional people;
the appeal diminishes.
I’m melding with others,
whose lives barely cross mine and I feel again like a third wheel.
And I feel love. Love.
Quantified love. David first, me last, Daniel in between?
Quantified love?
Really?
Is it orderable, rankable, defined in aboveness?
The pariah feels sucked in and ever more distant,
perhaps well-placed feelings. Family.
Quantified?
I cannot see it. Not through the thick haze of love.
The boss makes diplomatic concessions for the patriarchal figure head
and I tend to understand [and to not understand].
The pariah’s green vestments seem to flash with new vibrance;
I can’t even get attention from myself. Love? Love. It’s possible.
Expanding, filling the room, feeling myself uncomfortable
and taking up space, wondering how I can be ignored.
Deflate the elephant. And sometimes I do it myself,
shrinking to almost nothing,
transparent.
I take perch and watch my family below grow ever closer
without me, saddened by my own inability to include myself.
The charmer found David and I can’t see the path to follow;
fields of sweetly scented flowers cover the trail that so recently existed.
The green is increasing.
I wish I could figure out how to remove this person who hides me,
shuck him from the golden ear of me inside.
I don’t believe in quantified love.
It is an expression of “like.”
Love holds us to standards we don’t often hold ourselves to,
expects us to look past ourselves.
The pariah’s only a pariah in his own eyes and longs to not be green.
Moist sounds of boys keeping each other warm make me
simultaneously happy and enraged.
Enraged at me, at ignorance, at my insufferability.
I won’t stand for this and demand that I not be the spoiled brat
who wants what everyone else has got.
I’m me and I’ll get mine when I accept that.
Quantified love? No.
I don’t love myself less than — or more than –
only as much as anyone else.
The boss will keep tabs on the situation,
very occasionally checking to see how I’m doing.
It’s easiest when he speaks about making love
with the charmer.
I feel less jealous the more he mentions it, happier.
More…
I will not be ranked and when my turn comes,
I’ll flood friends with my happiness.
And they’ll smile, genuinely proud of me.
The pariah is thinking more of himself.

6.14.2008

Image: photo of David, Daniel, & Brian (between McCarthy, Alaska & Kennicott Mine)

Featured Image Art: photo of David, taken on trip to Kennicott

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I got out of Anchorage for nearly three days. David, Daniel, Denis, & I took a trip to McCarthy & Kennecott in the Copper River Basin. Kennecott is an old mining town that was abandoned in 1938. The trip was beautiful, therapeutic, and well-deserved by all of us.

Honestly, I imagined great tension and possible distance on our return, but the four of us play very well off one another and if I can get over my jealousy that the other three live in two adjacent houses far from me, I think we’ll continue to have a strong relationship.

I’m not a nature person… so I say, but I do really enjoy getting out and doing things like this trip. I mainly say these things about not being a nature person to prevent people from inviting me on adventures that I can resent them for going on later. I should see someone about that, but for now I will just admit it and try to deal with it. I seem to be all too willing to sabotage my own happiness. Curious. I think getting a little nature all over me was good.

My pictures will be around soon. Too tired to care tonight.

Hiking At Kennicott

We chose stones carefully, stepping goat-like
across the field of glacier
deposits,
rocks brought here by powerful ice.
We made our way along the river, through a
density of silt.
I followed a narrow trail, curiosity claiming one, two, then all
three of my companions.

My path lay flat, carved from trees and grasses on the hills,
running along the very center of each towering, but small peak
and back down again.
The path only briefly meandered
through some trees
and then I emerged again, taking my place atop the next hill.

The 3 appeared in the distance at my new height,
far in the distance and now far
behind me.
Waving, we acknowledged our continued group hike,
now made one person short.
My feet took me forward and I pressed on,
again goating my way
over sloped white rock,
my clear and flattened path disappearing and then
reappearing some ways below me.

Preoccupied with safety, I’d been unaware of beauty
that was rising up and spreading out around me.
White, green
beige
grey, pink
green
I turned my head to see the glacier,
angrily peering from beneath its rocky blanket, spilling stones
and streaming water into a vast pool
that lay idle a moment,
trying to get its bearings before
heading towards the river.

In the distance I saw my friends and spoke to them
with a barely raised voice.
I guarded the glacier discovery, allowing them the chance
to experience and awe at the mighty size of the creature.
Disappearing into a pass that took them out of view,
I continued on,
drawn by some magic the trail had conjured.

