[Jim Moonan]

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version 4

Juvenile Thoughts

The milky-white friendly ghost of my youth
still floats, nebulous, in my labyrinth brain,
still falls in love with goodness,
still leaves things better than before.
like free verse averse to being tamed.

I am toast to be caught in the same head.
I am my own klutz poltergeist: a dread
who scatters little Casper into pieces,
blows him out through my ear holes,
stunned to find myself haunted, alone.

Yet, like a miracle, he always returns.



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version 3

How Poltergeists Get In

The Great Geometers angled through the late afternoon sky
commanding a rake of light that streamed through the eye
of a dazzling prism dangling by a gray thread, igniting themselves
into tiny swaths of rainbows that danced around the room
staining a thousand things with their voodoo magic.
Some fell on me
rendering my preexisting thoughts momentarily obsolete,
mesmerizing me like a child awed by sudden shadows
or tickled by silly mirrors at the carnival as the clowns guffaw.
There they were: my posse of poltergeists, jiggling on the wall.

But then the light dimmed and undercover they vanished
into nowhere to regroup for their next act. This time
reappearing in disappearing darkness to rake my thoughts
across the empty sky behind my eyes, making my skin tingle.
Jekyll! I cry. Hyde! they reply. I whimper weakly, I don’t know why
you keep coming back... I have nothing for them. I wish they’d go away.
Abandon my dull head. Find somewhere else to play.



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version 2

When Things Aren't Right
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for W.A. Hughes

There’s a poltergeist I keep tied up and caged in my head
who escapes from time to time like Houdini from the dead.
Or he emerges from closets, mirrors, the bathroom sink,
shedding his stink and setting traps, making perfect sense,
throwing thoughts at me like tongues of spit-fire
as I flee his reach, but he scurries ahead and waits…

I lock the doors, latch the windows, disguise myself,
deny him light. But there is no barrier he cannot breach,
spouting his clear conspiracies doused in doubt,
collecting dots to become the nose on my face.
He commands a tsunami of noise to swamp the room.

I shout, Who are you? But he stops me with a punch
to my gut, a knee to my groin, and says, You know who I am.
And he’s right, I do. He’s that man I know who hides
behind the curtain, but when I pull back he’s gone—
vamoosed to his hiding hole to cry, and he conspires
to come again when things aren’t right. When I’m lost,
sleepless, up all night half-dreaming, half-dreading daylight…
Then suddenly there he is again, sneering, spitting,
spewing his unholy truths at the side of my bed.


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Original
Poltergeist

There’s a poltergeist holed up somewhere in my head.
He appears like zeitgeist come back from the dead;
from closets, cracks in the floor, from behind curtains
to startle me with his maniacal yelps and his perfect sense.
throwing thoughts around like dishes against the wall.
I try to leave him behind but he scurries ahead
locking doors, latching windows, shapeshifting,
spouting clear conspiracies, connecting dots
to become the nose on my face, the elephant in the room.
I shout, You’re that charlatan wizard doing wizardly things!

But when I pull the curtain back he’s not there. Gone
to his hiding hole to cry and conspire to come again
when things aren’t right; when I’m helpless,
sleepless, up all night half-dreaming in dread,
and suddenly — there he is again — sneering,
spewing his unholy truths at the side of my bed.





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[John Riley]

Jim, you know this is the type of poem that fits me. I like poems that take off. The challenge with that sort of poem, imo, is if the imagination is going to be in front you have to work on making it as startling and as original as possible. (God, I sound like a pontificator.) My point here is that while I like the pace and shape of this it fails to interest me much because we start with a "poltergeist," which can't help remind me of the old movie with the little girl who died a few years later. The next line is "zeitgeist," which is overused and often misunderstood. The rest of the action, again imo, is conventional. Dishes flying, floors cracking, charlatan wizards, shape-shifters, unholy whatever. It ends up being too much like a low-budget horror movie.

