From the Banks of Brook Avenue Annotated Edition

annotated edition

complete text of from the banks of brook avenue

with author’s commentary about the origin

and development of the poems

w r rodriguez

zeugpress/smashwords

copyright information

table of contents

Copyright and Acknowledgments

From the Banks of Brook Avenue is dedicated to Mike Peterson, in gratitude for his technical advice and support of my publication projects over the decades.

Acknowledgments:

Poems from this book previously appeared in the following magazines and anthologies: And Justice For All; The Bronx County Historical Society Journal; Connections: New York City Bridges in Poetry; Dusty Dog; The Glacier Stopped Here: an anthology of poems by Dane County writers; Live Lines: Is There a Place for Poetry in Your World; North Coast Review; POETS on the line; The Prose Poem: An International Journal; The Spirit That Moves Us; Tokens: Contemporary Poetry of the Subway; Welcome to Your Life: Writings for the Heart of Young America; You Are Here: New York City Streets in Poetry; and Z Miscellaneous. The short poem, genghis khan, by w r rodriguez, previously appeared in Wormwood Review. It serves as the basis for yankee kitchen.

Cover Photo: Glass Clouds by Rob Rodriguez

from the banks of brook avenue © 2015 w r rodriguez

from the banks of brook avenue annotated edition © 2017 w r rodriguez

All rights reserved

2021 Revised Edition

ISBN: 9781005697303

Zeugpress: Smashwords Edition

table of contents

Table of Contents

Title page

Copyright Page

Preface

Introduction

I

forbidden places

a moon full and cold

just another new york city subway near death experience

yankee kitchen

the beach beneath the bridge

after seeing night of the living dead

on the coping

liberation: the brook avenue parking meter quartet

justice

she is leaving but

what could have more impact than a bus

plaza of the undented turtle

avenue b, 14th street, looking south

the push and break and chase of it

II

the third avenue el

standing upon the fordham road bridge

halloween

ne cede malis: poem for the seal of the borough of the bronx

washington comes to visit

grandfather: a photograph

bootblacks on the loose

al

p.s. 43

cypress avenue

skully

the tire man

a small but perfect world

the fountain of youth

III

welcome to the mainland

america’s favorite pastime

yankee fan

the gambling leaguers

lost again on old subways

randall’s island

triborough bridge: suspension

triborough bridge: stasis

triborough bridge: genesis

triborough bridge: kinesis

astoria park

the banks of brook avenue

Bibliography: Previous Publications

Appendix

Appendix Section I

Appendix: forbidden places

Appendix: a moon full and cold

Appendix: just another new york city subway near death experience

Appendix: yankee kitchen

Appendix: the beach beneath the bridge

Appendix: after seeing night of the living dead

Appendix: on the coping

Appendix: liberation

Appendix: justice

Appendix: she is leaving but

Appendix: what could have more impact than a bus

Appendix: plaza of the undented turtle

Appendix: avenue b, 14th street, looking south

Appendix: the push and break and chase of it

Appendix Section II

Appendix: the third avenue el

Appendix: standing upon the fordham road bridge

Appendix: halloween

Appendix: ne cede malis: poem for the seal of the borough of the bronx

Appendix: washington comes to visit

Appendix: grandfather: a photograph

Appendix: bootblacks on the loose

Appendix: al

Appendix: p.s. 43

Appendix: cypress avenue

Appendix: skully

Appendix: the tire man

Appendix: a small but perfect world

Appendix: the fountain of youth

Appendix Section II

Appendix: welcome to the mainland

Appendix: america’s favorite pastime

Appendix: yankee fan

Appendix: the gambling leaguers

Appendix: lost again on old subways

Appendix: randall’s island

Appendix: triborough bridge: suspension

Appendix: triborough bridge: stasis

Appendix: triborough bridge: genesis

Appendix: triborough bridge: kinesis

Appendix: astoria park

Appendix: the banks of brook avenue

Preface

This Annotated Edition is for those, like myself, who are interested in the creative process. How does a poem begin? What images, thoughts, or feelings are in the writer’s mind at its conception. And how does the poem evolve from idea to final form?

By revealing the people, places, events, and images from which the poems originated, I hope to give the reader insight into the creative process of transforming ideas, experiences, and imaginings into art.

This is a poet’s behind the scenes view of his work.

So I will share the reality behind the poems.

A poem, after all, becomes its own reality.

table of contents

Introduction to the Electronic Edition

The entire text of from the banks of brook avenue is included. After each poem, there is commentary on its origin. After the commentary, there is a link to the Appendix.

The Appendix offers insight on the editing process and provides rough notes and previous drafts.

Links allow movement from the poems in the opening section to the discussion in the Appendix, and back to the poem, or back to the table of contents.

Since textual discussion is relegated to the Appendix, it does not intrude on the flow of the poems and the commentary. But it is there for those who wish to view the revisions.

How is a poem conceived? How does it evolve?

