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Unread 05-27-2010, 03:16 PM
Alex Pepple Alex Pepple is offline
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Default Jeff Holt

We continue our Distinguished Performance podcasts with Jeff Holt. Jeff is already scheduled for the "Poetry of Quiet Desperation" event with Joshua Mehigan and Tim Murphy, coming soon to the Distinguished Guest forum. So, this can be considered as Jeff's preview for that event. He presents us with poems about endings in this podcast—endings of romantic relationships, friendships, faith, sanity, and life.

Jeff Holt is a licensed professional counselor who lives in Plano, TX with his wife, Sarena, and their lovely twin daughters, Julia and Allison, who are 22 months old. As a counselor, Jeff spent the early part of his career working with patients with severe mental illnesses, and he continues to work with patients and families struggling with psychiatric disorders. In terms of publishing, Jeff's poem "Continuity" will be published in the Summer 2010 issue of Able Muse, and he has recently published "The Harvest" in Able Muse, Summer 2009, as well as poems in A Mind Apart: Poems of Melancholy, Madness and Addiction, ed. Mark Bauer, Oxford UP, 2009, and online in Issue 4 of www.14by14.com. Jeff has previously published poems in Sonnets: 150 Sonnets, ed. William Baer, Evansville UP, Measure, The Formalist, The Texas Review, Iambs & Trochees, Pivot, Cumberland Poetry Review, Rattapallax, and other journals.



______________________________________________


Poem List:
  1. "Our Murder"
  2. "Catching Up"
  3. "The Stalker's Villanelle"
  4. "Schizophrenia"
  5. "The Choir"
  6. "The Patient"
  7. "The Harvest"
  8. "Death has no Voice"
  9. "After the Wedgwood Baptist Church Shooting"





JEFF HOLT's ENDINGS PODCAST POEMS:


Our Murder

The deadest smile that ever scaled a face
Was brighter than these pale white, empty walls.
Worn tracks of furniture I can't replace
Haunt me like stale regrets. Some nights she calls
Entangled in old dreams that still defy
Our sensible despair. The phones that twist
Our voices close present the fleeting lie
That we still share some space. But soon, the list
Of practical absurdities—the mail,
Lawyers' fees, locks on doors—draws out the heat
Behind cool phrases. And then our voices fail
As silence settles on us like defeat.
Our talking now is just a hollow show;
We murdered conversation weeks ago.


Catching Up

The plastic menus with faint ketchup smears,
The water rings on wrinkled paper mats,
Wouldn't have bugged us then. But it's been years.
We wipe and talk. Summed up, our lives are ruts
Disguised by cheer. His lipsticked coffee mug
Must be replaced. I struggle through a joke
He doesn't get, half-listen to him brag
About his car. He offers me a smoke.
I say I quit. Our burgers come. We eat
Like restless kids who long to get away
From boring grown-up talk. We have to wait
Five minutes for the check, and then we're free
To disappear from one another's view,
Wondering what we wanted to renew.


The Stalker's Villanelle

She doesn't realize that she is dead.
Remembering the ring, the vows we swore,
I follow her like something left unsaid.

She drives the car I gave her when we wed.
She grips a steering wheel I've gripped before.
She doesn't realize that she is dead.

She's stepping from the car—her legs, her head!
Watching her stroll into the grocery store,
I follow her like something left unsaid.

She flicks her hair, just as she would in bed
When she'd make love as if it were a chore.
She doesn't realize that she is dead.

These strangers can't discern the life she's led.
They see a charming smile; I see a whore
And follow her like something left unsaid.

She surely feels her whole life lies ahead
As she steps briskly through the exit door.
She doesn't realize that she is dead.
I follow her like something left unsaid.


