Speaking of Arms

Part 1
Years ago--before Ann was married--I shared a poem with her. Written by a student, I think (Ann might remember the circumstances better than I do), it contained an image that did not work for me. A love poem, no doubt, since it spoke of "the long arms of your eyes."

That's the image. Maybe I'm too literal--see part 2--but never could that image work for me.

I talked to Ann about it. We chuckled. She decided to write a poem using that line, and I don't remember if I challenged her to do it or if she just took it on. Here's what she wrote.

The long arms of your eyes thrust
themselves at me, and I just
melt into a pool of clear
mirrority, like your eyes, dear,
whose superiority surpasses
my wildest dreams, trespasses
into my heart of hearts
and leaps across my meadows, darts
through corridors of melodious woe
that follow me wheree'er I go.
Like your eyes.

She calls it a bad poem, and it is. But it's a really good bad poem.

Part 2
Speaking of arms.
It's a poem by a fellow graduate assistant--also years ago. She wrote about a sleepy student, but her image didn't work for me. (I've used these same words to describe both poems. They are code, of course, for what I really thought.)

Describing her sleepy student she said something about "your pillow arms." I thought she asked too much of me, of any reader. What came immediately to my mind was a picture of Popeye and his arms. Now those were pillow arms.

I can't remember her name, but I remember this: We both entered a poetry contest at Boise State University. She won with the pillow arms poem. (Should I mention other factors? Maybe, but I won't.)

My poem placed 2nd. It's called Physics Lesson.

Slipping in the back door,
I see mother silent, unmoving
against father's shouting,
his voice of rushing waters,
the voice of God, calling her names.
I hide upstairs in my books,
waiting for quiet,
not wanting to see father's face,
his thin mouth, his one dark eyebrow.

After he goes out
I start down the stairs.
Mother does not move at first
then quickly ties her apron,
plunges her hands into suds water,
hums the same three-note tune
as always.

When he comes home in the night
I hear sounds,
like the sounds of unoiled machinery,
push under the crack
of their bedroom door,
and move across the hall
to my room. Is this
why she stays? Or
is some force working here?
I hold my hands over my ears
and read.

Of course, I thought mine the better poem. Of course.

I would think that.