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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 6 of 6. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on August 17, 2004, at 14:38:15
Two Wolves, 1988
Two steel blades
Beat out
A rapid-fire
Percussion accompaniment
To a racing pair
Of adolescent heartbeats
In an ass-kicking,
Uplifting
Medley
Of death jazz
As Temple
And I
Do our damnedest
To run each other
Through
With our foils,
The high-pitched
Song of one weapon
Sliding along
The length
Of another,
The ringing impact
Of her pommel
Slamming into mine,
Creating
A lovely
And arousing
Cacophony
As we drive
One another
Up and down,
Down and up
The ridged rubber strip
Unfurled
Across the floor
Of the school cafeteria,
Its worn and faded
Black-and-white
Checkerboard linoleum
Transformed
Into an arena
Smelling sweetly
Of hormone-scented
Sweat
And filled
With our own
Special brand
Of foreplay.And I can feel
The black wolf
With the blazing red eyes
Racing over the ridges
And through the crevasses
Of my brain,
Leaving paw prints
Like hissing
White-hot
Liquified lead
Sizzling on the slick
Wet surface
Of the cerebellum,
Brands that mark
Both his passing
And his territory.
The smell of our violence
And of raw teenaged carnality,
Short on love,
Long on lust,
Enflames his nostrils
And his appetite
As he gallops
Toward my eyes
To peer out,
To take control,
To show just who's
The alpha dog.I'm convinced
That somehow
Temple can see
His scarlet gaze
Behind my own,
And that it is
The ebon wolf,
With his aura
Of unbridled,
Unpredictable,
Utterly confident
Behavior
And misbehavior
That really draws her
And Acid-Addled Walter
And Tiny Tokin' Tim
To me,
Their feral
Pied Piper.The dark wolf
Glances back
To see
A scrawny white wolf,
Half-starved, ribs visible,
With sad, hollow
Yellow-green eyes
And matted fur,
Cowering
Beneath a ridge
Of frontal lobe.
Satisfied
That its supremacy
Remains undiminished,
The beast again
Absorbs my eyes
Into its own
And watches
My bout
With Temple.My foil's
Tape-covered grip
Balances
Ever so lightly
On the fulcrum
Of my right
Index finger,
My thumb steering
And spinning
The plastic-sheathed
Tip
Of the blade
To keep it
Aimed
Straight
At Temple's body,
My other fingers
Loosely curled
Around the grip
But barely
Touching it,
Snapping shut
Only
When I try
To beat her blade
Out of alignment
With my own torso
Or need
To bolster
My hold
To parry
An offensive thrust.Temple kicks
Her right foot
Forward,
Simultaneously
Extending
Her right arm
To full length.
I swing my blade
To my left,
Curling my wrist
Slightly
But keeping the point
Aligned,
Moving into
A parry four,
Anticipating
That she's going
For my left flank.
Her blade slides harmlessly
Along mine,
Tip impaling only air
As it slips
Past my rib cage,
Missing
By a full inch.
Now she's vulnerable,
Off-balance,
So I riposte,
Hard,
My right arm
Shooting forward
Directly
At her chest,
My point
Eliciting
A muffled
Thump
As it strikes
The circular convex
Metal plate
Under the heavy fabric
Of her jacket
That protects
Her right breast.
The black wolf's
Howl of triumph
Rises and rebounds
From one side
Of my skull
To the other,
Its echoes still
Lingering as
It glares
Through my pupils."Touch against,"
Shouts our coach,
Mr. Tejera,
Raising a finger
In Temple's direction.
"Ow, my boob,"
Says Temple
In a voice
That mixes
Anger and humor.
"You did that
On purpose, you brat,"
Temple adds,
In a tone
That promises
Retaliation
And, paradoxically,
Reward.
"Legitimate target,"
I shrug,
But I know
That probably stung.
I've seen those twin
Metal and plastic discs
When she slides them
From the pockets
Inside
Her jacket,
And they're
Riddled
With dents and dings.We assume
Our starting positions
On the strip,
Then drop our blades
Into ready position.
"Fencers ready?"
Asks Mr. Tejera.
"Ready, sir,"
Temple and I
Respond in unison.