Schizophrenia

I don’t know which are worse: visitors’ stares
Or social workers’ smiles. These stained, ripped chairs
That someone else threw out support me now.
Not like before. I can’t remember how
I wound up here, but that’s the past, they say.
Just focus on your goals. You lost your way.
You live here now, and all your bills are paid.
My memories are bricks I thought I’d laid
Tightly together scattered in a pile.
That picture of my parents, Dad’s grim smile,
The yellow wallpaper I used to trace
With tiny fingers, how I used to race
Around the sidewalks up by Maple Way,
Pretending I could fly. The awful day
That Henry shot himself, the blood stained rug,
My black toothbrush and Kristen’s coffee mug,
Painting the walls of my apartment red
To calm the voices. Grandpa’s old wood shed,
The cats I rounded up before the storm
To keep them safe, the day when I was warm
Out in the snow—or was that in a book?
The time I fell and my whole body shook,
Those poison bugs that crawled inside my skin
And wouldn’t leave, the sermon about sin
When Brother Paul was pounding on the pulpit,
God was angry and I was the culprit,
Kristen beckoning to the police,
The tight handcuffs, my suit pants with the crease,
That Bible verse about eternal life:
This never stops? Is Kristen still my wife?

But here, these peeling walls with crayon art
Scotch-taped in rows. I’m an abandoned part
Of someone else’s play. I roam the stage
Mumbling old lines to pacify the rage
That builds within like an intruding stranger.
No matter where I am, I am in danger.
I thought I knew where I was going once,
Then I collapsed into a beast that hunts
Its owners, so they say. They’re probably right.
But I can still remember Stacy White,
The girl who placed my hand inside her pants,
Fluorescent ribbons at the sophomore dance,
Crawling through my apartment with a gun
Because of aliens, the blackened sun,
The manager at Stop’n’Go who said
I looked like someone who had long been dead—
The thoughts won’t stop, and no one’s listening.
Sam just came out; he thinks he has the ring
That Sauron sent his Orcs to confiscate.
And then there’s Bill, who told me that my fate
Was in God’s hands. It must be time for meds.
We have to take them or they’ll call the feds,
So Lucy says. Mark says she’s full of shit.
Each day they wear me down and, bit by bit,
I find it harder just to stay awake.
Jenny, the shrink, tells me that when I shake
I need to concentrate on self-esteem.
But I can’t tell if she’s another dream
Or someone else who lies. That’s just as well.
I’m hoping this is just a dream of Hell.


The Choir

Their leader lifts his hand. They rise as one
Like soldiers tensed before a battlefield.
Holding their hymnals close, they hear again
The organ’s call. Soon they join in, made bold
By stanzas asking men to bathe in blood.
They stand together in their crimson gowns,
Bright books in hand, their faces stiff as wood,
In ranks like God's as yet uncaptured pawns.

I sit inside this house of faith, head bowed,
A child again, confused by reverence.
I was baptized to make my parents proud
But find no comfort in God's violence.
I crouch in silence, wishing I could lie
And join these warriors, unafraid to die.


The Patient

The doctors know I dream when I'm awake.
I've smoked until my fingertips are brown.
Watching the door, I sit alone and shake.

My sister and her kids, Kelly and Jake,
Played games with me when I'd sink this far down
Until they knew I dream when I'm awake.

When Beth comes now, her smile is bright and fake.
She doesn't want to bring the kids downtown.
She leaves too soon. I sit alone and shake.

The voice is back. It whispers till I ache.
I'm soaked in sweat and tangled in my gown
When they catch me dreaming while still awake.

They've brought more pills that they must watch me take.
They're lifeguards staring at me as I drown.
They leave again. I sit alone and shake.

I'm stuck in a glass bubble I can't break.
The others stand outside and watch the clown.
I wish I didn't dream when I'm awake.
The room grows dark. I sit alone and shake.


The Harvest

A stranger’s planting seeds in parts of me,
Staking his claim in my internal land.
He turns his spade; I twist in agony.
I pray that he will tire and rest his hand.

At first the stranger dug within my breast.
A lump arose, the first fruit of his crop.
He left it there. Never content to rest,
He moved into my lungs. He will not stop

Until he’s drained my soil of nutrients.
To him, my organs are just ripening.
He doesn’t know he toils at my expense;
I’m just a field that he is harvesting.


