As soon as I scripted a line that blessed him
with a functioning heart, he strode naked
out of my novel, squeezed his squirming head
through the space in a double-spaced line and
gaped at me, eyes wounded by my indecision.
He shoved at a weakened verb and ripped the
prose wide open, bled twisted smell on the keys,
laughed maniacally at the optimistic progression
of page numbers. His huge mouth was crammed
with misplaced teeth, having existed as both
empty howl and sputtering door slammed shut.
He was nude and ashy, swathed in stiff denim,
his voice base gravel, then rootless and defiant,
his eyes pulsed gray, bottomless black, flat green
with flecks of spittle, his height wavered, his flat
tattooed gut pouted, then didn’t. He was scarred
by every change I’d made, every strike-through,
cut/paste, backspace, delete, all the unleased
betrayal that roars through prose. I built him
from a knowing of adjectives, piled on detail and
declaration, and now he is overdone, dragging
all that weight and wheezing when he breathes.
The boy patiently loads his pockets with stones,
bottle caps and jagged pieces of glass, waiting for
the moment when the skin of my neck is exposed.
Only 11, he scans me with man eyes and says it,
claiming my nights, advancing the plot in a way
that can’t be undone. He says: Give me a name.
– Patricia Smith
Draft © 2005 P. Smith All Rights Reserved.
3 comments:
Patricia,
I like the line "he was scarred by every change I'd made" - poetry, fiction, art is an on-going process of creation - how it all gets hacked out of a big chunk of wood or piece of rock, until something is found.
Very interesting.
Wow! Very powerful. So this is how a character (or work of art)is born....as painful and bloody and gut wrenching as giving birth. I want to know what that line was that "blessed him with a functioning heart," that pushed him finally through the birth canal, "scarred by every change you'd made..." (another wonderful line) And now he's obviously taken hold, here to stay, your creation, "dragging all that weight" to haunt you, do battle with you for as long as it takes. The war of art.
Such a really fine piece, enjoyed it immensely!
Searing - almost frightening to read - as if words alone have created a physical character in my midst who might do anything - such a strong feeling I had to stop and come back to finish the first reading. And his palpability can only be greater when you do the piece aloud. Notice I said "have created" not "could" - as having been so powerfully voiced and now shared, he's already loose among us.
One phrase which momentarily took me back to being objective instead of tingly was "all the unleased
betrayal that roars through prose" - as I had to think about what it meant - whereas the rest engaged me totally on an experiential and emotional level.
Hot stuff!!
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