That sounds like an asshole thing to say but it's the vibe I have while reading. I understand all too well having my mind taken away from me and it's a much more original experience because we each have our memories and smells and fears, etc. They are unique to us--I mean unique as it should be used--the only one in existence--because it comes from us. My suggestion is to remember the experience and write from that. What was it like--smells, fears, thoughts, observations (was the water running in the sink?)

I hope this helps and honestly I'm not trying to be heavy. It's my honest reaction. I think it could be a good poem.

[Matt Q]

Hi Jim,

I like the idea here. I'm left to ponder what the poltergeist represents, what it is that comes upon the N when things aren't right, which you don't spell out, which I appreciate. I'm thinking some sort of paranoid thinking, given the reference to conspiracies. When the N is tired, weak, afraid, the N engages in destructive (hence the poltergeist) negative thinking and feels trapped in it (the doors being shut and locked). I like the idea of the mind being (or being inhabited by) a destructive spirit.

That said the combination of "zeitgeist" and conspiracy theorists did make me wonder if the poem is referencing conspiracy theories and theorists more generally, and making a cultural/political reference.

I do think there are places where the language and imagery could be fresher, less expected, or where abstractions could be replaced with images. I think you've got the idea down, and now you need to think about freshening up the language and imagery.

I don't really understand L2. Zeitgeist is the spirit of the times, what does it mean here for the zeitgeist to be dead, or to come back from the dead? I have no idea, and the poem gives me no context. Also, with "zeitgeist" being an abstraction, the line has no image. Maybe you can find some imagery to show us what it's like when the poltergeist appears?

L4, you might consider a replacement for "maniacal" that's some more image-based. What does the yelp sound like? I think may you're trying to contrast maniac (mad person) with "perfect sense", but maybe there's a way to do that more of an image-based modifier.

Should L4 end in a comma?

L6, I kind of want "scurries on ahead", just for the more iambic feel. And L7 "shifting shape" sounds better to me than "shapeshifting" for some reason.

L8-9, What if "connecting dots" were "collecting dots", something to shift it from cliché. And in L9, what if the it were "the nose that grips my face" or something else, that isn't the expected phrase, and likewise could the elephant be somewhere other than in a room -- to freshen up the cliché a bit? In the bed, say. Or is there an alternative to this phrase? Also, as well as being a stock phrase, this is an image of an elephant. So, why is there an elephant in this poem, where has it come from? Where does the elephant go? Anyway, you're stringing together some stock phrases in these lines. I'd look for a way to switch this up a bit.

L10 I'm not sure I quite understand what the N is shouting, but then again, I'm not sure that bothers me much. Give the N's state of mind he might not being making too much sense. Still, does "doing wizardly things" add much to just saying "you're that charlatan wizard"?

"when things aren’t right; when I’m helpless,
sleepless, up all night half-dreaming in dread,"

This is maybe a bit flat -- though I like the rhythm and you have the right/night rhyme, which I like -- when the phrases are taken together, and you might think of fresher ways to say these things. Maybe ways that incorporate imagery. Notice there are no real images in these two lines and a lot of abstractions. Still, maybe I'm just being overly demanding. The only thing that really stood out for me here in a negative way was "in dread" for it's "tellyness".

S2L6 "unholy truths" is something of an easy reach. Again, is there something fresher? I love that they're spewed against the side of his bed though. That's a great image!

I struggled with the grammar in the latter part of S2: "when I’m helpless, sleepless, up all night half-dreaming in dread, and suddenly — there he is again — sneering, spewing his unholy truths at the side of my bed." isn't a proper sentence. So maybe you should change the semicolon to a comma? Alternatively, maybe lose the "and" before suddenly. Or do both, in fact.

