This Poem was Submitted By: Marcia L McCaslin On Date: 2015-01-11 18:36:08 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Anger and Rage

I spent 22 years with a man whose anger raged   like a mountain storm shushed before it had spent     its message, before it had spewed its last condemnation I knew years of healing were in store and would not be   enough. Now, I think in terms of generations, fourth and     fifth, a long, long time. Then, I run across an old photograph It is of his grandfather and grandmother, revered in the family   a single second in time when anger and rage and dissatisfaction     and a partner’s look, caught, like a fly in the trap of a large spider Are there, for all eternity. I pity the images, caught with their hands   in the cookie jar. I pity their seed, spewed and passed down with the     anger and rage predominate in their pathetic lives, their valueless values The family they spawned is arrogant with the heady wine of their ancestry   clean people, cleaning house and barns everyday, schooling of little importance     just be clean. When visitors come to your house, it must be the cleanest, Yes. Any room for poetry or religion? Only if the house is cleaned first. What about the   sons?  Ah, they have turned to the only sensible alternative: alcohol. Yes, let the     women clean—that keeps us respectable. We have our alcohol, so good, so sweet. Grandma and Grandpa did not partake. No, mormons they were—-except for   Grandma’s little stash in the medicine cabinet.  Who knows how much was there.      It was medicinal, and helped the memories of rage blow away with the night wind Down to the fourth and fifth generations, I have seen the rage and the alcohol kill   I don’t know where the rage sprang from, except it was strong and it controlled lives     The alcohol? I know where it comes from and it is a friend—-easy to figure out It has saved me more than once, but the rage still manifests to me at uncomfortable   times with its devil look and its boots-on-the-ground misery, and though all of the     above folks are gone, still I wonder: who is rage and where did it come from and… Is it my fault…?

Copyright © January 2015 Marcia L McCaslin

This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2015-01-22 21:15:38
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Marcia, I don’t know much about the answers, ‘cept the last question- that answer is almost always no. The story, the amazing story- once again something you should write a short story of, and a screenplay for. I’d like to say the rage is unique. It is not. I’d like to say I know nothing of alcholhol, either it’s inducements, or its medicinal affect on the spirit, but that would be a lie. I’d like to say I find the clean, or the lack of approved education, or even the undervaluing of poetry and reading, and the arts, as something I understand (even if I did understand it from a generational response), but I won’t. Rage is a strange thing. It hides behind a smile or rides a storm cloud. What a story you have shared!

This Poem was Critiqued By: Medard Louis Lefevre Jr. On Date: 2015-01-16 01:47:39
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Very powerful (hopefully not to or for you) for me to subjectively comment, but this was superbly and passionately written, close to perfect if I was on the outside looking in (which is probably what I should be doing). Again, something that I cannot personally imagine or comprehend (but definitely know), extremely well versed (wording), perfect feeling/timing/rhythm to express the emotion(I don't know what it's called), very powerful(again) and dynamic delivery. If it is of you great to identify. If it is of you, even greater to overcome. So compelling, I really don't know what to say, except the obvious, well written, perfect post. Thanks for such a share, Mark
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joe Gustin On Date: 2015-01-12 10:23:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
I grew up with a father who had a temper, and with my older brothers some of which had a bad temper, and I for years still struggle with a bad temper. Now when that old urge rears its ugly head, I get quiet and walk away before my mouth gets me into trouble. I do this not to spare. I do this as to not let it win. Anger is learned just like tying a shoe, or riding a bike. You put it so simply yet with so much heart. While all of this poem would speaks to anyone who has gone through this type of child hood S3 is a stand out because WOW what a way of putting it across. As in any form of abuse the victim tends to fault them selves when it could not be further from the truth. I hope your poems gets a wider stage to stand upon because it has a lot to say
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