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Flying Out With the Wounded
Anne Caston
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Flying Out With the Wounded
Anne Caston
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About This Book
This collection of poems is striking in its powerful representation of humanity and its dramatic use of language. Anne Caston explores the inner recesses of the human mind and body, delving into the murky shadows where individuals fear to tread. The poems consider the nature of death, love, brutality, friendship, and much more. Caston plays with different points of view and keeps readers on their toes. The physicality of these moving and disturbing poems is sure to captivate lovers of poetry.
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LESSONS
WHEN I AM NOT TELLING IT
Somewhere in history a woman
is tying on her apron just at the moment
the rough hemp rope is knotted
fast around her husbandās neck.
is tying on her apron just at the moment
the rough hemp rope is knotted
fast around her husbandās neck.
The snap as it takes
the manās full weight,
and the brief inelegant steps
of his feet in midairā
the manās full weight,
and the brief inelegant steps
of his feet in midairā
this is someone elseās story.
And the child with gallows-dreams,
the womanās child, who would be my great-grandfather
waking the household nightly crying,
Papa, oh my Papaā
the womanās child, who would be my great-grandfather
waking the household nightly crying,
Papa, oh my Papaā
this too is someone elseās story.
But this silence which is the long silence of my life
out of which the story rises
when it rises and to which the story returns
when I am not telling it,
out of which the story rises
when it rises and to which the story returns
when I am not telling it,
this is my story
as is the old knock and shove of my heart around it
and my love of grudges.
and my love of grudges.
To begin with an apron and end
with a hanging, crying between:
this is a story I know
well enough to tell.
with a hanging, crying between:
this is a story I know
well enough to tell.
THE BURNING
If you canāt say something nice, donāt say anything at all.
1.
From one end of my childhood
to the other, the silence of obedience
stretches, lifts and curls
like wisps of smoke around me.
to the other, the silence of obedience
stretches, lifts and curls
like wisps of smoke around me.
Where thereās smoke, thereās fire, they say.
And the furnace in me is rage.
And the furnace in me is rage.
Now every chair I sit in, every pew,
each table or book or photograph I put my hands on
smoulders. Every thing I love goes up in flames.
I am the torch put to it.
each table or book or photograph I put my hands on
smoulders. Every thing I love goes up in flames.
I am the torch put to it.
Some things are better left unsaid.
I understand: a mantle of normalcy over things.
Good girl. Good wife. Good mother.
I understand: a mantle of normalcy over things.
Good girl. Good wife. Good mother.
2.
Listen. The medusa is an obvious ruse:
the head of snakes, the stone-gray eyes, the scaly
body of a beast. You know to bring along a shield,
some mirror by which to save yourself.
the head of snakes, the stone-gray eyes, the scaly
body of a beast. You know to bring along a shield,
some mirror by which to save yourself.
You think youāre safe?
Just put your hands on me. That warmth you feel
will change to burning. Incendiary. Thatās my heart.
And all the heat moves out from there.
Just put your hands on me. That warmth you feel
will change to burning. Incendiary. Thatās my heart.
And all the heat moves out from there.
3.
As a girl, I got so good at smouldering
not even my petticoats were singed.
My hair lay down in perfect waves around me.
My shoes were patent, black
reflections of the rooms I entered; my face genteel.
not even my petticoats were singed.
My hair lay down in perfect waves around me.
My shoes were patent, black
reflections of the rooms I entered; my face genteel.
Only my voice was charred,
riddled with smoke, but who knew that?
I rarely spoke. Yes maāam. Yes sir.
That hardly qualifies as speech.
riddled with smoke, but who knew that?
I rarely spoke. Yes maāam. Yes sir.
That hardly qualifies as speech.
4.
For me, it is always eight minutes before
or eight minutes after, the warmth or the chill,
never the event itself.
or eight minutes after, the warmth or the chill,
never the event itself.
Or maybe the eighth minute before
is the sun gone dark
and the next seven minutes
already afterlife.
is the sun gone dark
and the next seven minutes
already afterlife.
I was four.
A girl in my motherās house.
The man was not my father.
A girl in my motherās house.
The man was not my father.
5.
I am burning still; with shame,
with more than shame.
with more than shame.
Over twenty-one million
minutes beyond it, and though I canāt see his face,
I can feel that arm, the one he later lost, the right arm ā
arm that he held me with so his left hand could grope below.
minutes beyond it, and though I canāt see his face,
I can feel that arm, the one he later lost, the right arm ā
arm that he held me with so his left hand could grope below.
And my mother, woman in the mirror,
eight minutes after, as the ruin set in,
what did she see; what did she
look away from?
eight minutes after, as the ruin set in,
what did she see; what did she
look away from?
MY FATHERāS HOUSE
There are no roads back to that house:
55Odessa Drive, our backyard
separated from the wild field by a hedge,
55Odessa Drive, our backyard
separated from the wild field by a hedge,
where each morning, I lifted into the low blue sky
on a plank swing and I sang
the nonsense rhymes and syllables
on a plank swing and I sang
the nonsense rhymes and syllables
only a six-year-old can get away with:
mumbo-jumbo, eat your gumbo,
Peter-beater, booger-eater . . .
mumbo-jumbo, eat your gumbo,
Peter-beater, booger-eater . . .
How little else I can remember now:
the hot kitchen where my grandmother cooked and sewed,
cornbread crumbled into buttermilk at noon,
the hot kitchen where my grandmother cooked and sewed,
cornbread crumbled into buttermilk at noon,
orange marigolds lifting along the gravel drive.
