The House of Violence

By Finley MacDonald

This poetic narrative was conceived in an unbearably hot apartment where I lived on noodles bought with my saved-up wad. I'd escape in daytime to the hospital canteen, from which I could write & gaze over the university, surrounding cottonwoods & roofs, & the low hills beyond the river. Six years later, when I finished, I thought I might die, as I had finished what I was on earth to do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Finley MacDonald
• Release date: Jan 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458146472

Finley MacDonald

Finley J. MacDonald, in this all-to-human manifestation of his oversoul, was born in the northern reaches of Turtle Island, and among its spirits cried for visions and succour. At a tender age, he was accepted as apprentice by the Butcher Poets , to whom he owes a great debt, deaf as they remain to his appeals. He believes design follows intent. He is antiwar, contemptuous of the Cruise Missile Left, and in his cups, demands that everyone read Open Veins of Latin America.

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THE HOUSE OF VIOLENCE

Poetry by

Finley J. MacDonald

Angels, Delirium, Liberty

Published by Finley J. MacDonald at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Finley J. MacDonald

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The House of Violence was conceived in an unbearably hot apartment where I lived largely on tuna and noodles bought with my saved-up wad of cash. I'd escape during the day to the hospital canteen, from which I could gaze over the university, the surrounding crescent of cottonwoods and roofs, and the low hills beyond the river. I took walks across town and looked at garbage and patterns of currents. As all writers do, I adopted a collection of superstitions. Beware the superfluous definite article. Write outdoors at every opportunity. Two or three poems from among a number that were too sanctimonious survived the summer. The conception was burgeoning and transforming itself; it followed me from job to unemployment to job. I spent a summer writing in coffee places and living in a tent among the sagebrush behind my mother's travel trailer. One dreadful winter, I stayed with my sister and her two kids in an utterly decrepit trailer with gaping holes in the floor and smashed windows that we patched with plastic. When the book was finished, I thought for a while that I might die because I had said what I had come to say.

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I: THE HOUSE OF ANCESTORS

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Madonna with Leaves

Glacial Mona Lisa of Planets—

Demure, daft,

Self-inseminating Desert Heart—

Cupped, quivering on the grate,

One more broach blooms

In the current of a song of loss,

In frail violet of knowledge and relief.

A coin rings.

A night watchman jingles coins to his trousers.

Begging hands mount lakes of nailed zinc and steel.

An anemone swells, aspiring to be sea.

Repent.

Rewind sorry hours.

Reproduce

Portentious fronds:

Creaking,

Unknotting,

Cracking captives from sealed caskets.

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Diminuet

Celine,

In the humid

Sanctuary

Of gray linen—

Under the spell

Of a dimmed lamp

Fanning rare breath

To occult moths

And fat, lustrous

Mulatto hills—

Still your trembling.

The voice—

That pulls you deep

Into lush woods,

Where swollen nodes,

Shamelessly bare,

Host shadelapping,

Sandpapered tongues

That never beg

For salvation—

Is the Keeper

Of Urchins’ voice

Calling,

Shy patron saint

Of prostitutes—

Rise and disrobe!

Drape in dull gowns

And garter belts

And light less cruel

The slaughterhouse,

Where wanton cats

Scuffle and sob

In