(Sort of) 1960’s “Block” Poem
"Block" (Poem by Karin Gustafson, Image by Diana Barco, from GOING ON SOMEWHERE.)
I have been thinking about the 1960’s, perhaps because of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday yesterday, so here’s a (sort of) 60’s poem (though not about MLK Jr.) The poem is also published in my book of poetry, Going on Somewhere.(Check it out!) I am posting it here for the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub open link night.
Block
Right-angled in the newer areas,
our curb was smooth, sloping into
a chenille of pebbled tar
that bubbled below our skate wheels,
grinding up to spine,
a gravelly shiatsu.
Bare knees as gravelly, the memory of
scrapes embedded in skin, we sat with them up
till the white truck jingling
fairy dust turned in, spreading both
joy and panic, then ran for
quarters.
I had a working mom and so
had funds enough for a drumstick, real
ice cream, but
hid the extra change deep in a pocket
where only straight fingers could
touch bottom, joining
Patty and Susie and Celeste, the
Catholic kids, with houses of siblings,
chores, and, hovering in their stories, nuns
(rulers at the ready)—
Patty the pretty, Susie the plain,
Celeste Celeste
Celeste, who, arms outstretched, could walk across
practically anything,
Celeste with the six brothers
who constantly rat-tat-tat-
played war—panting for the
popsicle of the day. Sometimes it would
be root beer, that sweet-strange amber we hardly
dared lick; pink lemonade a purer thrill
in our specific honor.
The new houses started at the next
corner but no one sat in front of their
flatter spindly-treed lawns.
Did those houses even
have kids?
Later our side changed too.
Patty only came out to dry
her nails; Susie didn’t feel
like playing; and Celeste, Celeste,
Celeste’s father came back from
Vietnam, a different man.
Her brothers who’d crawled under bush,
up tree, their finger guns poised,
were not to be seen.
It was dark behind
their screens, words heard only as
vibration, things shaken.
The street still,
except on the rare
blue evening as fall fell,
when a boy we’d fought in
war, lorded over on skates,
stepped out from the curb, tossing
a football hand to hand. Slowly we’d
all appear, copping moves scribbled
on his cupped palm. Our feet
slapped hard against the
pavement, voices loud that, yes, we had
touched with two hands.
We played until car lights glared and our
bodies smelled of cold blown leaves.
But that would be it.
We would not come out again
for some time.
(If you’re interested in a more comic take on teenagerdom, please please please check out my comic novel NOSE DIVE! It’s a lot of fun and very very cheap both in paperback and kindle.)
Explore posts in the same categories: poetry, UncategorizedTags: "Block", Diana Barco, Going On Somewhere, Karin Gustafson poetry, manicddaily
You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.
ManicDDaily 
January 17, 2012 at 11:00 am
very nice…really fine story telling…i remember days of playing war…but also of men coming back that were different and that part gave me shivers of memory…you put me right there in the neighborhood…
January 17, 2012 at 1:43 pm
This time and this place. You nailed it.
January 17, 2012 at 2:12 pm
wow this is great… brought back some memories to me as well..esp. loved the playing until car lights glared and bodies smelled of cold blown leaves..
January 17, 2012 at 3:15 pm
A lovely poem, Karin– displays your narrative abilities as well as your divine language sense– many, many memorable lines– I especially loved the telling and the cadence of:
The street still,
except on the rare
blue evening as fall fell,
when a boy we’d fought in
war, lorded over on skates,
stepped out from the curb, tossing
a football hand to hand.
i’m over at my blogger blog, not word press…. have missed a few of yours lately but so much to do, so little time! xxxj
January 17, 2012 at 3:33 pm
Brought back the memories–I never had better hearing than when I was waiting for that white truck–I could hear it blocks away. This is really well put together, not just a nostalgia fest, but a look at childhood and it’s odd isolation from the adult world through a mirror of distance and the spectacles of maturity.
January 17, 2012 at 3:34 pm
I really enjoyed this. It brought back memories of my childhood before we moved. Then it became more like the new block you described (nobody playing outside)… I had to laugh at the Catholic kids with siblings…
January 17, 2012 at 5:02 pm
Really enjoyed this.
The language is perfect, and in parts you reminded me of Richard Brautigan (always good). And structurally, it reminded me of Ferlinghetti (always good). This just works. Like others have said, a time and place caught perfectly.
Great work here.
January 17, 2012 at 5:07 pm
Thanks so much.
January 17, 2012 at 5:36 pm
great narrative.
January 17, 2012 at 7:37 pm
A nice story…it made me remember some days of my childhood with my brothers running around like crazy ~
January 17, 2012 at 8:13 pm
Lovely story telling!
January 17, 2012 at 8:16 pm
Great story telling, took me back to the fun filled days of childhood wonder, you really captured the moment well.
January 17, 2012 at 8:51 pm
Enjoyed the poem throughout. A fine story with great visuals.
January 18, 2012 at 1:48 am
lovely story! great read from start to end. 🙂
January 18, 2012 at 8:30 am
What a great recollection…the first stanza is exactly what I remember, even to the tar bubbles…You’ve created a real world here, even as the block evolved into the complex associations that reflect some of the dark facets of the ’60s. Excellent piece.
January 18, 2012 at 9:46 am
The sights, the sounds, the smells….cold blown leaves sealed this one for me…fantastic capture of a certain place in a certain time, frozen now in these wonderful words.
January 18, 2012 at 9:54 am
Thanks so much, Tash. K.
January 20, 2012 at 12:54 pm
a wonderful capture of the time, well penned! ~ Rose
July 8, 2013 at 2:19 am
This is incredibly dense with detail and takes me back to my own youth. The pebbled tar and the neighbor girls. How could we know then, our surrounds would shape our lives like they did/do. Popsicle is thoroughly americana-summertime. This has to be one of my favorite poems of yours. Thanks for linking it to me.