"Fence!" he says firmly.
She advances
Relentlessly,
Focusing her attack
On my right side
Because she knows
I'm a little slower
When trying to move
Into parry six,
And sometimes
She just blows
Clean through it
Anyway.
I feel her blade's tip
Nick my right ribs,
And Mr. Tejera
Shouts, "Touch against,"
Before adding, "Final point."We're tied, four to four,
And the first one
To ring up five hits
Will win the bout.
We reverse positions
On the strip,
And as I glance over
At the stacks of tables
And chairs
The team
Shoved off to the side
Of the lunchroom
To accommodate
Three strips,
I see Acid-Addled Walter
Grinning,
His mask held
Against one hip,
His left hand
Resting jauntily
On his weapon
As if it were
A steel walking stick.
He knows
That he won't be seeing
Me and Temple
For the rest
Of the night.
The whole team,
Except the
Perpetually clueless
Mr. Tejera,
Understands
Where things are heading
When Temple and I
Go at it
Like this.As we each assume
Ready position,
My mind drifts,
Just for a moment,
To a Cherokee story
I read
In middle school.
An elderly chief
Is teaching
His children about life.
He says to them,
"A fight
Is going on
Inside me.
It is a terrible fight
And it is between
Two wolves."He continues,
"One wolf
Represents
Fear,
Anger,
Envy,
Sorrow,
Regret,
Greed,
Arrogance,
Self-pity,
Guilt,
Resentment,
Inferiority,
Lies,
False pride,
Superiority,
And
Ego."
The aged Cherokee
Pauses
For emphasis.
"The other wolf
Stands for
Joy,
Peace,
Love,
Hope,
Sharing,
Serenity,
Humility,
Kindness,
Benevolence,
Friendship,
Empathy,
Generosity,
Truth,
Compassion,
And
Faith."The chief raises
His forefinger,
Placing it
Over the heart
Of one
Of the children.
"This same fight
Is going on
Inside you
And every
Other person
As well."
The children think
For a minute,
Then one asks,
"Which one
Will win,
Grandfather?"
The old Cherokee
Simply replies,
"The one
You feed."I tumble back
Into the moment
As I hear
The command "Fence!"
Temple lunges for
My right side again,
But I realize,
Too late,
It's a feint,
And she plunks me
Squarely on the breastbone,
My hand still locked
Into a useless parry six.
We doff
Our wire-mesh masks
And shake left hands
Before tucking
Our blades
Under our arms
And tugging
And peeling
The sweat-stained
Leather gauntlets
Off our right palms
And fingers."Good match," I say,
As she lets down
Her hair.
"I've had worse,"
She answers, smiling.
Acid-Addled Walter
Rolls his eyes,
Flashes a peace sign
And heads
Out the door
To the locker room.
The rest of us
Move
The cafeteria tables
And chairs
Away from the walls
And back
Into a pattern
That vaguely
Resembles
Order.And a few hours later,
As Temple and I
Lay curled naked
Under a blanket
On the dried and cracked
Plastic
Of the back seat
Of her mastodon-sized
Harvest-gold
'72 Chevy,
She looks
Into my eyes,
And I know
She doesn't see a trace
Of pale blue there,
Only the luminescent
Molten-lava glow
Of red.
-- Atticus
Posted by malthus on August 18, 2004, at 0:33:51
In reply to poem ... Two Wolves, 1988, posted by Atticus on August 17, 2004, at 14:38:15
The wolf imagery is amazing. I read a book once called "Women who run with the wolves" Have you read it? If you haven't it's about this old woman called "La que sabe" (the one who knows) and she collects bones in the desert of wolves and takes them back to her cave. Then she breathes on them and they run away into the night, no longer wolves but women with magic powers. It's a pretty good read, all about relationships. The fencing theme reminds me of play-acting death for some reason. Don't know if that was your intention. Really great poem (like all your others)
:-)Malthus
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 18, 2004, at 7:08:59
In reply to poem ... Two Wolves, 1988, posted by Atticus on August 17, 2004, at 14:38:15
A story within a story, within...
I like the element of youth, vitality, competition on two levels, sex/death.
fencing is such an exciting sport, full of art, raw movement and precision.
