This Poem was Submitted By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2004-12-17 16:23:58 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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Christmas Traces
Expired coupons for tissues, a tomato soup
Label, the once-rutilant logo fading. Issues
Of the Tulsa Times dated 1987 stacked next
To a plastic bag of cans awaiting the cycle
Of reform. No bare space, not a spare inch.
Health department workers enter then leave
With officious head shakes, surly scowls,
And lubricious sniffs of propriety. Words
Such as hazardous, complaints, deadlines...
Flutter through clutter like a molting moa.
She must toss and rid everything by the first
Of January. An enormous task which she cannot
Complete during the time of year she loves best.
In lieu of the Nativity Scene, she must sift and
Screen every item she owns and divest herself
Of most. Her last hope is divine intervention due
To her inability of doing anything to help herself.
She moves the stable scene to the table where it
Will reign over all who enter. A ropy string
Of tinsel falls from a box and wreathes her head
In silvery coronation.
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Copyright © December 2004 Mell W. Morris
Additional Notes:
Hoarding is one symptom of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder,
less recognized than hand-washing, checking rituals, and
such. These people are unable to rid themselves of any possession,
however trivial. Recent studies point to a strep infection in
childhood as a causative factor.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-01-07 17:16:03
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.40000
Mell,
This is very good.
It is almost too close to home.
My pink leotarded male friend lived with me a few years and he was a flea marketeer extroideneire.
I had more crap than anyone could imagine. Stove/copier/3 mowers in front yard and a ceiling fan/sink...'
an organ/more lawnmowers/4 dishwashers in back yard.
commercial Popcorn popping machine/icecream machine/hot dog cart/extra refrigerator/tables-chairs/
computers/hundreds of videoes from his video store, and trillions more stuff filling the garage. In his bedroom you couldn't walk through. It took load after load to move him out.
He saved every 'important' piece of paper he touched. He messed up everything everwhere he went.
But he is a dear man.
Just writing of him makes me chuckle. Sometimes people just don't have the energy to be organized or clean.
Your poem was very in tuned with that situation.
When health is compromised thats a whole different ball game.[animals/babies etc.]
good job snookums.....
Love
Dellena
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-01-07 15:15:03
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.87500
As a Nurse in the field of psychiatry I never heard of that strep factor. Can you point me to
where you read it? I have known many hoarders and none as bad as one pt. I had that used to stack
even her sanitary pads, and amazingly enough her husband put up with it. Needless to say he had
his own problems.
One suggestion I have for you in this well thought out poem is to rid the capital letters from
the beginning of your sentences that don't need them. Just a small point that would help to make
the flow better. I also like the way you use (for me anyway), new words which make me scramble
for my dictionary, i.e.:rutilant and lubricious. Thanks for letting me critique.
This Poem was Critiqued By: James Edward Schanne On Date: 2005-01-04 11:44:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.14286
interesting read with a note that does enhance the understanding of the poem, I love the final scene of the coronation with tinsel as contrasted with the rest of the poem.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2004-12-29 17:55:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell, I found this a fascinating, sorrowful piece. I know the sweetest man whose house contains much of what you describe. In doing his lawn and cleaning his house one had to always remember what was precious to him, not to the observer.
Christmas Traces
Expired coupons for tissues, a tomato soup
Label, the once-rutilant logo fading. Issues
Of the Tulsa Times dated 1987 stacked next
To a plastic bag of cans awaiting the cycle
Of reform. No bare space, not a spare inch. – There is a wonder of all of the clutter, for as I have difficulty navigating the “mounds” he does so in a faultless, elderly manner that would amaze a gymnast. Sometimes I have watched him notice something out of place, and carefully move it to the area of his chosen rest area. Nobody else would have bothered, or known it was out of place.
Health department workers enter then leave
With officious head shakes, surly scowls,
And lubricious sniffs of propriety. Words
Such as hazardous, complaints, deadlines...
Flutter through clutter like a molting moa. – I have little regard for the government, its intervention when unneeded, and its determination that it has the “end all of end all” wisdom on matters. This stanza irritates me… but I know it well. I do know that she has just been told by “strangers” that what she has treasured all her life, is worthless. I know that involves heartache, and that that heartache must not be borne alone.
