John Fitz

A Few Poems from Windsor Mountain

Summer Camp


After the morning bell

a slow and silent sun 

melts the dew 

on this ragged patch of field,

while I wait

for a pealing crop of kids

to make my day.

Ice Storm Artist

An artist made a rhino

out of the detritus

of the great storm of 09
--a skeletal mosaic
standing sentinel
beside the washed out ruts
of the gravel driveway
reminding me
of the blanket of ice
sheeting over everything
west of 495.

A lonely gargoyle
on a New Hampshire road:
its sad, gaped mouth,

formed out of gnarled limbs

torn from a tangled canopy,

tries to tell

another side of the story.


Some Haiku

A silent falling star:
All that is left

of a long summer day.

~fitz

Another day of heavy rain:

The soccer nets sag

like gill nets in an empty sea.
~fitz

Against a sea of green

a lone birch

slithers through the leaves

~fitz

Walking home across the field

a lost gimp bracelet reminds me

of one more thing to do today.
~fitz




 
 
 

The Final Exam

I wonder if they think I really care
so much about commas
that I don't see
their tired eyes
looking one last time
at the gray screen
saving their last testament
to childhood, printing out
slowly worked phrases and clauses
wrought from the vestiges
of exuberance,
anger,
and joy.

I don't really want
anything unreal.

I don't wonder;
I see wonder.

They pass in their exams
and shake my hand
with unspoken awkwardness--
like survivors
from a common storm--

and then leave
for a different world

First Yardsale

Artists of hope
the boys sit and count their money
long before it comes.
They’ve spent the morning
untangling piles of old bikes
from summer weeds
grown through rusted spokes
wrapped around stuck gears
and stubborn brake cables.
They spray locked chains
with bursts of WD 40
and remember different wipeouts
on rides around Tobin Drive
or off makeshift jumps
built out of two by fours
and sheets of scavenged plywood
as if every tumble
adds another dollar of value.
They scrawl signs
with crayons and markers:

$2:00 for any bike!!!

I listen, watch, and smile
and wonder if they know
that every bike
and every story
is a purse of gold
carried from the pocket
of a remembered day.

Lost Time

Will tomorrow's
cool blue morning
slip away, too?

A Birthday Poem from Kaleigh

I didn't want to ever lose this poem that Kaleigh wrote for my birthday.  Denise just brought me home  Dunkin Donuts coffee d told me to relax. So, I'm sitting here getting ready for five different soccer games, a funeral for the dad of Johannes--one of my best students ever--a baptism practice for Pipo, and a birthday dinner with some friends.  I am in awe of my life and the depth of its normality.  It is one of those times when I know that words can't do justice to how I feel, and I need to just sit and let the actions of love mix with the sadness, joy and continuity of life.

Fitz

When you married mom
I was just about four.
I could have told you I didn't like you;
I could have had you out the door.
But there was something different about you,
that made me feel right and sure,
that the happiness you brought us
was only to become more.

I know that it is true
that it wasoften I got mad,
but you still always make it better
when I'm feeling very sad.
But I was right you know--
about you being my second dad;
you're the best I could have asked for,
the best thing I ever had.

You're always understandng
even when you don't want to be,
and you always know what's coming
even when it's hard to see.
So let me tell you something,
when I'm oold and still drinking your tea,
I will always remember one thing:
you're the best thing that happened to me.

-Kaleigh
4/21/2007

Forty Niner

In the heavy-eyed morning
I read and re-read
the pile of birthday cards
scribbled and crayoned
and stacked on my crumpled bed
by kids more eager for the day
than their old man.

I lure them to my bedside
with tales of precious gold--
and then snatch them
and hold them at arms length
kicking and squealing
and slowly lower them down
into the tickle monster;
I need to be sure that
forty nine years
can't kill the magic.

After they scatter into the day,
I think of my own father
holding me high in disbelief
at some Boston Catholic  hospital--
first son after so many girls.

Out of so much memory
I don't remember
any of his birthdays,
and neither, perhaps,
did he remember
his own father
except as that steady
engulfing presence.

