Little Kings E-Book

Peter Kahn

• Herausgeber: Nine Arches Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 58

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Peter Kahn's debut collection Little Kings is an astonishing book of astute and deeply humane poetry, one which seeks to find in both teaching and learning a common ground, and between longing and belonging an equilibrium. Intuitive and wise, Kahn's poems remain compelling even when exploring those places where there is "no vocabulary for what might happen". Little Kings encompasses stories of the Jewish diaspora and of American life, interweaving narratives of escape and refuge, of yearning and absence. Some of these poems ricochet with the magnitude of loss and violence, with lives interrupted, half-lived, or vanished. Anchoring these poems is their immense grace and lyricism, and Kahn's great skill in tenderly carrying memory and experience into our shared understanding.

Leseprobe

Little Kings

Little Kings

Peter Kahn

ISBN: 978-1-911027-97-3

eISBN: 978-1-911027-98-0

Copyright © Peter Kahn, 2020

Cover artwork: © Taylor Varnado

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Peter Kahn has asserted his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

First published June 2020 by:

Nine Arches Press

Unit 14, Sir Frank Whittle Business Centre,

Great Central Way, Rugby.

CV21 3XH

United Kingdom

www.ninearchespress.com

Nine Arches Press is supported using public funding by Arts Council England.

For Mom, Dad, Grandma Liz, Grandma Grete, Papa Hans, Uncle Al, Neon Street Center for Youth, Malika’s Kitchen & Spoken Word Club. This book doesn’t exist without you.

Contents

I

Grandpa’s Fancy Watch

“…Till It’s Gone”

Little Kings

Tuesday Mornings at Neon Street Center for Youth

Dear Mrs. Gire

Waiting With No Vocabulary

2771

On top of the Monte Carlo

An Evening Prayer

Time Machine

The Rake

How Do We Make It a Building?

Driving to the Cemetery

What Made You Fall

“…Recipe for Me”

Skull-and-Bones

II

Quit

Wolf Man of Wicker Park

“Something About…”

Turn

Fire-Forgotten

Upstairs at Ronny’s Steakhouse

Independence

Sweating Through My Suit

Elmer’s Glue Girl

How It Was Then

Verboten

“Grayed In and Gray”

On Seventeen Years of Teaching

Pretending Not to Notice

“Sitting Here In…”

Pavlov in Chicago

Loathe

The Surprise of It

In 1979, the Shah of Iran is deposed

Mrs. Lancia

“…Shooting at Nothing Here”

III

Just Missed

On First Knowing You’re a Teacher

All I Hear is Kaddish

The Sombre Room

When You’re Not Able to Smile

Not Quite

Grey is More Than a Colour

Firefly

The Search for Meaning

Dropped

Blame

The Stench of It

Barks

What a Teacher’s Dream Looks Like

A Happy Alzheimer’s Poem

Gratitude and Acknowledgements

About the author and this book

I

Grandpa’s Fancy Watch

A long, long time ago, before even the iPhone,

Grandpa Hans had a fancy wrist watch.

It had no battery, and nothing to wind it up—

as long as he moved, so did the watch’s

hands. It was some slick trick.

Grandpa’s forearms looked like holiday

hams. They rippled from the meat

he chopped year after year at the butcher

shop. How did he slip on that watch?

Grandpa would take it off and tell me

to watch the hands slow to a stop.

Don’t shoot, they’d say. He’d tell me

to close my eyes and count to twenty.

When I opened them, I’d look at the hands

waving, We’re alive! We’re alive!

The watch died when Grandpa Hans

did, its hands clasped in prayer.

“…Till It’s Gone”

A Golden Shovel after Joni Mitchell

When I tell you about Steve, don’t

think just because he killed someone, it

means he’s a dog to put down. There’s always

two sides and while it may well seem

that his story reeks of bug-eyed maggots, to

judge him without the bullet’s story is to go

down a light-less dead-end street that

isn’t a street after all. When I ask you

to listen for the clink of ricochet, don’t

forget to hear the surprise in his voice. Know

he aimed high at stars, not people, to escape what

would be an L platform of snarling fists. You’ve

no idea what blood and teeth taste like. Got

no idea what it’s like when your mom shoots up till

you’re sleeping in shit, ripped away by DCFS. It’s

like you’re riding down a razor. All sense of up, gone.

Little Kings

8th Grade. No parents home at Rob Kenton’s house.

Six of us watch Young Frankenstein in the basement

buzzed on Little Kings Ale. 8 packs of 8-ouncers.

Green bottles, cuddled like teddy bears we hide

in the closet instead of tossing. Commercial

for Laverne and Shirley—we toast the TV. Chuckle

and chug. Stand like chorus girls—kick legs, slur,

5, 6, 7, 8…schmeil, schmazzle, Hoppenstead

incorporated! No parents, teachers, bullying big brothers.

The movie comes back on. I-Gor’s eyes bulging remind

me of my own, beer-blurred. Parents due in an hour,

we take a last gulp of Little Kings. Each of us vow

to finish off an 8-pack. I stop at five—cautious

then, as now, listening to the retching. Six

had Jeff burping, cursing

his big sister—she bought the beer.

Dr. Frankensteen calls Frau Blücher and horses neigh

and whinny, kicking their rear legs as we clutch our stomachs.

Seven beers made Rob empty his belly like a torn bag

of groceries. Eight got Karl wide-eyed, muttering snot-filled

gibberish as if the real Frankenstein monster, bolts and all,

was stomping his way. Did he see Rob’s pale pieced-together

face waxy from the mortician three years later after riding shotgun

to a drunken Cuervo Gold driver?

The doorbell rings repeatedly—drawing us from

our subterranean castle. Reminding us we were all fuzzy

mustache and puff of bony chest we hoped made us look old

enough to buy our own beer. Three years later, in the funeral parlour

it’s clear our crowns were from Burger King. Our kingdom,

youth’s puffed up buzz.

Tuesday Mornings at Neon Street Center for Youth

If Steve didn’t kill anyone,

it’ll be OK. If Steve didn’t kill

anyone, it’ll be OK. Repeat,

as necessary, before punching

the glowing 4 outside the elevator

at the group home on Sheridan

and Lawrence. A mantra, perhaps

a prayer. Exit on the 4th floor.

Check in with the night staff. Learn

which fears materialised over

your Sunday/Monday weekend.

Who broke curfew. Who ran away.

Who was arrested. Who got kicked

out. Who is new and what ghost

does he carry on his shoulder. Breathe.

White should not be the colour

of your knuckles from the clench.

White should not be the colour of power

and surrender. Of the sheet blooming

a moist rose on the L platform as Steve

runs from gang signs, turned sirens,

turned gun found in alley, turned botched

ballistics, turned funeral and Audy Homes

and Cook County Jail and Statesville. Do not

focus on the number 920—making us

the murder capital. Do not consider 919.

Do not look into the white eyes

of the future or you will hit snooze

until the sun puts itself back to sleep.

Do not let them see the white flag

stutter in your eyes. Do not discuss

guilty until proven innocent. Wake

each kid with a hard knock to the door.

Load them all in the maroon Ronald

McDonald van. Drop them off a block

from their school. Watch them duck

out the van and hear the sliding slam

of the door. Turn off the radio they fought

over, hold tight to the steering wheel

and drive to the drop-in center, alone.

Dear Mrs. Gire

If you hadn’t been absent that day,

Mrs. Gire, I would have turned out

differently. With your steel-wire