This Poem was Submitted By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-07-05 16:08:53 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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Worms in the Summer Grass
It isn’t that far into June when the heat stings soft
spring away, and my family migrates to the sticky lake
to cool ourselves beneath a shaded beach-umbrella.
Rusted fishhooks and burnt grills surround the lake
like ants around a rotting tree. The sky floats across
the water, as I rub my hands on wet grass,
dripping sweat and bugs. Silence unnerves me.
He brings us here, like a family affixed, but
the worms and I know differently.
He rocks on water-logged sneakers near lake-weeds
where the mosquitoes hover and snails are born.
I concentrate on threading a dying worm and imagine it’s him.
The ground around makes a sucking sound
like a dry drain. I sip from an empty can praying
he slips into the water. He sits away from us,
over where the boy from Rochester Farm choked
and died a few years back. I never knew that boy.
At some point his presence wakes me.
He hovers over the bed; I notice my sheets peeled back
towards the wall. Encumbered by his weight, I await the end,
clench my eyes as his hand holds onto the mattress.
My line jerks and I reel in a throw-back. I wait until nightfall,
when we will travel back to the house,
and I will scrub ground worms from beneath
my fingernails—and he will come into the bathroom
to pee with me, the worm burdened around a rusted hook.
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Copyright © July 2004 G. Donald Cribbs
Additional Notes:
I wrote this poem as a sophomore in high school when I first began to write poetry. After over 15 years and literally hundreds of revisions, here is the final form of this poem. Not many of us reach the end of a poem, we just run out of time. However, this one stands alone.
Thanks for reading! Don
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2004-08-02 18:57:56
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.76471
I was starting to enjoy a very peaceful setting of fishing, etc., and then read further. I read
into this something about a perverted father bent on sexual abuse. Now if I'm wrong, please
slap my wrists.
I concentrate on threading a dying worm and imagine it’s him.
The ground around makes a sucking sound
For me, the above sentence tells me that you wish your father was that worm! And then his presence
awakens you. How horrifying. As a (former)Psychiatric Nurse I can tell you that I have counselled
many a survivor. Please tell me I"m wrong and off the mark. But that's what I read into this.
You mention "us" and the "Rochester boy." Who are they? OMG...thanks for sharing this.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-07-29 19:27:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.88462
What a powerful piece, Don. It is filled with such visuals as few can conjure up. The nights hold such pain and fear in far too many young people, nightmares mix with reality. This poem shows one such example with emotion not available to us lucky ones. The anger is so vivid, this reader could actually share in it. You have used many similes and metaphors to the maximum, as well IMO. Far be it from me to attempt to change a piece of this magnitude. The seemingly separate incidents are connected by the undercurrent flowing between the lines - about the boy you never knew who choked, making the reader connect the invisible dots as to why. Congratulations on completing this poem, and (if a personal episode) I hope for you a final closure and peace throughout the rest of your life. If not personal, it is a most gripping and dramatic tale, regardless of the subject. Thanks for sharing. wrl
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lennard J. McIntosh On Date: 2004-07-21 21:25:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.25000
Re: "Worms in the Summer Grass"
The narration and symbolism are so sobering. They leave this writer feeling privilged to have
read such profound work, but not feeling capable of an adequate comment. The poem itself says it
all.
One can only wonder at the courage required to author this, whether the writer and narrator
are the same or not. I applaude this writer!