Long in his grave,
we are both fathers now--
closer than we have ever been;
and finally, we share
in the same
meticulous repetition
of creation.

Comparing Myself with other Poets on My Shelf

Sometimes you feel a bit crazy when writing a poem.

Last Snow

Is this the last snow falling
in dull rhythmic thuds
on the front porch roof?

It slides off the gangly pines
and startles a  pair
of chattering squirrels.

Bothered by this latest setback--
and each other--they quarrel
and do not notice

Margaret’s wet softball,
wrapped in her new glove,
waiting at the top of the slide

for yesterday’s spring.

Saturday Morning

Before the pancakes,
soccer games and birthday parties;
before the mowing and raking
and grouting the tile;
before I even glance
at the calendar hung
like a graffiti nightmare
under the frosted flakes,
cheerios and cocoa puffs
I make a cup of coffee
and watch the slow
unfolding of the day:

Groggy and unsteady,
Charlie is up first
and knows to ask politely
if he can watch TV.
I practice a grave and stern
reluctance
and nod quietly.

He bursts out of
his warm cocoon of sleep
and sets the day
in motion, and drawn
by the faint roar of Scooby Doo,
five more painted monarchs
float down the stairs
and glide past me
unnoticed and gather
clustered on the couch.

I close my book and count out
the remaining measures
of this sacred time.

Born again into
a new day,
they will soon
come back to me
in their insatiable hunger.

Making It Work

Ej and Pipo squat in the driveway
and poke their heads through
the wheel-well  and pass
a half inch socket and WD 40
to my bloodied hand.

I shout out to them:
"The transmission cooler line
is completely shot
and the thread
on the flare nut
is stripped bare;
it turns, but won't catch,
into the radiator...
in short: we're screwed."

I can hear them giggling
and splashing in the oily cold
puddle I am soaked in.

While Pipo runs to get
the extra red hose we used
to fix the heater on the bus,
I send EJ to get the cement
we used to fix the gasket
on the wood stove.

In my sarcophogus
under the old Buick wagon,
I fumble through my pockets
and find some hose clamps
that just might work.

EJ slathers the flare nut
in an icing of black glue.
And so Pipo can use
his beloved tape measure,
he cuts me a piece of red hose
18 1/2 inches long--exactly.

There is no turning back now:
I cut out the old line
and jam the flare nut
into the fitting
until it sets.

For a few minutes, everything
is dead serious.
Pipo lays on his belly
and fits the 18 12 inch hose
to the cleanly cut ends
of the cooler lines;
Eddie takes his flathead
and tightens the hose clamps,
I keep the damn flare nut
from moving,

and in the stale air,
beneath a 1988 LeSabre Wagon,
soaked in mud, love, oil and anti-freeze,
I am the luckiest man alive.

Big Sister

When the kids
polish the fireplace mantle
with Pledge and handi-wipes
they hold a small frame
of Patty and me--
the only picture we have
with just each other.

In silent reverence
they turn it just so—
so I can sit in this chair
and remember the love
that was never
actually spoken.

And in the same way,
during quiet walks,,
down cracked paths
through winter deadened fields
I see the hand of God
lifting, turning and holding
you before me.

You seem to be everywhere I go.

I am drawn to your memory
by a common house sparrow.

Preparations

Charlie slurps the sky with his snake tongue
and catches the invisible first flakes
while spinning wildly through the backyard;
It is the moodiness of New England
turning winds steadily to the northeast—
the perceptible shift from calm to storm.
A cacophony of maddened grackles
dart through white pines tilting in stilted dance;
Dell starts his old snowblower one more time,
and then points at me like an old school-marm,
reminding me of the work to be done:
I tighten the flapping tarp on my boat
and oil the boots I should throw away;
I remind the kids to check their cubbies
and to unload the groceries from the van.
My wife begins filling up the crockpot
and sings, It’s a Great Day to Be Alive.
There is a constancy to our motions—
The deer are bedding down in crisp oak leaves;
the town trucks are loaded down with salt;
I hear weather reports from passing cars
and see whole families looking upward.
Leddy wonders who will shovel her walk.
The dogs know to prepare for a long sleep.
Nana and Papa will call from Florida
and tell us of the news reports from there;
We’ll make vague plans for weekends in the spring.