Death has no Voice

Your mother's voice, cold as a telegram:
"She died last night. Your name was in her book."
I couldn't speak, remembering your breath
Warming my neck, and my confused hand shook

The phone as you became a memory.
I heard a sob, a silence, then a man
Who said hello, thanked me for knowing you,
Said your weak lungs defied the treatment plan,

And that the doctors warned them years ago

Your breath was limited. They'd call me back,
Of course, about the service. A dial tone,
And I lay still: a suit in plastic, black,

Dropped on a white bedspread. Not you, Diane,
Death's enemy who smiled at the unknown;
How could your breath just stop? No answer came.
Death has no voice. Cold, I hung up the phone.



After the Wedgwood Baptist Church Shooting
On the night of September 15, 1999, forty-seven year old Larry Gene Ashbrook calmly entered Wedgwood Baptist Church in Ft. Worth, Texas, where teenagers in the church were performing a play. Mr. Ashbrook quickly began screaming curses regarding the Baptist Faith and firing into the audience. After killing seven church members and injuring seven others, Mr. Ashbrook turned the gun upon himself.

I sit here, numb, in our dark living room
Where Chris, hugging her legs, watched Pokemon
Just yesterday. Her beanbag chair still waits,
Holding her shape, a single blonde hair barely
Visible on its crimson, curving leather.
It’s 4AM and I’m still dressed for church;
My tie lolls like a snake down my stained shirt.
Chris loved our church. When turning in the pew
Tonight, she flung soft hair against my arm,
Prompting in my chest the swell of love
I might swoon from, thankful she’s my daughter.
Was my daughter. Nonsense—what is "was"?
I close my eyes and feel her on my lap,
Her weight like part of me I’ve finally found,
And then her slender finger like a stick
Poking me lightly as she giggles "Dad,
You’ve got a belly." And I’m laughing too,
Tickling her sides until she howls and leaps
Away, as nimble as her tabby, Freddy.
"Freddy!" she cries at night, her eight-year-old
Voice impatient, "Freddy, food, come ON!"
I’m nearly jealous when I see him bounding
Toward her, how her eyes flash down like sunbeams.
She kneels and holds her arms out to the beast
As if it were a lost child. Fred's eyes closed
In his striped orange face, his body draped
In blonde hair as my daughter cradles him.

A faint meowing, Fred’s, from far away.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. Why’s that cat out?
It’s dark. And why am I—oh Jesus, no.
Not Chris. Her scream, her blood . . . I sink back down,
Glance at the clock: 4:45AM.
Eight hours ago the world made sense. And then
Hell came to us. "The Lord is my shepherd . . ." Yes,
That Psalm, our comfort. "I will fear no evil,
For thou art with me." Lord where was thy rod
When the chapel doors flew back, jaws in a scream,
And that madman leapt forth, spraying his fire
Like a dragon of the apocalypse?
Yes, I confess I don’t feel comforted!
If Jesus saves, why could He not save Chris
When she looked back, grinning, anticipating
A dressed up classmate playing a villain’s role?
We thought the blasts were just effects and kids
Only pretending to be shot until
We heard that voice… I reached for Chris just as
Her body dropped, her face a mask of blood,
Her hair like paintbrush bristles dipped in red.
I froze like one in Dante’s deepest Hell.
The end had come. Chris was the Lamb of God . . .
Around me Christians wept and tore their hair
As someone bellowed curses at our faith
While littering the floor with sacrifices.
Why, Lord, godammit, why? To test our souls?
Did Satan bet with you that he could break me,
Kill my faith? My Chris, your sacrifice.