I remember it was the first house
death visited: the pink-white froth
I remember it was the first house
death visited: the pink-white froth
on the dogās black mouth
as he staggered through the hedge and across the yard
where my brother and I were digging for worms.
as he staggered through the hedge and across the yard
where my brother and I were digging for worms.
I remember my grandmother
running from the porch, her dress hiked up
over her bony knees, the way she placed herself
running from the porch, her dress hiked up
over her bony knees, the way she placed herself
between us and the dog,
the raggedy broom she shook at him.
Stay back, she said to us, heās madāheās got the rabies.
the raggedy broom she shook at him.
Stay back, she said to us, heās madāheās got the rabies.
I canāt remember now which neighbor called
the dog catcher who came and netted the dog
and put him down with a long needle on our front lawn.
the dog catcher who came and netted the dog
and put him down with a long needle on our front lawn.
But I do remember how, for the rest of that afternoon,
I swung in the dangerous yard and tried
the new words, mad and rabies, on my tongue.
I swung in the dangerous yard and tried
the new words, mad and rabies, on my tongue.
WITH BAPTISTS
Singing, always singing, no matter whatāand dunking.
Singing and dunking. Though drinkingās not allowed. Nor dancing.
Too close to fornication; too Methodist. But singing and dunking
Baptists are well-acquainted with, even the youngest,
though dunking can seem a lot like drowning at eight years old
Singing and dunking. Though drinkingās not allowed. Nor dancing.
Too close to fornication; too Methodist. But singing and dunking
Baptists are well-acquainted with, even the youngest,
though dunking can seem a lot like drowning at eight years old
if you step off into those cold waters, starting to sink,
and the preacher slaps a white cloth over your nose and mouth
and spills you over backwards and you lose your footing
and your good manners as unexpectedly as you lost your heart to Jesus
that April morning when the congregation was singing the Easter sun home.
and the preacher slaps a white cloth over your nose and mouth
and spills you over backwards and you lose your footing
and your good manners as unexpectedly as you lost your heart to Jesus
that April morning when the congregation was singing the Easter sun home.
Going under, all sinner again and desperate for solid ground,
I clawed the preacherās arms and face,
until he had to stand me up again, fast; he shook me hard then, twice,
and my teeth clacked against each other from more than the chilly
waters and the fear of drowning, while the choir in front of us,
I clawed the preacherās arms and face,
until he had to stand me up again, fast; he shook me hard then, twice,
and my teeth clacked against each other from more than the chilly
waters and the fear of drowning, while the choir in front of us,
oblivious, sang again the old refrain:
Almost persuaded, now to believe . . .
Almost persuaded, now to believe . . .
FIRST REBELLION, 1959
By mid-December, we all were weary of the chronic
colds and ringworm weād gotten from crouching
in the far wet winter ditches of the schoolyard
once, sometimes twice, a week
when the civil defense sirens sounded.
But there was Castro to consider, in a country called Cuba
which, we all knew, was far away from Florida but not far enough.
colds and ringworm weād gotten from crouching
in the far wet winter ditches of the schoolyard
once, sometimes twice, a week
when the civil defense sirens sounded.
But there was Castro to consider, in a country called Cuba
which, we all knew, was far away from Florida but not far enough.
So between rehearsing the Adeste Fideles and Stille Nacht
for parentsā night at Christmas, the sirens blared
and we found ourselves, again, shin-deep
in the muddy waters of the irrigation ditch
that ran between the schoolyard and the cane fields.
for parentsā night at Christmas, the sirens blared
and we found ourselves, again, shin-deep
in the muddy waters of the irrigation ditch
that ran between the schoolyard and the cane fields.
The principal walked up and down with his megaphone
and pointed at the ones who tried to stay half-standing,
Get down. Get down, I say. If the missiles fall. . .
and pointed at the ones who tried to stay half-standing,
Get down. Get down, I say. If the missiles fall. . .
Lucy Armstrong, next to me, began to cryāshe always cried
at the part about the missiles falling on us.
Then Charlene Baxter was crying. And I started crying too.
Not because of the missiles, but because Iād crouched
so low my new underpants were wet and because something
moved by me underwater and I was afraid
it was the baby cottonmouths
which, as everyone knew, swam in ditchwater and had bad
tempers and could kill you with one drop of their poison.
Soon the whole class was crying.
at the part about the missiles falling on us.
Then Charlene Baxter was crying. And I started crying too.
Not because of the missiles, but because Iād crouched
so low my new underpants were wet and because something
moved by me underwater and I was afraid
it was the baby cottonmouths
which, as everyone knew, swam in ditchwater and had bad
tempers and could kill you with one drop of their poison.
Soon the whole class was crying.
Miss Holtz, who was our teacher, climbed out of the ditch
and said something to the principal we couldnāt hear.
Her legs had brown ditch-muck on them and the back
seams of her stockings were crooked.
She called us into two-by-two lines and marched us
back into the classroom, even though the all-clear hadnāt sounded.
and said something to the principal we couldnāt hear.
Her legs had brown ditch-muck on them and the back
seams of her stockings were crooked.
She called us into two-by-two lines and marched us
back into the classroom, even though the all-clear hadnāt sounded.
We took to our seats in our soggy clothes.
We folded our hands and waited.
We folded our hands and waited.
Miss Holtz, who was the only Jew we knew personally
in Jacksonville which, in those days, was mostly
full of Baptists and heathens,
smoothed her wet wool skirt and emptied
the...
in Jacksonville which, in those days, was mostly
full of Baptists and heathens,
smoothed her wet wool skirt and emptied
the...