I know as soon as the snow starts to fall
I’ll remember things I forgot to do.

I’m glad for unexpected today.
I need to be reminded once again
how we follow our inbred traditions,
and in the passing of a single storm
we are able to share in this one day
the same unaltered, unspeakable God.

The Impressive Citizen

I will annoy and impress you at the same time
and write a poem with a jackhammer;
and to let you know my poem needs editing
I will cut down the whole line
of towering whites pines
that line my side yard.

Though it sounds fine to you,
I will replace the muffler
on my old station wagon
and set the gap on my spark plugs;
and drain the crankshaft
and lube the kingpins.

For the sake of trying
I will add on a new porch
and tear it down before nightfall.

I may even need
a whole new septic system--
one than can handle
the torrent of wasted words.

Passing cars will slow down
to see my gaudy Christmas display.

Wrapped in insecurity,
at least one poet
will be called
industrious.

The Poet Goes to Work

Every morning, before the diaspora,
we shout to each other
over the scratching
of ice scrapers
and stubborn wipers, balancing
cups of coffee and dancing
in a steaming minuet
of morning ritual.
We start our wives cars
and make monster faces
to the gallery of faces
at the breakfast table.

Tom pulls on his cigar
and spits aphorisms
in an unending palate
of smoke and exhaust
and loads
his unquenchable van
with what appears to be
aisle twelve from Home Depot.

I grab my own tools
and squeeze through
the impossible space
my wife has left me
between our cars.

I double-check everything:

Huck Finn;

this pen.

The Busdriver

While we parents talk
about a dog who died,
the schoolbus stops
further up the street than usual.

The kids energized
by the unexpected
run from John and Helen’s mailbox
and make a surprisingly dutiful line
closer to Dell and Dawn’s
towering catalpa.

Backpacks swaying, marching
in mock rhythm,
they squeeze two abreast
up the massive narrow steps
and bump down the aisle
to their usual spots;
they flatten their faces
against the cold windows
and wave to us
in robotic ritual.

“No wonder.” Someone laughs,
‘Sharon is not driving the bus.”
And we laugh and wave
at the new driver
and eye him carefully

and then watch
in uneasy acquiescence
until it makes
a predictable turn
onto Sudbury road.

Sugaring in a Mill Town

The is no magic;
it should be simple:
boil away the sap,
until all that is left is 
the sweet amber syrup.

My neighbors are happy for us
to tap their aged maples
and hang the gallon buckets
that seem
absurdly out of place
in the close-knit quarters
of this old mill town.

Left only to imaginings,
my kids should be following
a team of quiet Belgians
shaking oiled harness
and stamping shod hooves,
straining through the soft
corn snow, still
piled high before
the ides of March.

(I remember once
a solitary man
with plaid wool cap, turning
bucket after bucket
into an endless vat
and dreaming
what is never spoken.)

Instead, they are an uncouth gaggle
of cocked heads in floppy hats 
covering single eyes;
unlaced boots and mismatched mittens
dance a homeward waltz, embracing
the sloshing galvanized tins
like prom dates, invoking
solipsistic tribal prophecies:

"Girls go to college
to get more knowledge;
boys go to Jupiter
to get more stupider."

The boys, of course,
turn the cheer
to their advantage.

Held together
by the gravity of tradition,
no one is ever left behind,
though, invariably,
someone starts to cry.

Later, with the house full
of steam, smoke and pungence
we stand on tiptoes and benches,
and hold the smallest ones tightly.

We jostle for space
around the electric stove
and gather
as a community
and stare for hours
into the mystery.

The Brambles and the Parable of the Fig Tree

I have a deal to make with my raspberries,
who produce no real fruit.
and who took over the far quarter
of my springtime labor, displacing
the beans, turnips, and squashes
in a sea of brambles.

Transplants from Patty's richer garden, 
distant cousins spread wildly
and poke their prickly heads
like curious gophers
some distance
from the mother lode.

