Stephen Gyllenhaal Poetry

[Shakesthecoffecan]

While in Boston, I heard that Jake's father had a book of poetry out, and I got my copy in the mail today, I'll read on it and let you know what I think. It is called "Claptrap".

http://www.authorsbookshop.com/

[dot-matrix]

Oh yes please share your impressions.  I have heard there is a six line poem in this volume titled "Light" that was written for Jake by his father.

for anyone interested in a sneak peak of his work here is a link to three of the poems he gave permission to be put on the net.

http://www.snreview.org/0306Gyllenhaal.html

[dot-matrix]

This is one of the many poems Stephen wrote for Jake;

At 25

a man now stand you
on roots no one can claim
as good as you
(pure born god-son
look at you anywhere
across the globe).

At birth you were blue
I witnessed you suck
that first breath in and turn
as white as snow on top
of Everest. Pure. Pure.
Goodness and Mercy.

Jumble of words my only
clue to give to you
for your mountain view

to burn the libraries
and burn us too
(all that’s come
before you.)

Your (my side) grandfather’s
head handed him
on a silver Salome platter (he knew
more than he could hold on to)

and your great grandfather
stumbled and I shamble
and out of the phoenix ash
of my/your ancestral men you flew
out of the John Baptist ash
you flew beyond the pebbles
in the Jordan where we, the men
before you wash our sad, sad feet

but not for naught—the truth
when sung soothes far beyond
all gold.

I remember your grandfather
(not sober) singing, weeping
in my high gliding stone dead
gothic church—

“A voice of one, crying
in the wilderness, prepare ye
the way of the Lord.”

I remember holding you, screaming
with good rage in a Sea Ranch night.
Taking you outside under the moon
and the giant pines—screaming, screaming.
Holding you. I didn’t know what else to do.
Kicking. Screaming with good rage
till you slowly trembled yourself into rest.

Forgive us, Lord, we know
not what we do.

Good rage. Burn us to the ground.
Good rage. So little good seems
to have come of John the Baptist
and what followed. Your grandfather
loved John the Baptist. Wept and sung
his words and went too easily
into their good night
which I won’t do.

All these words and others too
are here for you, may they be true.

-Stephen Gyllenhaal

[Front-Ranger]

I would like to hear more about your reactions to this book.

[Shakesthecoffecan]

I got the impression he ws very genuine. The place that he comes from with his poems are very personal, so unless you know him personally many will not touch the depth in the reader that then come from in the writer. So lovely images, some calm and well felt sentiments.

[dot-matrix]

Three poems by Stephen Gyllenhaal that he consent to post on the internet as promotion for his book. 

Raised in rural Pennsylvania, Stephen Gyllenhaal graduated with a BA in English from Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. He is an award-winning film/television director  (Paris Trout, Waterland, Twin Peaks season two) and director-screenwriter (Homegrown), whose poetry has been published in literary quarterlies such as Prairie Schooner, Nimrod, and Apalachee Review.
 
http://www.snreview.org/0306Gyllenhaal.html

Land of the Free

Can't disney this away,
can't prozac it back
into the warm sofa
of this once obedient chest.
The grand chandelier
that's turning like a satellite
demanding utter allegiance
and the closer attention
that should have been paid
to grammar, to the names
and statistics of all
the ballplayers
has lost its grip
on the color pink
mistaking it
for the space between
the first and second
amendments.

Communion

It's not a big thing
when the BMW pulls over
silver blue and German grace
and the Guatemalan gardener adjusts his hip
along the nearby ridge
with his leaf blower and rake
half noting the pure white man inside
with his acceptable rock music
choking
weeping
hands shivering over the eyes
weeping till the cows come home
weeping for whatever nameless loss
he's found
as Guatemala
back and forth with his machine
sweeps the rattling leaves
along a green back of Nichols Canyon
like a priest with incense.

The Enron in My Face

The Enron in my face is unmistakable
for I have borrowed millions
against the accounts of my father,
secreting them in the hope chest
of my parents' wedding dreams:
a large pine box affair
with a red heart painted
on the upside-down lid.

Though we kept the creditors at bay
for generations by appearing to scrub
the dishes with soap and misery,
it fell to me to lose sight of the ball completely
and seal the bankruptcy.

I must now let the Lear jet of it fade,
head into the desert outside Houston,
find as many false gods as I can    and pray.

As with indigestion, I keep telling myself
I had only a little to do with it,
but the overeating of desserts gives me away.