Skip to main content

Robert Pope

Image
By
Hitting

I do not know how many times my father hit
me with his hand or kicked my backside. Oh,
there is more than this to say about my father,
but this is the time to say he swung at me in
the backseat, a boy no more than eight, struck
glancing blows. I had laughed, it bothered him.

At thirteen, he sent an engraved, silver lighter
whizzing past my ear as I fled a growling anger,
imbedding in the solid wooden door, sticking
there instead of in my head. Fifteen, he struck
me with the back of his hand because I flinched
as he reached in his jacket, kicked the back of

my legs for infractions I could not comprehend.
He broke yardsticks on my back, swung his belt
at me after whipping it around his waist. Each
time he struck the impact reverberated through
the years. If the air is right, I feel the stinging on
my face or head, not all I have of Dad, but part.

Robert Pope has published a novel, Jack’s Universe, and a collection of stories, Private Acts. He has also published many stories and personal essays in journals, including Kenyon Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and Fiction International.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Ed Dorn's # 22 From Twenty-four Love Poems

By
                                               from Jacket The strengthy message here in #22 of 24 Love Songs can be summed up in two lines: ['There is/no sense to beauty. . .' and '. . .How/ the world is shit/ and I mean all of it] What I also like about this brief poem is the interplay between the title of the book and the subject of the poems (love/anti-love (which is not hate)): it's all a mass of contradictions, like love. And I have to say that the shorter poems of the Love Songs and the last book he wrote before dying (Chemo Sábe) seem to me much better and more memorable than the Slinger/Gunslinger poems. These (generally) later poems probably attempt less stylistically, but are more sure-handed, hacked from a soap bar, maybe. Easy to use, but disa...
2 comments
Read more

Weldon Kees

By
Along with my Jack Gilbert kick, I've been reading the poems of Weldon Kees as well as the secondary material (very little of which seems to be available in book form), which is too bad. There's a pretty good book called Weldon Kees and the Mid-Century Generation: Letters from 1935 to 1955 , which is structured in such a way that it seems more like a biography in letters. Normally, a writer's letters are collected and footnotes are rare except to sometimes identify confusing timelines. Robert Knoll includes more narrative about Kees than it does letters. I think otherwise it might not have made a full book, otherwise.Very interesting anyway. Kees seemed poised for mainstream uber-success at 41 years old when he simply disappeared.  His car, with the keys still in it, was found near the Golden Gate bridge, but with  no trace of whether he committed suicide or simply ran off to Mexico, as he talked of frequently in his last years.  James Reidel's book Vanished Act: t...
3 comments
Read more

Charlie Brice

By
Immortality You make sure to eat Grape-Nuts every third or fourth morning, cover those non-nut nuts with blueberries because they have gobs of Omegas and no Theta’s, floss every other night to inhibit heart infections, use mouthwash several times-a-day to ward-off armies of oral bacteria, walk the dog every night for a mile, eat an orange daily, take your Lipitor horse pill, your Enalapril, Verapamil, Singulair, Multi- vitamin, Allegra, and carefully cut your Metoprolol in half and take it for your arrythmias, and you do all this instead of church, instead of fingering rosary beads and telling yourself that somewhere near our galaxy’s big black hole Jesus and Mary are floating around without oxygen masks or spacesuits, and it’s in this way that you avoid the anvil of disease, the miasma of malaise, the numinosity of pneumonia—in this way you make sure never to die, you make sure to live forever and ever. Amen. Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry ...
1 comment
Read more