Len McIntosh
This Poem was Critiqued By: Patricia Gibson-Williams On Date: 2004-07-20 00:07:58
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 6.00000
Hello Don,
I’ve read several of your older poems and they were all very compelling. Your book sounds like it will be worth reading. I am not as well educated as many on this site so I try to stay away from commenting on poems from an academic point. Here are my gut feelings about your poem. I see a boy who was abused and is dying inside. He sees his family from the point of view of others; but he (and the worms) know that the façade hides a rotten core. He can’t help but wish that his abuser would die, and there by free him… It’s the only escape he can imagine. He tries to pretend any way he can that it’s not happening, but it always comes back to scrubbing the filth away. This is one of the most haunting poems I have ever read. I keep seeing the worms as churning up the putrid soil and hiding something sinister. But at the same time there is hope in what they do, for they turn what is rancid into pure soil that will grow bountiful crops. It will just take a lot of time, and a few seeds. I hope the boy in your story finds those seeds. I also hope he realizes that he is not to blame, and because of that he is pure and doesn’t need to scrub. As you can see you’ve made me empathize strongly with the subject of this poem; anytime a poet does that for the reader they have done an excellent job. I see you began writing this in high school and I hope that it was not about a personal experience. I agree this poem stands alone. Thank you for sharing. ~ Patti ~
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2004-07-09 10:55:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: Unknown
Indeed Don this poem stands alone and the horror and pain associated with it is felt deep within this readers heart........no child should have to go through what I just read, over and over again. The courage your spirit speaks and the freedom it seeks is so evident.....a child is never to blame for what happens in these circumstances, never his or her fault, though that dam adult always finds the words to somehow make one think it........one can only hope and pray that this individual is no longer able to harm other children and the Lord who holds you in His loving arms, will keep you safe from further harm. Thank you for posting this most difficult piece to write and I know the sharing of it has touched all that have read it and hopefully it will help some who are or have been in the same circumstances during their life. God Bless, Claire
The structure of the poem, the words used, the entire piece is perfect as it is.........all of your reconstruction certainly has paid off.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jana Buck Hanks On Date: 2004-07-08 22:48:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Hey Don,
I have written a lot of poetry for therapy. As I read yours, I want to scream and lash out...for you. The imagery is past the point of excellence. The voice is still that of a frightened but resolved to his fate, child and the diction is perfect, from what I can tell. The use of enjambment and end stops with the lines works to make the piece jerky in movement, yet it flows....somewhat like the life of this boy. I really appreciate you sharing this wide-open piece. I am not the greatest critic where I can analyze this poem down to the inth degree, all I can say is Bravo!
Bright Blessings
Jana
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-07-07 13:23:42
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Don:
I see why this poem stands alone, and why it is one of the most important achievements of
your lifetime. In a workshop, John High asked a question -- 'What event or events in your
life are the strongest motivators for your writing?' - words to this effect, not exact. I
sense that this poem contains the key to much of your thematic material. I am writing just
now as if I am emotionally detached from the impact of this piece - but that is not the
case. I read it two days ago, when it first appeared on the list of new poems. I was so
stunned then that I felt a time of absorption and reflection would help me find the words
I need to respond. First, after your hundreds of revisions, I think it is clear that you
are finished writing this. Whether it is finished 'writing you' is another thing. I say
this with the deepest respect for your ability as a poet and for your dignity and courage
as a human being. I am incredibly moved. I suspect that a writing career is something you
won't be able to avoid, one way or another. I don't want to use any of the somewhat
hackneyed terms to describe what I recognize here - but survivorship of childhood abuse
is far less than the sum of the parts of this work. You've shown that the human spirit
is stronger than events, even ones considered to be soul-shattering.
It isn’t that far into June when the heat stings soft
spring away, and my family migrates to the sticky lake
to cool ourselves beneath a shaded beach-umbrella.
Rusted fishhooks and burnt grills surround the lake
Subtle sounds and textures suggest the speaker's experience at the very beginning
of the work. Words like "heat/stings/soft/sticky/rusted/burnt" are temperatures,
textures and sensations which envelope the reader immediately, with an almost
claustrophobic sensation. Poetics are superbly-crafted here; for example, the
assonant 'oo' sounds in "cool/fishhooks" and liquid double l's of "umbrella/grills"
as well.
like ants around a rotting tree. The sky floats across
the water, as I rub my hands on wet grass,
dripping sweat and bugs. Silence unnerves me.
He brings us here, like a family affixed, but
When things are hot, stinging, sticky and "rotting" at the core, this reader, at least,
senses a kind of dread of approach, a foreshadowing of what is to come. The speaker
rubs his hands on the wet grass, drenched in sweat and itching with niggling insects.
But it is the 'silence' which portends an approaching horror which is far more invasive
than hot weather, bugs, or even rusted fishhooks. The unnamed "He" who brings the family
to this place is clearly at the forefront of the speaker's consciousness. With "like a
family affixed" the writer telegraphs the image of miniature humans impaled on a fish
hook. The speaker and the worms "know differently." There is a resiliency about the
speaker's tone that reveals great strength and the ability to sense what is to come
and to endure. And to perform a cleansing ritual. The poem reminds readers that no
one can steal our purity from us, shatter our wholeness, because it is God-given.
For many, it takes a lifetime to re-integrate the self, to understand and believe
in one's own innocence.
the worms and I know differently.
He rocks on water-logged sneakers near lake-weeds
where the mosquitoes hover and snails are born.