She must toss and rid everything by the first
Of January. An enormous task which she cannot
Complete during the time of year she loves best.
In lieu of the Nativity Scene, she must sift and
Screen every item she owns and divest herself – At the time of giving, she must give up. “Divest” is a great word. This is not “junk” to her, but the treasures that represent a lifetime of collecting. What value a person finds, is within the person. I find such value, priceless.
Of most. Her last hope is divine intervention due
To her inability of doing anything to help herself. – My personal acquaintance has a fine family that would do anything for him. I am often envious of such. I hope this problem finds help in the resolution. For the collector, one willing to share in the loss, would be a certain “collectible’ itself, whose meaning would transcend the loss of so much of value.
She moves the stable scene to the table where it
Will reign over all who enter. – This made me wonder, how long has she had this nativity scene, I’ll bet it is of great personal virtue.
A ropy string
Of tinsel falls from a box and wreathes her head
In silvery coronation. – Once when I was helping a homeless man, I gave him food from burger king. He had a terrific smell that spoke of nonexistent hygiene. My friend asked me, how can you stand to be with him? I didn’t answer, but asked the homeless man if he would like me to pray for him. Without batting an eye, he smiled, knelt, and waited for my prayer. Later I asked my Christian friend if “now” he understood coronation.
The tinsel, indeed, is the wreath of coronation, for a soul whose intonation is towards living.
Mell this is a touching, wonderful Christmas story, that will remain with me a long time. Were I able, the woman would not work alone.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Sherri L Smith On Date: 2004-12-23 10:31:22
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Dear Mell,
Good information on a little known subject. I knew a woman like this once and it truly is a sickness.
Happy Holidays,
Sherri Smith
This Poem was Critiqued By: Turner Lee Williams On Date: 2004-12-21 14:07:16
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell--The television show "Monk" glorifys and poke fun at the most common
aspects of this disorder. However, your post relates a vivid sober side.
While growing up in the late fifties I had a friend whose mother would
literally not throw anything away. Their house inside and out resembled
an overly crowded junkyard and smelled even worst. We had no idea there
was a name for her activity, but everyone except her knew she had a problem.
I moved away before finding out if she was ever given official ultimatums
as this protagonist.
The enjambing of lines 19, 20 and 21 ending the poem appear epiphanic: making
lines 16 and 17 all the more poignant/prophetic.
"Her last hope is divine intervention due
To her inability of doing anything to help herself."
Thanks for the mini, but sober lesson which puts a name to the face of
this specific debilitating disorder. TLW
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rick Barnes On Date: 2004-12-18 09:12:23
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Who will write the Christmas verse for those whose voices are busy inside their own heads? Who bring them forth and celebrate their humanity scattered there somewhere among all of that clutter? Mell. Mell will.
You are somethin' else, you are.
Rick
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-12-17 17:41:00
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mell:
As my first act of faith in remaining with TPL, I am critiquing your poem. How
wonderful to click on 'new poems' and find your name. Though the topic of this
piece is a bit gloomy, your artistry is, as always, highly evident. Your
compassion for the subject with the hoarding symptom is a welcome quality,
especially at this season of the year.
Expired coupons for tissues, a tomato soup
Label, the once-rutilant logo fading. Issues
Of the Tulsa Times dated 1987 stacked next
To a plastic bag of cans awaiting the cycle
Of reform. No bare space, not a spare inch.
There is comfort in the familiar -- items which to others might appear to have
no value are like old friends or family members to the subject. The meaning of
the past tied to a future which is suspended -- "tomato soup label" evokes so
many memories for this reader. The color of the label, "rutilant" suggests
tomato soup made with milk or cream -- or the facsimile of same. When there
are so many pending 'decisions' none can be made. If every spare inch is
covered, it is as if 'awaiting' is all that can be done. One can't be
wrong if one takes no further action. The top line's reference to tissues
strikes me with sadness, as the tissues are associated in my mind with
tears. Tomato soup is what I call 'sicky food' or the kind of thing I
want when ill, along with a grilled cheese sandwich. Old newspapers
are perhaps, metaphorically, news which hasn't been digested yet.
