The Bone Welder

The Bone Welder

I’ve gone to the bone welder
and had him weld a tail to the butt of my spine.
That way I don’t have to smile anymore.
That way I don’t have to lie, “I’m doing fine”
when others lie, “How are you?”
That way I don’t have to look so surprised
I might as well be stupid
when someone tells me the good news.
And when I accept some award,
or marry, or toast on New Year’s Eve,
I don’t have to give some ridiculous speech,
I don’t even have to hear myself talk.
All I have to do is wag my tail.
A simple way of saying it: “I’m happy.”
But happiness can never be that easy,
not for us. That’s why we’re all so miserable,
even as we blabber on about “happiness.”
That’s why all our animals are laughing at us,
laughing and wagging their tails,
while we just sit here baring our teeth.
Next month, I’m thinking of going back
and getting tusks, or maybe a horn.

– Ryan Dowling

The Morowitz Brothers: A Patriarchy Tale

In my last post I revisited Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology. In the following poem you can see where I’ve borrowed Masters’ use of interlocking autobiographical poems. However, my poem zeroes in on a single family rather than a whole community; not all of my speakers are speaking from death; and I’ve also added to Masters’ formula some contemporary social issues.

The Morowitz Brothers: A Patriarchy Tale

Bill Morowitz Jr.

It’s hard to be a homosexual
when all 6 of your brothers are straight
and tough as nails.
Instead of coming out,
I played along:
I cried “faggot” and “sissy”
at any man who showed a feminine side.
I assumed misogynistic attitudes
so no one thought twice
about my celibacy.
I even tattooed a stripper
on my right bicep.
I outdrank the best of them
and started brawls
over a look in the eye.
I let my beard grow wild,
wore raggedy jeans,
flannel shirts and boots,
and found work in the lumberyards.
When my brother Derek found me on my knees
with another man behind the sawmill
I knew he’d out me,
so I shot myself
just to shut him up.

Max Morowitz

We still don’t know why
my brother Billy, the toughest of us all,
took his own life,
but it shook the family up,
especially Derek
who left his job at the lumberyard
to become a full-time drunk.
As for me, I saw that life was too short
to live in fear of who you are
and I came out to my brothers as gay.
Who knows what got into him,
but it was the first time
I’d ever seen Derek weep.

Bill Morowitz Sr.

I’ve broken my back
for 39 years as the lumberyard foreman,
the same as my father before me.
I raised my boys to be men,
hardworking, strong, fearless
and fearsome,
not the pansies they’ve become:
Reggie, a treehugger
who takes photos of flowers;
Jack, who moved to the city
to wear a business suit
and marry a feminist;
Derek, a weeping drunk;
Butch, a nurse in a hospital
where the women are the doctors;
Max, flown South
with his boyfriend,
hating my guts;
and Bill, my Billy,
backbone of all your brothers,
what happened?

– Ryan Dowling

Revisiting Spoon River Anthology

Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology (1915) is a collection of poems, each written from the perspective of a dead inhabitant of the fictitious town Spoon River (based on Lewistown, IL). The inhabitants reflect on their lives, the bitter twists of fate and fortune, the ironies, the regrets, even the nature of the tombstones and burial plots beneath which they now rest.

Part of the appeal is that the dead, who took their darkest secrets to the grave, now speak with complete candor, treating the reader as a post-mortem confidant. By turns, they confess to crimes gone unpunished, reminisce over unrequited loves, and caution the reader against the wrong turns they took in life.

Although no speaker is reliable, many of them share the gems of wisdom they wish they’d known in life, and they often ring true:

George Gray

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me—
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Depending on the character of the inhabitant, Masters’ style shifts between the poetic and the plainspoken. Artists and thinkers, for instance, tend to reflect on their lives in metaphor and heightened language, whereas the laymen may only give straightforward accounts of the fatal mistakes that snuffed out their lives.

