Gene McCormick |
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Poetry
Gene McCormick’s poems can generally be characterized as narrative dramatizations, written in a clear and accessible populist manner that blends storytelling with thought-provoking literary precision. “To me,” says McCormick, “a poem is the distilled essence of a thought, a moment in time, or, rarely, a philosophical inclination. The narrative in my short stories and poetry reflects people at work, people at play, and people at life. The superstructure is wrapped around daily existence and sensitivities, the opportunities and challenges we face as a matter of being. At that level, what I have to say is significant, but the primary intent of every word, paragraph and poem is to provide storytelling entertainment while, if the reader is receptive, provoking a thought or two.”
It was Henry Miller’s conviction that people read “to be amused, to pass the time, or to be instructed,” and he personally read “to be taken out of myself, to become ecstatic.” His more poetic literary cousin, Charles Bukowski, has said that “there is nothing wrong with a poetry that is entertaining and easy to understand. Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.” The issue of genius aside, there is little if any of Miller or Bukowski in McCormick’s writings, but the same principles apply.
For many years McCormick concentrated on creative non-fiction and work-for-hire and only recently has begun writing and publishing poems and short stories. “Hemingway said that in order to write about life, first you must live it, and I’ve tried. He was also always looking to achieve what he called ‘one true sentence,’ an objective I understand, and I suppose the ‘tricks’ of poetry had always put me off: the forced rhyming, metrics, other structurally imposed limitations. To me, and I know this is a gross simplification and mis-statement of the art form, a poem that rhymes and is gimmicked with unnecessary capitol letters and line count and spacing is akin to playing Scrabble, Anagrams or other word games. When I felt comfortable writing of thoughts and moments in a free form style, then poetry gained its appeal as a literary form, in part because of the heightened drama and awareness it offers the reader.”
A sampling of current writing follows.
Nights On The
Town A
little slow, they say, they say he is a
just little slow in the head, can’t
hold a simple job in retail because
he is uncomfortable asking people
for their money though he quickly learned
how to operate a cash register so how
slow could he be? He
likes to re-visit Walmart, sitting in the
leased-out deli area with the small two-top plastic
tables once a brilliant primary color but now
dulled by time, usage and
commercial cleaning solvents.
Popcorn, Icees, sub sandwiches and all flavors of soda
are on offer but he usually has the $5 meal
of the day with a Diet Coke. Holding
the straw about twelve inches above the
plastic lid on the soda he stabs it down hard,
aiming for the lid’s perforated circle (about
a third the circumference of a dime),
plunging the straw into the drink. Cool when he is
accurate, messy un-cool when his aim is off, Coke
splashing onto the dull blue table top. All the
while he is talking Walmart talk with the
girl behind the counter: weather, TV, stuff. (“This
place needs a jukebox. Did you hear one of
the Everly Brothers died? Don’t
know which one.”)
Sometimes he has a deli dinner on Saturdays while
watching young families come in for their weekend
entertainment, young parents letting their
kids go crazy in the toy department, running up and
down aisles—a family night out without the
cost of a movie or a babysitter. Later,
walking across the parking lot, he heads
downtown, about a half hour walk, and there are
always girls in tight jeans or slacks to
follow to make the journey seem quicker.
Seventy-Two
Degrees, Partly Cloudy Leaning
across the table she crooks her index finger and
softly runs it across his cheek, which feels to her a bit
more sunken than the last time they met.. She:
You’re losing weight. He: For
Christ’s sake, you’ll be knocking over the drinks, he
answers, brushing at her hand, Let me read the paper. S: Are
you trying to lose weight? H: No. S:
Well, you look thinner. H: I’m
not. Let me read. S:
What’s so interesting? H: I’m
reading about the S: What
about it? H:
Actually I’m reading the baseball scores. S: Who
won? You know I hate baseball. H: S:
Don’t jiggle your leg. The table’s shaking. H: ---- S: You
look ten pounds lighter. H: I’m
not. Yankees won. Mets lost. S: Your
collar is loose on your neck. Cocking
her head from side to side, studying him as best
she can around and over his newspaper, she
tells him he looks better with some weight off. H: Your
hair looks nice. Is that what you’re
fishing for? S: I’m
going to order. Are you ready to order? H: For
CHRISSAKE…
Where
And
Butterflies Go To Die 1. Grabs
an apple—red--from the bowl, grips
it as though it were a baseball, flips
it once, twice in the air only
half looking at it while rubbing the
back of his neck with his free hand. After
two tosses he takes a reckless bite, deep,
to the core. (It’s a
young man’s game, tossing and
chomping from a near-ripe apple…)
Discards it, forcefully throwing the
once-bitten fruit against a near-corner wall. It hits
the left corner and ricochets to the
right leaving juice splotches on the
flowered wallpaper, landing on the
hardwood floor in three pieces. Heading
outside to his pickup, he is still
chewing a mouthful of apple.
