Takeaway
 

Takeaway

There he was, an explorer lost
and small, stranded on an island

in the gloss of the empty mall
beside our stained paper bags

of food, and on his lap a sample
of the local flora—a plastic potted

plant forever coming into bloom
that he’d plucked from beneath

the feet of dragons in the Chinese
restaurant’s lantern heaven

of a waiting room. He looked beyond
us, like a child bracing to absorb

the end of a lesson, and slurred
the same as when he called—I’m all

messed up. So foreign to laugh
at no-nonsense dad, his quiet,

controlled self now loud and dizzy
and numb—for once he’d lost his

head and did something dumb.
So alien to be more acquainted

with this than him, more intimately
know the speed the Earth spins,

the trick to riding each rising wave,
how to let go and let the bar floor

stick—to drink yourself to a high
tolerance, be a good witness

to your own demise. Repeatedly,
annoyingly, he stumbled with his

apologies—and never did catch wind
of how much I’d chug, my prowess

for drinking, nor did I have a hint
of how young and fast he could die,

a few steps down the straight walk
of time, like it was nobody’s business.

Muchly enjoyed James. Particularly the delivery, line breaks, and ending. Suggestion: 'he stumbled along' to avoid another 'his' break. 'forever coming to bloom' had a nice echo of Keats' ode.

Phil

This is very sad and understated and effective, James. The occasional internal rhyming works well. I love that the "local flora" is a plastic plant that he stole from somewhere. That is both funny and absolutely heartbreaking.

Hi, James—

I come from a long line of proud Irish alcoholics. Most of the men in my father’s family, including him, died in their late forties or early fifties. The women all lived well into their eighties and nineties. I was lucky enough to get off that bus. Your poem captures poignantly the confusion, anger, pity, and helplessness of the loving bystanders.

Glenn

I'll go along with that. Unlike Hilary, though (I think), the rhyming - intentional or not - of "numb" and "dumb" - takes me out of the flow of the poem. Maybe I just need to live with it a little while longer.

Cheers

David

I was going back and forth on variations of “how I hid my prowess for drinking,” but ultimately decided that “never did catch wind” was sufficient to suggest that that was a possibility. But I’m not 100% sure my choice was correct...


I’m very pleased that this is working for you, Phil. And, yes, that was one of the very last areas I was messing around with before I posted the poem. I’m considering your suggestion—“along” might just be very nice there. And it does more than one thing. Thanks a bunch.

Oh I’m happy that you see this as understated, Hilary. It’s not exactly my thing and I so much wanted that here. Or at least more so, for this poem. I think the only part of this that I manufactured was the plant. I believe it was real. (So I’m chuffed that this resonated for you.) Glad that you liked the poem. Thank you.

That’s shocking, and profoundly sad, Glenn. Sorry to hear that. But happy to hear that you’ve gone another way. I was very much the exception in my family. I was drinking a lot, and about everyday that time of my life. I don’t drink anymore—I can’t, or it’s not recommended. Maybe for special occasions… I don’t think that I’m chemically dependent, however. Even before my health issues, I could just drop it and not think at all about it. During the 5 or 6 month lockdown, or semi-lockdown, here in Taipei, I didn’t drink at all. Not a glass. I didn’t see the point of staying home and passing out on the couch. (Going out and then passing out on the couch, another thing entirely...) Weed, on the other hand, was made for lockdowns.

I didn’t anticipate that, David. But I think that I get your reaction to that moment of the poem. It is a rather blunt thump. I went with it because there’s something very family about it. At least my family. I’m happy that this works for you overall, and I am open to possible alternatives for the moment in question. Thanks very much.

Hi James,
enjoyed from start to finish. That 'for once' seemed especially sad (given the ending.)
My only niggle was wondering whether it should be 'coming into bloom'?

RG

Yes, it should be “into,” and have changed that—thank you, Richard. I’ve been flirting with the idea of changing the title to Messed Up. But only flirting. The problem with it is that I think it’s too loud for this poem, and I do still like Takeaway. What draws me to it is that I think (probably falsely) that it might put more meat on the bones of the abrupt close. But, for now at least, I’m keeping it as is. Very pleased that you enjoyed this.

Hi James,
I'd urge against changing the title, the close, to me, is pitch perfect (and certainly not lacking in meat.)
Should you feel the need to revisit anything, and you shouldn't, then maybe look again at 'chug' (it's a bit 'frat boy' isn't it, and N seems older than that. Also, it isn't the most pleasing word in terms of sound.)

RG

The title is great, don't change it.

Ok, it stays. Thanks so much for coming back, Richard and Hilary. Greatly appreciated. And I'll give "chug" some more thought.

Yes, "Takeaway" is exactly the right title, James! I've been too busy to say so, but I'll say it now.

Hello, James,

This is really well realized. I love how the expansiveness suggested by “explorer” is undercut as he's reduced to an island within the mundane setting of a mall—the flora nothing more than a plastic plant pilfered from a Chinese restaurant. That quiet shrinking of metaphor carries a touch of the tragicomic that works especially well in the opening.

The poem grows with a quiet force, building from that understated start to something emotionally resonant and, by the end, genuinely heartbreaking. The final stanzas hit hard in all the right ways.

I also agree with others: Takeaway is the perfect title—understated, ironic, and thematically layered.

Really well done, James!

Cheers,
...Alex

Hey Julie-- I was very pleasantly surprised to see you popping in. Thank you! I really wanted to keep the title, but wasn't certain that it was functioning the way I wanted it to. Fortunately, it appears that it is.

Thank you very much for the very kind words, Alex. I'm thrilled that this is working so well for you. When I'm down about my writing, which will probably be next week, I'll reread your response.

I'm often dumfounded (slight pun there) at what takes one "out of the flow" of poem. It's almost always a matter of taste — like wallpaper or the way the furniture in the room is arranged. Sometimes it can't be changed without losing something that is uniquely poetic to that poet. Just wanted to mention it.

There is another rhyme that occurs in the identical way in the poem:

There he was, an explorer lost
and small, stranded on an island

in the gloss of the empty mall
beside our stained paper bags


That's not to say that I don't experience remorse at having "arranged" a poem in a certain way only to come back and cringe at my word choice : ). I do. With shocking regularity. It's as if my ghost-muse is taunting me to say something in a way I will regret — ha!

James, the poem is a wonderful example of where poetry is found — which is pretty much everywhere — waiting for you.

.

I thought it might be something along those lines. And it should therefore definitely (probably) stay in the poem.

Repentant cheers

David

Thanks muchly, Jim. I agree, though taste does matter. Especially when it comes to things such as freshness, and how much sound complements or detracts from a poem. And ultimately you can agree or disagree, of course. But yes yes, you have to find and go with that voice. Which I’ve always considered that glorious final frontier. And then you go find another one, haha.

Thanks for coming back, David. No no, I’m very grateful for the input. You may be right. Though important to me, it’s not an oh shit moment and I’ll wait a little while for new eyes (and ears) to look at it again.