Health department workers enter then leave
With officious head shakes, surly scowls,
And lubricious sniffs of propriety. Words
Such as hazardous, complaints, deadlines...
Flutter through clutter like a molting moa.
"Flutter through clutter" is so Mell-i-fluent. This stanza reflects a state
of having been judged as deficient by the "department workers" whose "surly
scowls" and "sniffs" display disdain for someone whose illness reveals
vulnerability. Like most people, they probably want such signs of human
frailty to be less visible, like the homeless whose very sight pricks our
consciences. Often our personal vagaries are hidden from the sight of
others, but sometimes have a physical manifestation which alarms or
disturbs those with a more socially-acceptable habitus. There's
wit in your "molting moa" and also pathos. There's a certain helpless
feeling, when things have gone out of our control in life. An
extinct, flightless bird is a wonderful symbol for that state of
things. I'm not only unable to fly: I no longer exist!
She must toss and rid everything by the first
Of January. An enormous task which she cannot
Complete during the time of year she loves best.
In lieu of the Nativity Scene, she must sift and
Screen every item she owns and divest herself
There's more evidence of suffering here -- the "must" of the first line,
and the suggestion of the words "toss" (vomit?) and "rid" (excrement?)
fight with the beauty and peacefulness associated with the Christmas
season. Loss is the predominant feeling here, and pique. I feel it, too.
Your poem is very evocative -- and we are shown things as they are -- less
than ideal and very messy -- and overwhelming.
Of most. Her last hope is divine intervention due
To her inability of doing anything to help herself.
She moves the stable scene to the table where it
Will reign over all who enter. A ropy string
Of tinsel falls from a box and wreathes her head
This "ropy string" which "wreathes her head" elicits a deeply painful
image of a noose falling, and of a "wreath" as in a Christmas wreath
and a funereal wreath as well.
In silvery coronation.
One hopes that this will be a transient event -- that the tinsel merely
falls loosely about her shoulders, and that her niece or son comes and
helps her sort through her belongings and those things which need to
be released to "the cycle of reform." She is queenly and dignified in
the midst of her suffering. I don't have this variant of OCD but perhaps
another. The Nativity is a new birth, so perhaps the Christ will be born
anew in her, despite outward events and appearances. As always, Mell,
your poetry reaches my heart -- right in the middle where hope still
lives. And gratitude. Brava!
My best always,
Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2004-12-17 17:22:24
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.84615
Hi Mell,
Your descriptive words outlining the symptoms of OCD is so well written. I have
spoken to many patients with this malody and it is truly sad. I remember one young
woman who had to wear white gloves while she was in the hospital because she had washed
her hands to the point of bleeding. But when I handed her a pen to sign a form she
still had to wrap a kleenx around the pen before she could pick it up. This was an
extreme case..she told me she lost every job she had because she could not leave her
home without going back multiple times to be sure the stove was off, the alarm was off,
the coffee pot was not still plugged in...so she was always late for work if in fact
she got their at all....'officious head shakes, surly scowls, and lubricious sniffs of
propriety'...so indicitive of health department workers but I guess that is the nature of
the beast. In the third stanza you tell us what an enormous chore this poor woman has
in front of her when all she really wants to do is enjoy the season and not worry about
her surroundings. To me your last stanza us gut wrenching....you put me beside this
woman with your words, actually making me want to reach out and help her put things in
order....'tinsel falls from a box and wreathes (wonderful) her head...in silvery
coronation.' I did not know that a strep infection could possibley be responsible for
this affliction. One wonders how many people out there suffer with OCD and never let
anyone know until the symptoms become apparent and more difficult to mask. You are such
a skillful writer and I don't know what I will do if TPL folds and you will no longer help
me improve my work. By now you have probably read my e-mail and my post on the forum so
you know how upset I am. Joanne had e-mailed me thanking me for my first list of poets
I thought should win and when I e-mailed her back I asked her to go on the forum, as well,
and told her I had e-mailed you with a plea for help. I am like you..if TPL goes away I
don't know what I will do and can easily see myself not writing at all. I wish I knew
what to do to make it better.
May God Bless you.....Marilyn
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