Philip Kobylarz, Vanity Thy Name Is Man, Photograph
Male of the Species, Juvenile
Big John, a hefty boy of twenty,
goes out to the garden’s apple trees
and sees the crows, big, bulky,
ugly birds, flopped grossly down
on the slenderest of branches,
which never seem to break.
The rasping voices caw their greed.
Two magpies follow, such illusionists,
that plumage, brilliant black-and-white,
before the ugly voices.
Then, from the wetter ground below,
two toads plopping, their call
a grunt, a croak. (He’s heard that sound
can be a mating call.)
Just yesterday he watched Joanne
at the tennis tournament, such grace,
that suntan, a summer day’s
slim sylph. But when they talked later,
he sank to a croaking reticence.
She smiled politely.
So today, to his Sunday task,
the painting of his parents’ porch
(while calling briefly overhead
is the lyrical late blackbird,
singing of his vaunted nest).
John’s brush begins its sweeping down
with the skill of the bulky man,
laying on gloss, light brown and white.
By the afternoon, the denizens of the Lane,
a multi-species, vari-gendered host,
might see the sheen of his brilliant colours,
stroked straight and to perfection.
______________
Robert Nisbet
Review by Jared Pearce
There have been several interesting character poems, and here’s another: the story of a big dude who’s got his wants and wishes, his obstacles, and his graces. Though I’m not a guy like Big John, I can certainly identify with his more general humanness, and, for me, that makes a poem like this interesting.
Review by Massimo Fantuzzi
The big clumsy corvids, the hefty lad, their caw, his rasping, their nest, his parents’ porch, their brilliant plumage, his brilliant sheen: what is stroked to perfection in this poem are the symmetries drawn between characters, their displays and the motives behind those displays and efforts. There is a measured sense of anticipation down the Lane we walk – all goes and falls harmoniously under Life’s umbrella, even our imperfections.