Four Poems
by Jay S. Carson
CAPSICUM
I
My father used to say,
It’s what makes the pop and taste.
The ginger ale was for me;
his glass was full, ale or gin;
then, his memory would explode:
II
first, with the wonders of his youth:
the onion sandwiches seemed plucked
whole, fresh from his grandmother’s Heth’s Run garden,
And her new-made
ice cream, refreshing as her willingness
to sell the farm to Catholics.
Dad looking out the back
of his uncle’s new 1909 Packard
for his cousin Chick’s broken arm.
Not just broken, he thought, but broken off.
Watching the skin of his Aunt Sadie turning green
because, everyone said, of eating too many olives.
III
Then, I could hear about the 1924 Olympics
he saw with law school classmates.
The beautiful mademoiselles he met,
and later, the fräuleins in Germany.
Until those bastard Germans officers,
like those who had pushed his Alsatian grandmother
off the Berlin sidewalks 40 years before,
bullied him down a flight of Beer Hall stairs.
All the while, Dad yelling, Sal bosch.
IV
Oh, he knew and spoke well of many friends,
and closely followed the Pittsburgh Pirates,
was wicked smart in American history,
and cordially cross-examined me
during some of our great dinners.
But he was a foreigner to me.
Until my wise Aunt Clara
came to my father’s funeral,
encouraging and answering
my simmering obsession
with plumbing his stories:
You are writing your father’s poetry.
A VAMPIRE’S DREAM
the blood nurse called me.
You are very well hydrated;
as my aunt the nun once noted in elation
while we were both giving blood,
Oh, you’re a spurter.
I am familiar with being
so easily feasted upon
after my neglected childhood,
two failed marriages
where my “life” partners just quit
and said so.
But I don’t want to forget
what I have traded my pints for:
like ten years of scotch-drenched, sexy fun
with a beautiful woman,
who once wept on reading the
definition of a gentleman,
looking at me;
prelude to the deluge.
And before that, the self-rationed drinks
of excellent single-malt scotch, lubricating patience
to breezily put up with my too-functional parents,
loudly and amusingly blaming each other
and passing over me.
And I won a wonderful son
who kissed my hand in the park
one day and my cheek recently,
both for no reason.
So I have bartered this bleeding life
for some lovely women’s short, intense love,
and a superb offspring,
maybe twenty good friends.
And an understanding that
God has and will give me enough heart,
corpuscle, blood, and all, to deal from yelp to carcass.
LAST NURSERY RHYME
Your mother left you
and is not coming back;
stop waiting at the door
for the long-lost cat.
We have done the ditty,
saying over and over
what I should have known
as well as “Red Rover.”
I’m not your mother;
she’s not your mother;
your boss is not your mother,
nor is any other.
She left you long ago
for the hopes and loves
of the finest ambrosia
of the mountains and coves.
All of your women cannot help,
although each might try
even to nurse you
until you die. Because
Your mother left you
and is not coming back.
Stop waiting at the door
for the long-lost cat.
SUGAR FARTS
At a loss for a compelling title?
Try Aristotle’s inventional topoi.
I suggest cause and effect (see above).
Contrasts are also important (also see above).
And remember reference to the specific.
The body is a good start,
although the heart and head,
lips and breath have been overdone.
Go for the senses:
Smell has been under-emphasized,
we are told.
And for sure
go for realism (see above).
Don’t be afraid of criticism,
especially from the prissy.
But I would be wary
of standing next to me
right now.
BIO: A seventh-generation Pittsburgher, Jay Carson taught creative writing, literature, and rhetoric at Robert Morris University. His poems have appeared in more than 100 local and national journals, magazines, and collections, including Alabama Literary Review. Apricity Magazine, Connecticut Review, Courtship of Winds, Eclipse, and others. My short stories have appeared in Barely South Review, Johnny America, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, moonShine Review, and others. He has also published a poetry chapbook, Irish Coffee, with Coal Hill Review, and a longer book of his poetry, The Cinnamon of Desire, with Main Street Rag. He is presently working on a memoir.