There's some repetition: The poltergeist is "holed up" in the N's head in L1, then in his "hiding hole" in S2. It spouts "conspiracies" in S1 and "conspires" in S2. This might be intentional, but I wonder if looking for ways to avoid word-level repetition is worth trying. Also, is it possible for one person (even a spirit) to conspire alone? Doesn't conspiracy more than one actor?

best,

Matt

[Jim Moonan]

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Revision posted. John and Matt, thanks for such vivid thoughts on how I might pull this out of the usual jargon used to depict self-doubt, paranoia, conspiratorial thoughts. I found it easy to revise because of your fantastic insights.

It is a dramatization more than a recounting of any real experience. I am fortunate in that way. But I’ve been close enough to its pain to know what it can do. It is essentially a poem about self-doubt, which I do wrestle with often. But to your point, Matt, I’ve extended it here a bit because I also had in mind today’s American social/political milieu it’s hard to escape the gaslighting, conspiratorial thinking, vindictiveness and polarizing hatred that is rampant over the country.

(I admit I do have a high threshold for cliches. They’re like candy: they can be very satisfying, but usually lead to a crash. They also act as a red flag for the discerning crowd that is the Eratosphere : ))

A few notes: the image of a poltergeist has nostalgic meaning to me. My creative writing professor in college invited me to his home for a 1:1 evaluation of my semester's work and he ended the session by reciting a poem of his. (He had never read his own work to the class so I was taken off guard by the gesture.) The title of the poem was Poltergeists and I remember the first line being, “There are poltergeists in my head” and that image has always stuck with me for some reason. I remember he recited it by heart. He followed it up by saying something like “We all have them, James. Some of them are useful. Use them well.” or something to that effect. Two things: 1.) He was the only person to call me James (other than the nuns), and 2.) he told me I was a poet.

That was a long time ago. Recently (well, five or so years ago) I memorialized him at a Black Box theatre play here in Boston. Once the audience was seated an announcement was made on the PA that asked those in attendance (there were maybe seventy-five people) to look under their seats for a pencil and paper and write down the name of someone who has had a positive influence in our creative lives and then pass it to the end of the row where a stage person would come by to collect them in a basket. The play was entitled, The Method Gun. It was a story about what actors go through to hone their art. Specifically, it depicted an unconventional acting technique called the “method gun” approach and the performance was a depiction of exactly how the technique was taught.

At the end of the performance an actor took center stage and quelled the applause, asking for silence as a screen illuminated the back wall of the stage. There on the screen was a slow scroll of all the names that had been written down prior to the show beginning. You could hear a pin drop. When my teacher’s name appeared at the top and slowly scrolled down and out of view something intensely personal and meaningful occurred that reverberates in me even now. Here's a link to the Method Gun.

So I guess I should dedicate this poem to him.

[Jim Moonan]

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Revision posted. Or more accurately reimagined.
I have been hounded by this poem ever since I posted it. Little did I know how it would bedevil me. I feel like I’m playing with the proverbial fire. Suffice it to say, it is not a subject that I feel in control of, as I guess it should be. Who can control them? Who can define them? Who can pin them down? What the fuck are they even? After days of mulling over how to resolve what I started, it came to me yesterday while visiting the grandkids. Their playroom has a large west-facing picture window where a prism dangles. On sunny late afternoons when the sun angles itself through the prism, the room suddenly fills with tiny rainbows scattered everywhere. That is what triggered the revision. I hope I can leave it at that.

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[John Boddie]

Jim - This is a good foundation for a piece that might improve further. You might consider the following:

Poltergeists are commonly associated with some form of physical action - the painting in a group that unexplainably hangs askew despite all efforts to align it properly or the single cufflink that winds up with your wife's rings and the sock that can't be found after the laundry is complete. At the moment, you have rainbows and thoughts. Adding some physicality might help.

The line "rendering my preexisting thoughts momentarily obsolete" smacks of over-writing. Its absence could make the poem stronger. "This time reappearing in disappearing darkness to rake my thoughts
across the empty sky behind my eyes, making my skin tingle." is similar.

The only thing I was able to draw from the narrative is that the poltergeists agitate the narrator. Why they do is remains a mystery.

In your position, I'd let what you have marinate a while before making additional changes.

JB