Because I Can't Whistle

By Steve De France

Steves work has appeared in
literary publications in America,
England, Canada, France, Ireland,
Wales, Scotland, India Australia,
and New Zealand. He has been
nominated for a Pushcart Prize
in Poetry in 2002, 2003 & 2006.
Recently, his work has appeared in
The Wallace Stevens Journal, The
Mid-American Poetry Review, The
Evergreen Review Ambit, Atlantic, Orbis, Poetry Bay, The
Yellow Medicine Review & The Sun. In England he won a
Readers Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem Hawks. In
the United States he won the Josh Samuels Annual Poetry
Competition (2003) for his poem: The Man Who Loved
Mermaids. His play THE KILLER had its world premiere
at the GARAGE THEATER in Long Beach, California (Sept-
October 2006). He received the Distinguished Alumnus
Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most
recently his poem Gregors Wings was nominated for The
Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483629469

Steve De France

Steve De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist both in America and in Great Britain. His work has appeared in literary publications in America, England, Canada, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, India, Australia, and New Zealand. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in 2002, 2003 & 2006. Recently, his work has appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry Review, Ambit, Atlantic, Clean Sheets, Poetry Bay, The Yellow Medicine Review and The Sun. In England he won a Reader's Award in Orbis Magazine for his poem "Hawks". In the United States he won the Josh Samuels' Annual Poetry Competition (2003) for his poem "The Man Who Loved Mermaids". His play THE KILLER had its world premier at the GARAGE THEATER in Long Beach, California (Sept-October 2006). He has received the Distinguished Alumnus Award from Chapman University for his writing. Most recently his poem "Gregor's Wings" has been nominated for The Best of The Net by Poetic Diversity.

Book preview

Because I Can’t Whistle

Steve De France

Copyright © 2013 by Steve De France.

ISBN:

   Softcover   978-1-4836-2945-2

   Ebook        978-1-4836-2946-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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CONTENTS

HELLO, OUT THERE…

OBLOMOV

THE SIREN’S SONG

THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO BE

COUNSELOR FOR THE MOON

A LITTLE BACKGROUND MUSIC

CIRCULAR PATTERNS

CHAOS AND THE COMMON MAN

YOUR LINES ARE TOO FAT

ISLAND BOY

GREGOR’S WINGS

THE CIGARETTE

OVER THE RAINBOW

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

1946

THE GARAGE ON OWOSSO STREET

BLACKBIRDS

THE MAN IN THE MOON

FEAR AND LOATHING AT THE TYPEWRITER

THE GARDEN

FOG

DANCING

SOMETHING IS HAPPENING—ISN’T IT MR. JONES?

I AM A SEAGULL

AS IF THEY COULD DANCE FOREVER

THEY

WHAT THE PRINCE SAID…

THE READING

OTHELLO’S TRIAL

SOMEWHERE NEAR CASTLE ELSINORE TIME OUT OF JOINT

SPRING RITUALS

GARDEN PARTY

THE WATCHER

COFFEE GROUNDS

BEHIND THE LINES

A MATTER OF COMPROMISE

JUAN GUERRERO CIRCA 1874

MAN STANDING IN LOUISIANA

FLORIDA TURNPIKE

ANGELS OF THE NIGHT

YES, I SAID…

RE’DOFRAM

SUSAN & THE STUD MUFFINS

THE SHORT HAPPY LIFE OF FARMER JOHN

A PERSONAL SAVIOR

CHINAMAN’S CHANCE

THE LAST FLOWER CHILD ON EARTH

TURKEY HANGOVER AT THE CORNER CAFE

DO IT YOURSELF BUKOWSKI MULTIPLE CHOICE POEM

CAN I SPEAK TO WHOEVER IS IN CHARGE?

CHECKED YOUR WARRANTY?

MY CIRCLE OF FRIENDS

ROMANCING THE URINAL

THE BIG WIND

VICTOR HUGO DIDN’T WRITE THIS

THIS NUMBER IS DISCONNECTED

THE ANTS AND THE DREAMS

BIRD FROM HELL

RENDEZVOUS WITH A PART TIME GOD

WALTER MITTY DIDN’T WRITE THIS

THE MIND IS BURNING

VICTOR HUGO DIDN’T WRITE THIS

CITY LIGHTS BOOK STORE

SLEEPLESS IN LONG BEACH

FINE HAIRED SONS-OF-BITCHES

WALTER MITTY DIDN’T WRITE THIS

DOES IT MATTER WHERE THEY DUMP YOUR BODY?