Increasing heights made the hills more difficult, exhilarating,
sweaty.
Another rocky slope found my feet less sure,
challenging me with loose rocks.
My friends came to mind,
unseen for a long while.
The path diminished a bit at the line of trees began
to impede my passage.

My name rang gently through the valley once
(that I heard).
I turned, collected a rock and headed back to the group.
My back wet with sweat,
shirt clinging exhaustedly to my skin,
I felt a rush of new freedom,
of accomplishment,
solitude.
I sprinted now, over peaks that had seemed so difficult,
my feet never flinching on the now familiar trail.

I dashed up hills and pranced lightly down,
increasingly eager to get back to the company of friends,
family.
I slowed and walked slowly up a hill and saw the orange hat
making its way up to the same point, the hill with the view —
the perfect view of the white faces, lodged and straining.

We clicked our cameras, in awe
and I could now see the other two below, resting on rocks,
lazily taking Nature in,
hearts full.
I hopped down to the bed of boulders, where they had veered
and danced ceremoniously down towards the lodge.
Weary, wet, hot,
my feet were no longer trustworthy and my movements
required more thought.

Back safely at our cabin, we had a tailgate feast of whatever
each of us could find: olives, cookies, whole chickens, tuna salad,
carrots, juice, apples, nuts, dried cranberries, soda,…
Blissfully, the lovers among us retired
to the deck of the great common building
to share a romantic ramen and wine dinner,
alone finally,
content.

Creativity oozed out of anywhere it could and houses built
themselves on imagined sites of beautiful dreams that
seem to be coming true.
Wine gave way to haughty birds and the words once again
took over my hand.
We all seemed to be looking towards the glacier,
a pure moment carrying over and living on.
Alaska is good.

6.14.2008

I really like where I was trying to go with this next one. The day after I said it, there was a discussion in the truck about how everyone felt the same way about this. Even though I felt like the sentiment had been justified, I still don’t quite know how to phrase that last line to have maximum impact. Hmm… Oh, and if the title doesn’t stick with this poem, it WILL be the title of a similarly themed poem.

The Musk Ox & the Unicorn In Single Combat

Some people dream up mythical places with colors pulled from curious recesses,
fantastic creatures conjured up, unknown to man.
Some people write of beautiful worlds, misty moored landscapes and jagged
mountain peaks cutting through the sky towards gods just imagined.
Poets pull detail from made-up places;
describe them in wrapped beauty and make awe from the seemingly mundane.
Some people tell tales of lovely people doing spectacular things — heroes, heroines,
trailblazing pioneers making paths towards alien places.
I get to live in Alaska.

6.13.2008

Images: photos taken during trip with David, Daniel, & Denis

Featured Image Art: photo of Kennicott Mine

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10th & Cordova

I’m working on feeling unconventional
in a world of unconventional people.
I’m melding with others,
with those whose lives barely cross mine,
I am again like a loose bit
dangling from a ragged tree branch.
And I feel love. Love.
Quantified love. Finite and sequenced love.
Quantified?
I know I’m last. The love left is different,
the love is coated with a sticky doubt.
Denis is made up in shades of green,
needlessly feeding himself pain, gorging himself on his own thoughts.
His love is ranked, ordered, defined by hierarchy.
Denis uses his love to feel closeness,
and he wraps that love in money. Family.
Quantified? Finite?
David makes diplomatic concessions,
talks in circles and understanding tones, tries to hold together
things that aren’t in danger of slipping away.
He spends his time adding on to the structures, stroking egos,
helping Denis find even brighter green vestments.
I can’t even seem to get attention from myself.
Love? Love. It’s possible.
Expanding, filling the room, I feel uncomfortable
and take up too much space. How can I be ignored?
Sometimes I deflate the elephant and shrink to almost nothing,
transparent.
I shrink into a corner and watch my family below grow ever closer
without me, saddened by my own inability to include myself.
Daniel has come in, found David, taken him down a path I cannot see.
The fields of sweetly scented flowers cover the trail.
There is an increased interest in green.
I try to figure out how to be seen,
how to understand quantified love.
Denis longs to not be green, but I only know about this too late,
after I have purchased green tinted glasses that I wear when I look at him.
David and Daniel playing in the flowers makes me
simultaneously happy and enraged.
Enraged at me, at my ignorance, at how insufferable I’ve become.
Daniel brings back flowers and shares them with me,
and I am happy enough. Family.
Quantified? No.
David keeps tabs on the situation, sometimes,
very occasionally checking to see how I’m doing.
It’s easiest when he speaks about Daniel, about secrets and sex,
about the fields of flowers down the path.
I feel happy when he mentions Daniel, free.
The cracks are forming, and we are all distracted with our efforts.
I’ll soon need to purchase another pair of glasses, this time in rose.

