December 2017
Nancy Scott
nscott29@aol.com
nscott29@aol.com
Sometimes relationships work; sometimes not so well. I find a lot of material to write about when it comes to relationships. I write a lot of poetry about people, not so much about the natural world. My most recent book, Ah, Men (Aldrich Press, 2016) explores a whole range of relationships, mostly upbeat. I'm fond of men. www.nancyscott.net
Author's Note: I wish that I wrote when I was young. The best I can say is I began writing poetry when I was younger than I am now. I've included the first three poems that I had published. In 1998, The Bear (U.S.1 Fiction Issue); in 1999, The Whistler (Kelsey Review) and in 2000, My Trouble, Not Yours (Rattapallax). One publication each year. I started slowly.They are still some of my favorite poems. The first and third are included in my new book of short stories and poems, Marriage by Fire, scheduled for release in January of 2018.
The Whistler
A young man came to rent a room,
told me he had no job, no money.
How do you live? I asked.
I barter, he replied. I bet
you'd like a widescreen TV.
I shook my head.
Perhaps a new refrigerator?
I'd like the rent in cash.
A year's supply of frozen meat?
I'm a vegetarian.
He rapped his knuckles on the door,
I'll be back, he said,
and bounded down the front steps,
whistling.
The Bear
Anatoly, a Jewish émigré, tells me
a Russian joke in broken English
over pizza. I nod between mouthfuls
comprehending nothing
except the bear.
When he said he'd left Minsk
via Canada to work in the USA,
no endless wait for a visa
no costly bribes
I had trouble understanding
just like I can't follow the joke
about the bear.
A great furry paw whacks
Anatoly's head, sends his punch line
dangling from a creaky ceiling fan.
Anatoly shakes his fist
at the bear who ruined his joke.
I swear it was the other way around.
My Trouble, Not Yours
It's not about color,
taut strings of silence
or your turbulent heart
when night suckles demons.
It's a raindrop riff
as wind switches voices,
bodies glistened with sweat,
you, sleek as a panther,
stalking my mind.
The Whistler
A young man came to rent a room,
told me he had no job, no money.
How do you live? I asked.
I barter, he replied. I bet
you'd like a widescreen TV.
I shook my head.
Perhaps a new refrigerator?
I'd like the rent in cash.
A year's supply of frozen meat?
I'm a vegetarian.
He rapped his knuckles on the door,
I'll be back, he said,
and bounded down the front steps,
whistling.
The Bear
Anatoly, a Jewish émigré, tells me
a Russian joke in broken English
over pizza. I nod between mouthfuls
comprehending nothing
except the bear.
When he said he'd left Minsk
via Canada to work in the USA,
no endless wait for a visa
no costly bribes
I had trouble understanding
just like I can't follow the joke
about the bear.
A great furry paw whacks
Anatoly's head, sends his punch line
dangling from a creaky ceiling fan.
Anatoly shakes his fist
at the bear who ruined his joke.
I swear it was the other way around.
My Trouble, Not Yours
It's not about color,
taut strings of silence
or your turbulent heart
when night suckles demons.
It's a raindrop riff
as wind switches voices,
bodies glistened with sweat,
you, sleek as a panther,
stalking my mind.
© 2017 Nancy Scott
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