FLORIDA DEGENERATES

TENNESSEE LULLABY

A PLASTIC FANTASTIC LOVER

MORNING PRAYER

SHOULD I SIMPLY SAY

BRICK WALL

ABSENCE OF MERMAIDS

LINE

FROM A 16 TH CENTURY LITHOGRAPH

INFINITY LINE

AND THE SOUL…

HIGH DRIFTING ALARM

THE RAIN

BECAUSE I CAN’T WHISTLE

THE SUPPRESSION OF SAVAGE CUSTOMS

SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE OF

PREFACE TO THE AVENUE OF SOULS For Shaula

The deep-throated cello notes of absolute poetic purity that come from an accomplished, experienced poet playing his instrument as only the best ones do… until your eyes fill up, and you’d swear you’ve been listening to angels sawing their wings against something fragile, and that would be your heart.

Karen Dabkowski—The Blue House

A large percentage of the poetry in the journal emanates in the U.S.A. and the best of it comes from the quill of California’s Steve De France, always an elegant writer, and often reminiscent of that great scribbler of the American yarn O. Henry.

Pat Winslow—poetry critic Current Accounts—London England

I know it sounds stupid to say such gritty images of loss and frustration and impending doom are delightful, but somehow Steve’s voice—rises just above the unfolding tragedy (as I think one of his reviewers described it) and finds this clear place of calm sensitivity—a place that is not disconnected from the sorrowing world but is maybe just far enough from its desperate heart to become a platform balanced between inferno and paradiso, a never-quite-escapable purgatorio from which the poet can weep for those in pain and at the same time feel somewhat elated by the simple beauty of being alive."

Lawrence Welch—Monterey Herald

Some of the writing is so good it just couldn’t be any better. Like the description of love in Dancing, where the mother cleans him, wiping his face into a momentary sanity of quietness, stillness like sleep, and Roy holds her hand. This is beautiful. And this same poem is utterly unsentimental in its revelation of the necessary outcome seen in the flash of this light, this insight."

Barbara Holmes—Alpha Beat Press

He is one of a handful of great names in the contemporary alternative press.

Joyce Metzger, editor & publisher

HELLO, OUT THERE…

The phone continues to ring.

I pick up the receiver.

It’s someone I don’t know

calling from a bar. It’s a wrong number.

Loud music. Bar sounds.

Listen, a drunken voice says,

"Rick done some bad shit last night.

And we had to tie him down.

Do you want to talk to him?"

Sure, I say.

He came on the line. He calls me Ernie.

Is that you uncle Ernie?

Yeah, I lie in a slack-jawed response.

"I did some bad shit, uncle Ernie,

I broke a bunch of windows out.

And I hurt some people."

Do me a favor, I say.

"O.K., uncle Ernie.

What do you want me to do?"

Who called me?

Cousin Jack.

Can you reach him?

Yeah, I could…

"I want you to reach over

and slug Jack in the face."

Really?

"Absolutely right. Harder’n

you’ve ever hit anyone

in your life."

Why?

"Don’t ask,

just do it, NOW."

O.K.

I hear a thud.

A Son of a Bitch.

And then, the sound of

things breaking.

OBLOMOV

This morning I woke thinking of Oblomov.

A 19 th century Russian Count

He refused to leave his house, refused to leave

his bed. Believed in nothing.Wanted nothing.

Got nothing.In short, a nihilist.

It was a story I had read while studying

in Paris. And as I stand at the sink shaving,

this Russian aristocrat’s image hangs in my mind.

Perhaps it was too much Sartre and Camus

But I identified with this Russian and his malaise.

I smiled into the mirror. I have a case

of rampaging Oblomovism.

I thought at the time we had things in common.

Both nauseated by each day’s banalities,

both filled with a rational dislike for existence,

both feeling a conscious self loathing.

Each dead at times.

So the image of Oblomov ruminating

about the pointlessness of his life

burns in my mind. Confined in self-exile.

Is there nothing he wants, needs?

Yes!. There is Love.

From behind imported windows built in France,

time was running out.

Dimitri, he cries, bring the carriage.

And for the love of God, hurry man."

Feverish—flushed—away he flies for love!

Unfortunately for Oblomov—the Countess

of his romantic dreams is quite fickle hearted.

And to be plain she has a carnal appetite, a real taste

for young lieutenants.

I cut my lip with the razor.

My blood soaks the Kleenex,

as I remember—it was a naked poet

who told me: "a paranoid is simply

a man with all the facts."

I linger on this thought.

Love & illusions of love did-in Oblomov.

After this final disillusionment, he returned to his

country estate. There he grew old,

quarreling obtusely with his

overly inbred servants.

And with a revolver under his pillow,

never quits his bed, as he

counted out the remainder of his days.

I leave my apartment.

Drive the Harbor Freeway,

it’s clear I can’t afford

the luxury of suffering from

Oblomovism,

truculent servants,

even romantic love.

But like Oblomov,

I grow older.

More empty.

I check my revolver,

it’s loaded

. . . the safety’s off…

THE SIREN’S SONG

In his house shaped like a boat

on a journey, he sat & drank

a fifth of whiskey & the checkerboard day

went—white to black—as he thought

on love & decency.

His village Elders demanded decency.

He knew then the fears of the outcast.

Can he