That is what this book is about.

table of contents

from the banks brook avenue

annotated edition

table of contents

I

…a wholly new ordering

of ordinary

affairs.

back to main table of contents

forbidden places

in all the forbidden places

like round the corner

and too far up the block

and up and down the you’ll fall from it fire escape

and across the bad boy bad girl rooftops

of fertile pigeons and antenna thieves

through the sinister shadows of subway stations

and beware of dogs junkies

and the drunken super

basements

through the unexplored side streets of childhood

my mind wanders

that musk of the living

and dying tenement compels me

the gloom of alley and airshaft

the glow of sunlight on brick

i must navigate asphalt rivers

i must trek the broken glass

graffitied mainland to reach

the cement heart of the interior

and i will not return

i am the great explorer forever lost

in the concrete wilderness

i will discover america

flowering in the rubble

****************

Author’s Commentary: Initial Ideas and Inspiration

I do not recall that there is any one specific image that was the seed for this poem, but I do have a vivid memory of the basement of our tenement. Our kitchen, bathroom, and dining room windows overlooked the airshaft, a large open space that provided ventilation. I guess the airshaft was about fifty by one hundred feet, and the bottom, about sixty feet below the roof, never seemed to catch a sunbeam. The supers (building superintendents) had apartments in this gloomy underground world. It was a scary place to venture into: the staircase was constructed of old wooden planks on a metal frame, and one never knew what lurked down there.

Another image that comes to mind is that of an abandoned building near the garage where my father parked his car. The street was not wide, so we got a good view of the ground floor as we walked by. The building had not been boarded up; through the space where there had once been a window, I could see the darkened ruins of the front room, its charred walls, and the entry to another room behind it. A damp smell emanated into the narrow street. It seemed that the building had been made uninhabitable by a fire. I would never cross the threshold and explore the shadows beyond the broken door.

And there were other places I could not go. In the good old days people might sleep on tenement rooftops on hot summer nights or keep belongings in the basement storage room. Our mothers knew that the good old days were gone. They kept a careful watch on us. Our mothers let us play in the street, but we had to play where they could see us from the front window. And we usually stayed within our boundaries.

But the forbidden beckons, and the imagination wanders.

Appendix: forbidden places

back to main table of contents

a moon full and cold

there was a moon full and cold

and i was a child in the big wide

unwanderable world

kept safe by my parents and warm

while the radiator with its ancient scales

of cracked paint hissed like a tame dragon

through the green forests

and brown fields of footworn linoleum

plastic soldiers advanced from their beachhead

to conquer the living room or to die in glorious battle

cowboys and indians skirmished at fort apache

alien spacecraft landed and robots ran amok

gallant knights with british accents

rode forth from castle walls to great adventure

fighting firebreathing worms and other strange creatures

so the countryside would be safe for travelers

and a child might sleep in bed and fear no harm

there was no gore just valor and victory and i

was general or prince or hero

anything is possible in the moonlight

this is the moon that shone over stalingrad

when death oozed through the rubble

this is the moon that glowed over the balcony

when romeo swore his love and juliet was enchanted

a leafless lifeless moon amid the tarpaper sky

which rose above the rooftops which shrouded our souls

shining white beyond empty streets and unlit windows

beyond unseen sleepers and reason and dream

a moon bright and distant

as a future as a friend as a life beyond the immediate

i pressed my nose to the windowpane and saw the moon

looming over lovers and battlefields

i wanted to sit forever in its light

to drink in the heavens to drown in wonder

ecstatic and enraptured

sated and thirsting for more

the fearless loveless bloodless moon

beyond the who and what and where of the sun’s despair

its stark chill beckoned unanswerable

****************

Author’s Commentary: Initial Ideas and Inspiration

This poem originated in a childhood memory: One cold November night I peered out the window and saw the moon, so full and white against the black sky. The streets were quiet and empty. Perhaps that was the first time I ever really saw the moon. Or felt the moon. The image was embedded in my memory.

Perhaps its bright light made the darkness darker, and my loneliness lonlier, and perhaps I wanted to linger in the shadows.

The long days of summer were over. Summer offered the opportunity to play outside with cousins and friends. Fall, however, brought school, homework, early sunsets, and long, lonely evenings spent indoors.

I was an only child, without siblings to amuse and annoy me. But I did have many toys for entertainment. The mottled green and brown linoleum of the living room made an excellent landscape for all sorts of play.

And the radiator was near the window. And beyond was my bedroom. And my toy chest. And my toys. And the bed where I thought and imagined and dreamed.

Appendix: a moon full and cold

back to main table of contents

just another new york city subway near death experience

116th street and lexington avenue

three of us in the subway car

like some underground golgotha

when mister death walks in

not looking too kindly

we are not feeling immortal today

he is six feet tall he is five feet wide

he can sit anywhere he wants

but he stands right over me

cold eyes solemn mouth

in one hand a thick belt

dangles like a scythe

(the other holds the commuter strap

for proper balance because giants

do not like to tumble before their prey)

as the train rocks along

like the history of western civilization

which is irrelevant at this moment

of imminent doom

his eyes do not blink

his mouth does not smile

(i have lost my sense of humor

and all other sensation)

that immense hand

that mysterious belt

dangling in my peripheral vision

like a glimpse of heaven beyond pain

i cannot speak

i cannot run

the enormous gray clad arm

moves and the belt

taps my knee

taps my knee three times

his eyes do not move

i do not move

nor think nor feel

i have transcended

humanity in a subway tunnel beneath spanish harlem

and he walks off

to the next passenger

and taps his knee

three times then on to the next

three times and there are only three passengers

so he lumbers into the next car

searching for knees

and i feel like sir gawain released by the green knight

introspective and glad to be alive

i am