I have always been fond of it. You have to have quite a set of thighs.
Balance....
the animal, the gentleman, the spirit, the struggle. All of it in balance."And I can feel
The black wolf
With the blazing red eyes
Racing over the ridges
And through the crevasses
Of my brain,"**very vivid and visceral, as the reader I am excited by this hungry red eyed wolf yet for this same animal I hold within me a primordial fear as well.
It's purely animal/mental struggle but then you add the universal element of the Chief and his story...
we are all engaged in this dance/struggle.Wonderful images, energies, struggles and an uplifting element.
I would need to go back and reread all your poems before my next statement but I will take a stab at this anyway.....to me, it appears your writing is getting even better.
I would have liked to have responded sooner to your poem but I had my own battle going on yesterday. It's over and I have momentarily won this round. I got some sleep last night.
Jai Narayan the pale blue queen of the perpetual night
Posted by Atticus on August 18, 2004, at 7:57:30
In reply to Re: poem ... Two Wolves, 1988, posted by malthus on August 18, 2004, at 0:33:51
The "play-acting death" idea wasn't intentional -- at least not consciously -- but it's a really interesting insight. That psychological aspect of being on the fencing team in high school never occurred to me until you just brought it up. I've always wondered, in retrospect, why an avowed pacifist and conscientious objector would choose fencing, of all things, as his sport. It definitely appealed to some darker side of my nature. Thanks for the compliment about the poem and the food for thought. Atticus
Posted by Atticus on August 18, 2004, at 8:54:27
In reply to Re: poem ... Two Wolves, 1988, posted by Jai Narayan on August 18, 2004, at 7:08:59
Hi Jai,
I hope you're feeling better. If at any point you ever want to talk about what was going on in your life yesterday, meet me on the Psycho-Social-Babble page. :)
I've always found the "black wolf" to be a simultaneously seductive and destructive aspect of my personality. Before I really understood that I had a mental illness, this vulpine image is how I visualized the impulses that made me step over societal bounds so often. I never shared it with anyone, but needless to say, when a teacher had us read the Cherokee story in an eighth-grade English class, it really resonated with me. (My favorite childhood Universal film monster had always been, ironically, the Wolfman.)
I think that, to carry this metaphor a little further (and maybe beat it to death in the process, I don't know), being with Temple fed the black wolf in me more than the white wolf. Conversely, being with Pez helped me feed the white wolf. Being with Alyssa fed the white wolf at first, but then, for biochemical reasons I don't understand, the black wolf began fighting to regain control. This is one aspect of the Cherokee story I find wanting when it's used as a metaphor for mental illness; neither wolf ever wins, not forever. It's more accurate to say that one wolf gains the upper hand for a time. Right now, the white wolf, green eyes glowing like emeralds in the midday sun, is definitely alpha dog in my brain, and it's a good feeling after so long. Yet the black wolf is still there, waiting in the wings, and as this poem indicates, I do associate it with the exciting, high-velocity, no-holds-barred nature of my punker adolescence. I also feel that I couldn't write poems without its input. Creating truthful art involves embracing the dark sometimes.
I'm not sure if my writing is improving or not. I'm just too close to the process. But I have found in the past that the more frequently I write, the better my ability to do it gets; as with anything, practice helps.
I ended up with two varsity letters in fencing. Temple and I also fenced sabre as a second weapon, and those bouts are really ferocious. Much less of the attack-and-defend strategizing that I associate with foil; mainly what you get is simultaneous attacks, and since sabre is a "cutting" weapon rather than a "stabbing" weapon like foil, the whole thing has more of a swashbuckling feel to it. Your ribs end up covered with red welts that turn into these huge garish purple-yellow bruises, despite two layers of heavy protective equipment. But the action is too fast to translate well into a poetic description, at least for me. Oops. Looks like I've written a bit of a novel again. Take care. Ta. Atticus of Atlantis, rogue and blade-for-hire
Posted by malthus on August 18, 2004, at 12:13:19
In reply to Re: poem ... Two Wolves, 1988 » Jai Narayan, posted by Atticus on August 18, 2004, at 8:54:27
Check out Google's cartoon on the main page today!
This is the end of the thread.
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