I concentrate on threading a dying worm and imagine it’s him.
The ground around makes a sucking sound
The repellant nature of the descriptors above are viscerally affecting. The auditory
imagery of the squishy sounds of "water-logged sneakers" (which also suggests that the
adult had sneaky, devious qualities), the ground, which makes "a sucking sound" conveys
what feels like a strangle-hold on the consciousness of this boy. His concentration
on the dying worm, imagining that "it's him" shows the child's desire for revenge, or
at the least, for overcoming the actions of this terrifying adult, at least in fantasy.
like a dry drain. I sip from an empty can praying
he slips into the water. He sits away from us,
over where the boy from Rochester Farm choked
and died a few years back. I never knew that boy.
"I never knew that boy" is a powerful sentence within the line above. It is as if the
speaker almost envies him, perhaps wishing for a similar fate - for the ground to
open and swallow him seems less gruesome than betrayal by a family member.
At some point his presence wakes me.
He hovers over the bed; I notice my sheets peeled back
towards the wall. Encumbered by his weight, I await the end,
clench my eyes as his hand holds onto the mattress.
These lines break my heart. I recognize exactly what is being described here,
with a clarity that is unmistakable. I struggle with rage, choking up with
'if only' -- 'If only' someone knew and could stop what was happening. If
only this carefully orchestrated scene hadn't happened. Or the ones before
or following it.
My line jerks and I reel in a throw-back. I wait until nightfall,
when we will travel back to the house,
and I will scrub ground worms from beneath
my fingernails—and he will come into the bathroom
to pee with me, the worm burdened around a rusted hook.
It felt as if the boy waited lifetimes between each breath - for time to pass,
for what he sensed was coming to be over, for escape. He wasn't allowed to
sleep or even pee with the respect and protection that every child needs
and fully deserves. No privacy for thoughts, dreams or hopes. I don't know
if the image of "the worm burdened around a rusted hook" is a fantasy
of the boy's -- that the offending organ be thus impaled, or whether it
represents his sense of being 'burdened' by the presence of this man
and his actions, or that being so engulfed by him was like being a
worm on a hook. I don't need to know, really. What I feel is so strong
right now that I only need to know that the man who was once this boy
will keep writing. I am moved beyond description. And I will never
forget this boy, nor this poem.
BRAVO!
All my best, always
Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-07-06 20:55:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
More worms. You and Mark S are making me have worm dreams of mortality and evil and the limitations of this world.
- like good old e.e did:
Nobody Loses All the Time
by e.e. Cummings (1884-1962)
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol's farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who'd given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down and uncle Sol went down
and started
a worm farm.
Worms in the Summer Grass [alas]
It isn’t that far into June when the heat stings soft
spring away, [OHHH, AHHH wonderful soft sibilant syllables] and [we all migrate] to the sticky lake
to cool ourselves beneath a shaded beach-umbrella.
Rusted fishhooks and burnt grills surround the lake [try to find another word instead of using lake twice?}
like ants around a rotting tree.[GREAT analogy] The sky floats across
the water,[It DOES I remember that from Lake Winnipeg]w as I rub my hands on wet grass,
dripping sweat and bugs. Silence unnerves me.
He brings us here, like a family affixed, but
the worms and I know differently.
Yes….wonderful
He rocks on water-logged sneakers near lake-weeds
where the mosquitoes hover and snails are born.
I concentrate on threading a dying worm and imagine [probably should be“it’s he” –but
perhaps because this is in the child's voice it is thus not formal? But lal lthe other language in the peom is formal..so I dunno..] .
The ground around makes a sucking sound
like a dry drain. [wow] I sip from an empty can praying
he slips into the water. He sits away from us,
over where the boy from Rochester Farm choked
and died a few years back. I never knew that boy.
[Incredible aside! Every word in this poem point to something else - the texture is
rich and brilliant -and evocative - and chilling.
At some point his presence wakes me.
He hovers over the bed; I notice my sheets peeled back
towards the wall. Encumbered by his weight, I await the end,
clench my eyes as his hand holds onto the mattress.
My line jerks and I reel in a throw-back. I wait until nightfall,
Powerful and dreadful and amazing here. I am in awe of this kind of writing
when we will travel back to the house,
and I will scrub ground worms from beneath
my fingernails—and he will come into the bathroom
to pee with me, the worm burdened around a rusted hook.
Thank you for offering this poem to us, Don. I will not forget it. Ever
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