She’s in the ground. What’s left of her, that is.
"She’s with her Lord"; "God has a plan for her,"
Bill and Teresa said, then turned away, heads bowed,
Each clutching one of Timmy’s tiny hands
As if to lift him from a gaping hole.
I watch their backs, wanting to follow them
Back to their home, passed over by death’s angel.
They’ll feel relieved once they have shut their door,
Removed black clothes, flipped on the radio
To Christian songs. I wish we could be them,
My family saved, theirs lost.
There’s Beth, still crying,
Crowded by friends. Her makeup runs like blood.
Our pastor said I should be strong for Beth.
He looks fat now. His handshake’s greasy, cold.
I’m shaking others’ hands, but I can’t hear
The platitudes they offer anymore.
For no one sees I’m sinking with my girl,
Feeling the dirt pressing against my chest,
Filling my mouth, my nostrils and my ears,
Shutting my eyes. She’s suffocating—god,
Let’s get her out! I clutch a tiny hand
And hear a woman’s gasp—not Chris’s, old—
And stare into Miss Benson’s wide blue eyes.
I let her go, exclaim "I’m sorry, damn!"
And someone pats my shoulder, leads me off
To shade, saying that it’s all right, as if
To calm a madman. I collect myself,
Thank the young stranger, nod that I’m okay.
My shirt is drenched beneath this mourning coat,
Drenched like the clothes removed from Chris—Oh Christ!
Almighty God, have you become a wolf?
You’ve slain your sheep. Praying defies all sense
Among dead children. Yes, you gave your son,
But then you knew he would come back to you,
Defying death. But Chris, like her dead friends,
Will never hear another bedtime story,
Talk to a teddy bear, smile for a camera,
Or have another birthday. A great flood
Roars in my heart, destroying faith in you,
Your book, your promises. I curse your name!
My daughter’s playground is a cemetery!

Chris, Daddy is kneeling once more—to you.
Forgive me for not sheltering you that night.
If I could draw those bullets to my flesh,
Lay down my life for you, I could die blessed.
Please be my shepherdess. This world without you,
This dead soul circus, mocks my grief with cheer.
Please animate this broken heap of flesh
My lamb, my angel. I’ll remember you
Beaming at me when I would come to read
Your bedtime story. Midway through my words,
Your eyelids fluttered. But you’d whisper "Daddy"
Just as I rose, and I would bend again
And clasp you close. Please don’t forget this, Chris:
Remember me when I lie down to sleep
And come to me in dreams. Thus I’ll survive:
You’ll be with me. And I will fear no evil.


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  #2  
Unread 05-27-2010, 07:14 PM
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Maryann Corbett Maryann Corbett is offline
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It's always intriguing to hear, as in really hear, the voice, as in actual voice, of a poet one doesn't yet know well. I'm looking forward to the discussions I hope we'll have about these poems on the coming event at Distinguished Guest. Thanks to Jeff and Alex for doing these recordings and putting them where we can enjoy them.
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Unread 05-28-2010, 07:02 AM
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Catherine Chandler Catherine Chandler is offline
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Jeff,

I enjoyed your reading very much, especially "Catching Up" and "After the Wedgwood Baptist Shooting".

Cathy
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Unread 05-28-2010, 09:02 AM
Rhina P. Espaillat Rhina P. Espaillat is offline
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It's great to see your work up on this site, Jeff! You are--and always have been--scary good, aware of all the darkness out there, or in there, as the case may be. I've never forgotten the very first time I heard you read, at West Chester, and was mesmerized by that villanelle.
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Unread 05-29-2010, 04:57 AM
Tim Murphy Tim Murphy is offline
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Great reading Jeff. Some pretty excrutiating stuff.
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Unread 06-05-2010, 02:18 PM
Jeff Holt Jeff Holt is offline
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Default Thanks, everyone!

Thanks, everyone, for the encouraging comments, and thanks again, Alex, for putting this up! It's a real honor. I'm looking forward to the discussions we will have on the "Distinguished Guest" forum about Josh's, Tim's and these poems, as well as some other gloomy poets...
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Unread 06-22-2010, 11:31 AM
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Catherine Chandler Catherine Chandler is offline
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Jeff,

Returning briefly again to let you know that "The Stalker's Villanelle", which I found powerful on hearing it the first time, has now taken on a personal meaning in my extended family. Now, instead of simply givine me goosebumps, the poem actually causes me to have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

We're all hoping for the best of a bad situation.
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Unread 06-22-2010, 09:13 PM
Jeff Holt Jeff Holt is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Catherine Chandler View Post
Jeff,

Returning briefly again to let you know that "The Stalker's Villanelle", which I found powerful on hearing it the first time, has now taken on a personal meaning in my extended family. Now, instead of simply givine me goosebumps, the poem actually causes me to have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

We're all hoping for the best of a bad situation.
Catherine, I hope for the best for your family as well. I'm sorry to hear that my poem underscores a personal fear; I hope that the situation will be resolved safely, and the poem will simply be a reminder.
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