Notes

Written 14 June 2008 in McCarthy, Alaska. Revised 1 October 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “10th & Cordova” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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I paused to bend your ear [it didn’t go well]

Secrets whispered make this place
tolerable, despite crumudgeons
who’d have it otherwise.
Would-be librarians shush us,
make get-back-to-work motions.
My face goes blank like a yokel
with nothin’ in my noggin ‘cept dust.
I’m animally staring into
the headlights of disapproval,
amazed that people think
themselves as so much more
important than they are.
I forget the secrets for now,
pretend to obey these adults who
wish to again be hall monitors.
I’ll wait and shout bits as I pass by
to show you that I still include you.
Together we’ll prove ourselves here
and these asses will fall away
to make room for our ascent.

5.20.2008

I’ve discovered that I wasn’t the only person to want to create a Title Wave book. Now, having discussed it with a coworker, I’m going to try hard to make it happen. He proposed donating profits to a charity, which I think is brilliant. We wouldn’t be in it for the money anyway. Now, choosing the right people to run it will be tough. One of the strongest resources is not a supporter of the project, so we cannot count on that person or the knowledge from them. I think it requires people who are willing to get things done, so I’ll be working on staying on other people about it, as well as myself.

Featured Image Art: F. Barolozzi, drawing of ears (from Ciprianii’s Rudiments of Drawing, 1796)

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Here you go Jess. This is the CD I wrote on. The only pen I had was a green micro sharpie. It took me some time because I thought I’d thrown it out. I have restocked my car with the appropriate writing tools.

My glasses broke today. That is not completely accurate. I broke my glasses today. There was a hair stuck in them, so I popped the lens out (which I do from time to time) and they snapped. They had gotten pretty old, so it is hardly a tragedy. I’ve ordered more, which are much more girly, but I’m hardly the model of masculinity.

I’ve spent FAR too much time making little books with my new printer. I’m trying to carefully select things I’ve written to send to my parents. Really, I seem to be looking for any excuse to not work on things that need to be worked on.

My coworker Alicia is going to help with some booklists. I’m unclear about it all right now, but it sounds like a plan… well, almost. I know I want to list the best of the certain subjects, not just have long lists of books. They really have to have been great to make the list. It is sounding like a lot of work. We’ll see what happens. I just find that looking up certain subjects (things I want to read) can be hard because there don’t seem to be good resources out there for some subjects.

Okay, that was rather long winded for having said nothing.

Alone, Alaska

The pumpkin is covered in snow;
I’ve found myself taking refuge
on the crowded velvet cushion,
I could stand here, waiting
for the snow to melt,
hiding in a corner alone.
At least I would find the quiet I was looking for.
Solitude makes me feel closer to nature,
but I don’t feel like being closer just now.
The cold has forgotten to lift from here
and my heart has grown fond of snow and ice,
the very elements that have removed
me from my quiet repose.
I look forward to meditation and calm,
to sitting on the lawn,
overgrown with dandelions,
beautiful blooms making me
close my eyes and feel God within me.
For now, I’ll take what I can get,
taking life from the faces of people
around me; weaving that life into lines of words.
Oh solace, elusively greeting me,
ready with this world still hard
from the months of frozenness.
And I feel the power of this place
in ways that change with seasons,
feel the huddling masses,
each individual finding a way to self,
all of us alone in this together,
penguins of the North,
tightly packed for warmth,
but barely knowing our neighbors.

5.20.2008

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untitled [‘collecting’]

I’m still collecting the members of my family
Each one, perfect in their way,
makes the days easier to accept
despite the loneliness, despite the pain
Sometimes, it seems that love flows
endlessly from me, welcoming too many
but bolts of bitterness remind
me of the pointlessness
the seeming pointlessness
and newly placed friends drop silently
to the ground, landing in a pile,
a lump, a twisted bit
that I’ll soon stop thinking about.

