The Notebook I Left at the Sale by Peter Mb Moskalew

The Notebook I Left at the Sale a chapbook by Peter Moskalew

Acknowledgements Many thanks to Abigail Comber and Brian Morrison for always encouraging me. Thank you to Ron Bullock for teaching me it’s never too late to find out what you love doing. Thank you to Aunt Jan, Fritz and Barbara. Thank you to everyone I workshopped with in class this term. Without your help I would not have grown as much as I have. “Smile Goya Smile” was inspired the paintings Saturn Devouring His Son, La Familia del Infante Don Luis, and The Injured Mason by the great Francisco Goya. “The Vase in Our Kitchen” was inspired by a Mitch Hedberg joke and my kitchen. “Forest Scene” was inspired by Robert Schumann’s Einsame Blumen. “Canon By the Stoplight” includes the title to a Tyler Gobble poem in italics. “Genocide” was inspired by the lack of enjoyment I feel whenever I mow the lawn. “In the Clown Car” was, in some ways, inspired by and is a reaction to [in just-‐] by e e cummings “Rock (a bye)” is based off of 9/17. The first and last lines of each tercet generally have 5 syllables and the middle lines have 4.

For mom and dad my favorite critics

Table of Contents: Parenting a poem

The Giant

Release

Smile Goya Smile

Thoughts Under the Winter Sun

Lying in the Cold

All Ears

Forest Scene

Our Cold War

A Rhythm of Life

The Vase in Our Kitchen

The Tired Eyes

My Grandfather’s Travel Chess Set

Home

In Winter

Tomorrow

Canon By the Stoplight

The Notebook I Found at the Sale

Genocide

In the Clown Car

Rock (a bye)

Parenting a Poem When I met you, you were just a thought, a snowflake my tongue caught. And I remember you — through the mispelled crayon words of our soul I once wrote on a wall. We walked ‘round as you rubbed your eye with one hand, held mine with the other. and now that my mind wanders thin, I must thank you for holding my hand once more.

The Giant Tiptoeing through the white tiled room with ants, Atlas-‐like, traveling with blueberry, raspberry, and Canterbury dreams to dance their rite of sweet spring showers, the giant stops to admire the moving fruits of their labor, gifts from his larder, because there’s plenty more and their pilgrimage never ends

Release When I saw that flickering screen, I couldn’t look away. Told I’d beat it again, with a stronger mind, and with a weaker body. But— I still counted the times, I could hold my son before the end. Each time tighter than the last. Each time longer than the last. Until he had to go.

Smile Goya Smile With decaying bricks, redder than the mourning sun he grinned wider than the Cheshire Cat remembering panic fear and the turmoil he used to paint on his many walls and canvases the wide-‐eyed Saturn with his son at mealtime as the Infante cook smiles. Or was the smile archaic?

Thoughts Under the Winter Sun Wisps of my breath float past my mouth (in their gondolas) from my little fog of mind, inspired and already dreamt, sailing back to their upward abode hoping to ring the doorbell of horn joining the poodlefacedclouds to be dreamt and to inspire once more

Lying in the Cold There you stood talking through your teeth with a smile (avant-‐garde in manner). I, deafened by promises of love, believed you and your heart and— I, blinded by promises of bliss, did not see those wisps of lies for they blocked out the sun and all its warmth.

All Ears All ears whisper to each other murmured love songs of dreams delayed and promises made til the last song is sung into one ear — and sometimes out the other

Forest Scene Through tangled withered weeds pale and under a canopy’s shade a single bloom buds, waiting to be picked and given in love (the aster) soon I’ll visit again and bring my love with me for a lonely flower is sadder than any words

Our Cold War I remember the arms race of my wintered-‐youth. Commanding carrot-‐nosed troops, and fighting with friends on the frontlines of battle. Cold grenades thrown side to side til one by one we were picked up. Now nostalgia freezes my face when I see my lesschappedhands.

A Rhythm of Life How marvelous a sound it is! The steady-‐strong ta-‐dums (heard through Love’s tummy) overhearing cacophonous sounds of worry, but those ta-‐dum-‐ ta-‐dum-‐ta-‐dums soothe the worried souls (outside)

The Vase in Our Kitchen The Aster and the Sun rest in our kitchen sitting by the window with cool mauve scattered over the tabletop. The first and last I picked, and carried to you and yet you pluck, to see if, I love you. Still.

The Tired Eyes Those eyes that see their children grow, loving, nurturing, guiding. Those sleepless orbs, protecting their kin until their watch is done, passed down, to tick again.

My Grandfather’s Travel Chess Set The tiny holey board with pieces dressed in idle chipping war paint. Limping peg-‐legged Knights, three atheist Bishops and one Unitarian, a pair of rubble-‐turned Rooks, the King and Queen won’t share the board, as all pawns unionize. Why would I ever want another set?

Home I wake and see the big chair where you’d prop your feet and watch the sun rise, and I swear I smell the perfume you’d worn, wafted by the open window’s breeze, and when I look through the window I see the garden you bloomed with asters’ love.

In Winter How sad a songbird’s nest must be — empty, as people walk ignoring nakedtrees. Still and songless, it mourns its departed brood like a lonely coffin.

Tomorrow much like the last plucked red feather of nearly naked autumn anticipation of all ends kills us all

Canon By The Stoplight Dressèd birds roost on baldingtrees naked til rehearsal’s end here to make song once more with twilight’s Fire in the Trees and lucky I stay to admire this red-‐ light canon End its Start until mother moon says goodnight — now listen how the birds sing still

The Notebook I Found at the Sale Notes written on the first day of class in trochaic tetrameter page after page: Am i Am i Am i Am i? (change major from philosophy to mea culpa) Notes written on the last day of class In Iambic pentameter Line by line: i Am i Am i Am i Am i Am Sorry! “Excellent work!” — the Prof.

Genocide The tall blade in the yard like a great sequoia reaching for the Sun emerging from his manicured clan and left like the last-‐picked kid in dodgeball (who didn’t want to play) and wished it was him cut down and not his family.

In the Clown Car For eddieandbill & bettyandisbel In the Clown Car we just splash the puddles (which are mostly wonderful) til someone splashes thewrongway I just want everyone to know my horse never came running with cupholders or anyseatbelts and I hope that’s OK, we won’t need them (yet) and these roadsigns are just puddle-‐friendly anyway — as we go toandfro through the mudded Spring hop-‐scotching the marbles and repuddling the lush dot we call home

Rock (a bye) The rock — my father asked if I would help the fellow home? put him in my pock-‐ et and took him to our door. Morning after morning, stroll-‐ ing we would go. Leading as if he knew the town. As kick by kick I grew — he shrank ’til he was no more. Now lost without my guide, my friend, as he joins the dust below, I mourn my Virgil’s passing.