Statue of Dante, Santa Croce, Firenze
Sploib Poetry Workshop
Ever since my awful experiences in 10th and 11th grade English in high school,
I've been convinced that I can't understand poetry. With the help of Andrew
Shields, a poet and teacher of English in Switzerland, I'm exploring some
notable poems, and beginning to write some myself.
A Fist Leaves A Mark On a Cold Day
by Joel Gottlieb (January 24, 2005)
The choir stopped hearing the preaching a long time ago,
and those who were there never heard it in the first place.
The only ones who could have done anything about it
long ago stopped worrying about whether they should have.
I am the only one who still carries this torch and the memory.
I want them to hurt the way I hurt-
I want them to see their mistakes.
I want to change their ways, and make my own imprint on their faces,
like Geiger's fist print on that runner's cheek,
that was still there when the boy finished the race.
Somehow I'm still holding on to the need for revenge.
The king still rules his little castle, and I can't seem
to dust myself off and walk away.
In that way I'm still my corner-cutting teammate
uselessly trying to keep the better runner from making him look bad.
joel.gottlieb@gmail.com