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    The House of Violence
    The House of Violence
    The House of Violence
    Ebook61 pages37 minutes

    The House of Violence

    By Finley MacDonald

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    About this ebook

    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.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFinley MacDonald
    Release dateJan 11, 2011
    ISBN9781458146472
    The House of Violence
    Author

    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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      Book preview

      The House of Violence - Finley MacDonald

      THE HOUSE OF VIOLENCE

      Poetry by

      Finley J. MacDonald

      Angels, Delirium, Liberty

      Published by Finley J. MacDonald at Smashwords

      Copyright 2011 Finley J. MacDonald

      This ebook was licensed for you personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      *****

      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.

      *****

      I: THE HOUSE OF ANCESTORS

      *****

      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.

      *****

      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

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