2. And the
air is black, quite black. Black
air. The
place where butterflies go to die. They
don’t die in woods or jungles; jungles
gone dead long ago. After
forty days they die in a
place with black air. Their
wings waft once then fold. That’s
it. Other People’s
Possessions 1. Sitting
on a straight-backed wooden chair moved from the kitchen table to the living
room beside an open window facing west, the sitter’s face is half-hidden by an
evening shadow rendering features vague if not unrecognizable. Hands clasp,
unclasp, clasp, feet flat to the floor. A book
lies open, facedown on the hardwood floor. Next to it, a tipped over glass. From
outside the window, a sound; it’s nothing. Nobody is looking out nor does anyone
look in. Just rain tapping the sill. In the far corner a bulging
cardboard box of unpacked books, red, blue, green, all colors. Years of dust has
collected on the top books.
In five
hours it will be Wednesday. In eleven hours, daybreak. 2. Originally priced at two dollars, designated by a yellow
peel-off sticker, lengthy negotiation wasn’t required to buy the chair for a
dollar. The early Saturday morning weather was overcast and getting cold with a
possibility of rain or snow, and the idea of having to move all the estate sale
furniture out of the front yard and back under cover was unappealing. It is not
unlikely the chair, an unremarkable yet sturdy dark brown armless piece made of
solid wood, could have been acquired for fifty cents, but a dollar seemed a fair
price. It would be put in the kitchen, in a far corner, to help fill up the
sparsely furnished room. It didn’t match the chairs around the table, but would
be a repository to hang a jacket, place a book, set a bag of groceries, and it
only cost a buck. When the woman managing the sale bent over to carry the chair
to the buyer’s pickup, he could see all the way down the inside front of her
scoop-neck sweatshirt.
Winter and snow came in a few days but the front yard was
barren. Orange Crush: May To September Summer
Romance 1. Used to be, summers past, mid-day refreshment meant leveraging a stamped-on metal cap off a slim-bodied clear-glass bottle of Orange Crush, improvising with whatever passed for an opener, and draining it in one gulp. 2. Compared to a bottle of caramel-colored Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke, non-diet, no-caffeine Orange Crush is a succulent assault just about too tasty to swallow. Complementing the flavor, the twenty fluid ounce plastic bottle is south-of-the-border festive compared with dark-cloud-grey designed containers marketed by goliath competitors. Give Crush props for its see-through plastic body, modestly if only partially concealing content with an upper body peel-off wrapper illustrated by an orange slice squirting refreshing droplets like rays from the sun. Bright orange bubbly translucent ounces show through, unlike opaque bottles of juices, for Orange Crush contains zero natural juice, its ingredients including: high fructose corn syrup, citric acid, sodium benzoate, acacia and estel gum, yellow 6, salt and additional makings sounding unpalatable yet blending into lively swallows of lip-and-tongue staining orange coloring (along with 270 calories per bottle). The ensemble is topped with a jaunty green plastic screw cap which seems easier to twist off than Pepsi or Coke. Maybe not. Tipping the bottle back—it has a concave lower body for a sure grip— to drain the last drops of orange, thirst is quenched and the hell with 270 calories.
Tuesday Is
Trash Day Because
it has a short, strong spring, every
time someone pushes through the
screen door it slams twice: bam,
then bam again, bouncing off the
door jamb emphasizing a coming
or going—one of the few things
around the house that works
well, if at all. But
her, her leaving… Saying
goodbye to her was like taking
out the trash and the hell with the
screen door banging twice. |
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