Unruly sprouts, encouraging
offspring to run amok
among their disciplined,
well-tended,
and orderly neighbors.

In church today we heard the parable
of the barren fig tree;
whose owner, mad with rage,
came to cut it down,
but whose fate was saved
by a wise and gentle servant.

Likewise, I will turn my own sins
into the waiting soil
and beg the patience of God
that we may
both be renewed.

The Fig Tree in The Gospel of Luke

I have a deal to make with my raspberries
who produce no real fruit.
and who took over the far quarter
of my springtime labor
and displaced the beans and squashes
in a sea of brambles.

Those distant cousins
spread wildly from a few plants
stole from Patty's richer garden;
poke their prickly heads
like gophers
some distance
from their mother lode.

Those unruly sprouts
encourage their own offspring
to run amok
among my disciplined,
well-tended
and orderly neighbors.

In church today I heard the parable
of the barren fig tree;
whose owner, mad with rage,
came to cut it down,
but whose fate was saved
by a wise and gentle servant.

Likewise, I will turn my own sins
into the waiting soil
and beg the patience of God
that we both
may be renewed.

Morrning Coffee

There are plastic dinosaurs
positioned on my chair
in various poses of intimidation
and courtship.

The Brontosaurus,
who somehow made it
to the top headrest,
rears on his hind legs
and tries to reach
the spider plants
growing in styrofoam cups
on top of the piano.

The lazy triceratops,
trapped on unsure leather arm,
circles and stares warily across
at T-Rex
who roars and roars and roars
in magnificent moodiness
and waves his absurdly tiny arms
in the primal morning mist.

Before I sit,
I gently lift Barbie
from her soft safe canyon;
I am surprised by her serenity
in such a difficult time.
I settle myself delicately
into this meticulous playground
and make an offering of myself.

And now,
do I dare disturb the universe
with something
as impalpable
as a poem

Dulce et Decorum Est

DULCE ET DECORUM EST1

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

1 DULCE ET DECORUM EST - the first words of a Latin saying (taken from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country. In other words, it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country
2 rockets which were sent up to burn with a brilliant glare to light up men and other targets in the area between the front lines (See illustration, page 118 of Out in the Dark.)

3 a camp away from the front line where exhausted soldiers might rest for a few days, or longer
4 the noise made by the shells rushing through the air
5 outpaced, the soldiers have struggled beyond the reach of these shells which are now falling behind them as they struggle away from the scene of battle

6 Five-Nines - 5.9 calibre explosive shells
7 poison gas. From the symptoms it would appear to be chlorine or phosgene gas. The filling of the lungs with fluid had the same effects as when a person drowned
8 the early name for gas masks
9 a white chalky substance which can burn live tissue
10 the glass in the eyepieces of the gas masks
11 Owen probably meant flickering out like a candle or gurgling like water draining down a gutter, referring to the sounds in the throat of the choking man, or it might be a sound partly like stuttering and partly like gurgling
12 normally the regurgitated grass that cows chew; here a similar looking material was issuing from the soldier's mouth
13 high zest - idealistic enthusiasm, keenly believing in the rightness of the idea
14 keen
15 see note 1

Wishing I had Time To Write a Poem

Something in the wind today is sweeping away the hints of summer. There is a solemnity to the cool which borders on cold. I play the curmudgeon on the porch, typing stiff and reticent thoughts in the few spare minutes I have before morning soccer. The kids are sprawled inside on the couch: some on the arms, some on the back, or leaning unconsciously on each other laughng at Sponge Bob. I know there will be a collective sigh of "Noooo" when in exactly eight minutes I open the door and say, "let's go!"

And then we'll go all buckled into the symmetry of a van, and I will shoo this poem off the porch: "Git now, git!"

Young warriors

Young warriors almost
enchanted with dreams,
lie strewn
like daisies against
the gym wall;

waiting.

And what we humans call
simple joy
and mud-born pride
will soon outweigh
the many tears.

<em>--The Fessenden Wrestling Tournament, 2006</em>

(Wrestlers: Thanks for a fun and rewarding season.)