One of my favorite things about this collection is the way it functions as a collection. Many of the poems are interwoven, giving a complex portrait of the social fabric of Spoon River as a whole. A wife and husband give conflicting accounts of their failed marriage. Murderer, victim and judge all view the same incident in a different light. Unresolved accusations and misunderstandings between the inhabitants hover over their graves, and it is the reader who is left with the puzzle pieces.

Here, two suicides fail to see that their downfalls were brought about by the same reason: they compared themselves too closely to their own children.

Albert Schirding

Jonas Keene thought his lot a hard one
Because his children were all failures.
But I know of a fate more trying than that:
It is to be a failure while your children are successes.
For I raised a brood of eagles
Who flew away at last, leaving me
A crow on the abandoned bough.
Then, with the ambition to prefix Honorable to my name,
And thus to win my children’s admiration,
I ran for County Superintendent of Schools,
Spending my accumulations to win—and lost.
That fall my daughter received first prize in Paris
For her picture, entitled, “The Old Mill”—
(It was of the water mill before Henry Wilkin put in steam.)
The feeling that I was not worthy of her finished me.

Jonas Keene

Why did Albert Schirding kill himself
Trying to be County Superintendent of Schools,
Blest as he was with the means of life
And wonderful children, bringing him honor
Ere he was sixty?
If even one of my boys could have run a news-stand,
Or one of my girls could have married a decent man,
I should have not walked in the rain
And jumped into bed with clothes all wet,
Refusing medical aid.

I think Masters’ poetry is well-crafted and worthy of study by the practicing poet, but the real reason I enjoy this book is simply because it’s entertaining and a pleasure to read. And isn’t that what poetry ought to be?

The Father-Son Continuum

The Father-Son Continuum

In all that is the father
there is the longing for death in the birth of the son:
a dying man on a frightened horse.

My father on his manstalk
burned like a scarecrow just before the snow falls
when the snow falls in only one field.

When it proved useless, he put his mind for sale.
Though the moon paid in amnesia,
he traded it to the lower dark for a way out.

He built a stairwell with his bare feet,
and with his nailed-together hands he built a clock
the way nothing is built to last.

At the oak tree where he buried his father’s ashes,
his prayer with a rake in his hands
was the pile of dead leaves at his feet.

In all that is the son
there is the longing for life in the death of the father:
a frightened man on a dying horse.

— Ryan Dowling

Ode to a River Boulder

Ode to a River Boulder

Humankind say loneliness
but the boulder says solitude.
Boulder, old abider,

moveless and aloof
to the liveliness of the the river you live in,
though its leaves, its archipelagoes

of ice congregate against your gut,
your spine. What’s it to you
if birds make advances on your bald spot,

if the sun never warms your mossy side,
your right cheek in winter? You let the smelt
nibble stonewort below your waistline.

And once, a half-naked woman
pressed her breasts upon you, stroked you
like a fat pear for the photographer.

It’s said her body could sway a man
but she did not sway you. You weighed in
never to envy the love of stones

among stones. When you are gone
you shall go alone, a grave of sand a mile long
beneath the river murmuring,

a fine sediment between a child’s toes,
a final cloud of silt
as the crayfish flash away.

— Ryan Dowling
first published in The Rockford Review

The World Removed From Its Axis

The World Removed From Its Axis

Here is a boy whose mother loves him
stepping into a man’s world,
dragging his feet.

Here, October insects flock to windows
between two worlds, death
on either side.

Let’s get out and explore the world, we say,
as if there were trails to the stars,
bridges between them—

and yet go on living in our own worlds,
wherever we reign omniscient
in what little we know.

by Ryan Dowling

(Note: “man’s world” may seem to suggest a world dominated by men, but what I mean is adulthood. “Adult’s world” sounds awkward, and also makes me think of those sex toy superstores along the expressway… It’s unfortunate that the word that fits best has this connotation but, leaving this little explanation, I’m going to let it be.)





Oscar Wilde on the Relation of Poets to their Poetry

“The only artists I have known, who are perfectly delightful, are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”

— spoken by Lord Henry in The Picture of Dorian Gray