5.8.2008

The following poem isn’t my favorite, but it was so formed in my head and in order to not lose it, I wrote it on a discarded blank CD, which was the only blank surface I could find at that moment.

Love Is Simple

It hasn’t been enough to love people
to grasp at them, lightening bugs
I want to jar and admire.
They’ve been too quick, lighting up
and confusing me.
Tactic must change
approach needs to be more subtle
style needs refined
and words need to be heard.
Love is such a simple request
yet it seems among
the most elusive of gifts.
I’m no longer willing to feel
punished by time, by God (or god),
by the will of those who just
don’t want me.
My heart longs to be filled,
my eyes long to gaze into another’s
and this request feels
like it will never be granted.

5.15.2008

Featured Image Art: Tiffany Lynch, “Birdys and Blossoms”

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It seems like life is rushing by and not much is happening. I feel that way a lot; I’ve likely communicated that before. It is again true. And I am tired. All of the not doing anything makes me very tired. I always have more energy while I am doing more than I should, going daily to the gym and running all over God’s very white and grey Anchorage to drive friends to and from work. Those days lend life to the duller moments, creating pockets of creativity at home. Those are the days I long for.

I suspect that my readership is perhaps at a total of four people, all not-so-eagerly waiting to see what I will post next, but even so, those who look at this site will notice the dramatic change recently. I don’t think I like it nearly as much as I set out to, but it will work until I find a WordPress theme that is absolutely perfect for me. Honestly, I’ve found a number of perfect themes, but they are broken in some way or they are outdated and no longer customizable with newer versions of WordPress. That is all very unfortunate and has lead me to this ill-fitting theme, which is quite beautiful and dark, but does not exude Brian-ness. The lack of April postings is due to the repeated death of the site over March and April, but that problem has now been corrected. I am able to do more of what I want and the site has been upgraded to decrease the chances of a repeat explosion. For those of you who are unable or unwilling to look at the right side of your screen, I’ve included the picture I have used for this theme.

It is certainly clear that I have been busily writing. I’ve posted only a handful of the poems on here, as many of them are a bit more risque and I have chosen to not alienate those who have been previously offended by the things I post. There may soon appear a small section on this site labeled appropriately to keep innocent eyes away; their decision to investigate will not be my fault and they will only answer to themselves and me to myself for the outrage caused by what seem to me pure thoughts. Oh, the scandal you may be foreseeing!

I’ve come to a decision about my writing. I was simply keeping in practice with no clearly defined goal before. I would like to write a novel. I’ve been plotting it out and am looking forward to seeing what comes of this. It is a great undertaking for everyone who attempts it and I hope I can live up to my own expectations. While I will certainly continue posting poems and other writings here, I do not currently have any intention of offering up snippets of the novel for previewing. I will share in parts privately with a couple of people for specific reasons, but should I ever finish it, I will gladly share it with the world.

I suppose there is little more to say than that. A poem, which may erroneously sound like I have given up vegetarianism. I have not.

Ham

If I had liked ham
maybe I wouldn’t have
disappointed at least one person.
She’d reveal the surprise,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
the scent lingering from outside.
But it wasn’t me and I’d wrinkle
my forehead, politely thank her,
and eat my turkey, the ham meeting
with praise from enough
for my neglect to not seem to matter.
She’d notice, apologize, and make
a mental note that Brian doesn’t like ham,
a mental note she’d promptly lose.
And for the next gathering
requiring food preparation,
we’d repeat the game.
I still don’t like ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.

4.26.2008

current version of “Ham”

Featured Image Art: photo by Christopher Michel (via Wikimedia Commons)

 