Haiku

                           

Oh my happy child:
the bitter wind will catch you
if I have to sneeze.
--fitz

Here's one thinking about you guys:

No longer in school,
he never saw the sunrise--
one more wasted day!
--fitz

This one I wrote a few years ago when taking a "field trip" down to the river with a shop class, and one of the kids was freaking out about his new basketball shoes getting wet:

In this woody bog,
the new kid with white sneakers
is getting nervous.
--fitz

I know it's winter
when my neigbor starts grumbling:
Where is the dry wood?
--fitz

Lost in winter rain;
I almost couldn't hear
my small child crying.
--fitz

This poem is chuckling
and wonders, "Who is the thief
stealing my  strange thoughts?"
--fitz

The geese are cackling
and lose their heads in the field;
damn this early snow.
--fitz

Do you have a favorite? I suppose I shouldn't even be thinking about school, but I'm sitting in an old rocking chair on our front porch thinking of the month of poetry we have ahead of us and writing some haiku poetry. It's fun and amazingly real. Ultimately, you will have to decide yourself what is, and what is not, genuine haiku. It always makes for great English teacher fights :) Here's a hint:

Five times I hit you,
and seven times you wonder:
"What is a snowball?"
--fitz

Here's a good place to start.  I'm partial to Basho.  And you?

Sad to go inside,
he says goodbye to the moon...
Monday night football.
--fitz

Oh my happy child:
the bitter wind will catch you
if I have to sneeze.
--fitz

Here's one thinking about you guys:

No longer in school,
he never saw the sunrise--
one more wasted day!
--fitz

This one I wrote a few years ago when taking a "field trip" down to the river with a shop class, and one of the kids was freaking out about his new basketball shoes getting wet:

In this woody bog,
the new kid with white sneakers
is getting nervous.
--fitz

I know it's winter
when my neigbor starts grumbling:
Where is the dry wood?
--fitz

Lost in winter rain;
I almost couldn't hear
my small child crying.
--fitz

This poem is chuckling
and wonders, "Who is the thief
stealing my  strange thoughts?"
--fitz

The geese are cackling
and lose their heads in the field;
damn this early snow.
--fitz

Do you have a favorite? I suppose I shouldn't even be thinking about school, but I'm sitting in an old rocking chair on our front porch thinking of the month of poetry we have ahead of us and writing some haiku poetry. It's fun and amazingly real. Ultimately, you will have to decide yourself what is, and what is not, genuine haiku. It always makes for great English teacher fights :) Here's a hint:

Five times I hit you,
and seven times you wonder:
"What is a snowball?"
--fitz

Here's a good place to start.  I'm partial to Basho.  And you?

Sad to go inside,
he says goodbye to the moon...
Monday night football.
--fitz

The Long Day

<>

She calls me
into her sleep
and keeps me
from the tendrils
of the day,
and then wraps me
into this love
constantly
renewed.

First Snow, November, 2005

It caught me again, unawares;
The sawsall coated
in ice and sharp snow;
the old dory I'm cutting up
sits half filleted
next to the wheelbarrow
filled with the bathroom tiles
that Eddie
clattered off the wall
in the joy and dust
only a seven year old
with a pry bar
will remember.

Not sure
where to start,
I stand dull
as a moose.

There is so much
that needs to be layered
in winterness,
until spring calls me
back from my sleep.

This Night

This night is
dark beyond the rail;
warm with sound:
cars on 117
going places
I will never go--

or care to?

The Ash Blight

They are as stubborn and unyielding
as the ground that holds them
and are not afraid to wear their death
in naked crowns of flailed bark
tearing slowly towards the trunk.

Ten years with the blight
and nothing anyone can do.

It is not a wondrous tree,
still I watch them
jostling still
among the Sugar Maples,
White Pine,
and gnarled Beeches,
clinging tightly
to their New Hampshire ground.

It is not too late, maybe.

I point out these sullen Ash
to those who will listen.
They pretend sometimes
to find it interesting--
almost even alarming;
but in the end
it's hard to care--
one less of something
they never recognized.

And so we all die
surrounded by the life
that overwhelms us.