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Ham

Mimi made me a ham,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
a surprise so I wouldn’t have to eat turkey.
The aroma greeted us as we entered,
lingering and melding with others,
bread and cranberries and pumpkin.
We were all gathered, talking over each other
about the small dramas that consume us,
catching up after months apart.
Mimi would fuss over the details,
direct whoever was around to place spoons
or get the rolls out of the oven.
I’d stand nervously waiting.
Papa would call us to settle and bow heads,
and he’d give thanks for the bounty and
say words about our health and Jesus.
Amens would follow, and the kids would
converge to be first to go through
a carefully laid out buffet line. I’d wait,
and my mom and I would exchange a look,
her giving me the permission I needed.
I’d get to the end of the line and pile turkey
onto my plate, skipping the ham,
a particular favorite of others.
Mimi eventually would sit down,
time finally for her to enjoy the company.
I wouldn’t say anything, avoiding conflict,
hoping she hadn’t noticed me
at the kids’ table in the adjacent room.
But she would notice, and she would apologize
and she and I would laugh about it.
She would make a mental note about
Brian not liking ham, a note she would lose.
The next time we’d gather,
the next time Mimi spent days cooking,
organizing everyone’s particular tastes,
I’d arrive again to the smell of a ham,
cooked especially for me, and I’d smile.
I still don’t eat ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.

Brian Fuchs, “Ham” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Written 26 April 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska & 11 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

 

Featured Image Art (right side): photo of Christine Tucker, my Mimi, & myself

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Original version:

Ham

If I had liked ham
maybe I wouldn’t have
disappointed at least one person.
She’d reveal the surprise,
glazed with honey and smelling sweetly,
the scent lingering from outside.
But it wasn’t me and I’d wrinkle
my forehead, politely thank her,
and eat my turkey, the ham meeting
with praise from enough
for my neglect to not seem to matter.
She’d notice, apologize, and make
a mental note that Brian doesn’t like ham,
a mental note she’d promptly lose.
And for the next gathering
requiring food preparation,
we’d repeat the game.
I still don’t like ham,
but nobody makes it for me anymore.

4.26.2008

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Whale

I sneak upon you, surprising you
from beneath your feet.
From not knowing to knowing,
I grow enormous and fill your field of view,
become your entire world for a few moments.
I press on away from you towards newness,
fading slowly away into the blue and into
the recesses of your mind,
an image of something that was,
but that is no longer so impressive.
I long to rekindle the wonder you felt
the first time I allowed you to see,
but the second time I swim by
you’ll think you remembered me larger.

Brian Fuchs, “Whale” from Scissortail Quarterly #4 (Scissortail Press, August 2021)

Written 29 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.

___________

Original version:

the poem with no title that is not titled “untitled”

[brian dale]

I’m not a big fish in a small pond,
I’m not a small fish in the ocean,
I’m not a fish at all.
I sneak upon you, surprising you
from beanth your feet.
As you get to know me,
get to see who I really am,
you might be filled with wonder and awe
and think the greatness of having met me.
As I press on away from you,
I fade away into the blue and into
the recesses of your mind,
an image of something that was,
but that is no longer so impressive.
I long to rekindle the wonder you felt
the first time I allowed you to see,
but the second time I swim by
you’ll think you remembered me larger.

3.29.2008

This is a fragment, I believe. I am playing with it and tweaking it and making it more user-friendly. An update should be available for your computer soon.

I don’t really know if I need to add something to it. Obviously, it is a whale, but does it need that spelled out for anyone? And what sort of title will it need? Oh, the dilemmas. I feel like it is almost trite and a tad too self-deprecating. It was never meant to seem so sad, but sometimes I can only seem to wrap up my thoughts by ending on a bitter note. I’m working on that. Thoughts? Suggestions? Please, rip this one apart if it needs it.

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Adding Names to a Dog

It is all I can do at times when I see you
to not fall in love because you are so handsome,
It is all I can do at times when I see you
to not giggle in glee at how quirky you are.
You arrived clumsily, drunk on beers you keep hidden,
giving new names to a dog I’d known for seven months.
You arrived on the shoulder of a man who is never happy,
a man who needed to be happy.
You arrived lazily, not trying too hard
because you are so handsome.

I am not trying to covet, failing to think
about things that are not you.
I am losing myself in daydreams,
kissing boys who look like you, boys who are you,
but not so much you that I’d blush when you smile.
But I blush when you smile.

You are forcing me to recoil and giggle,
return to dreams that I have been the one to discover you.
My friendships in jeopardy, I struggle.
My friendships melting away, I want you to kiss me
the way I remember kissing you in my mind.
I want you to arrive at my door, drunk on beer
not trying too hard because you are quirky and handsome,
and when you smile I will blush.

Notes

Written 26 March 2008 in Anchorage, Alaska.

Brian Fuchs, “Adding Names to a Dog” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)