Tom Driscoll Writing
I hear her stir the small jar
of paint she’s mixed and know
she’s found the quiet needed to work.
Snow hasn’t yet fallen this winter.
I pick at this.
That poem about the green tomato
was supposed to be the new start
I’d promised myself, to step away from the dark.
That poem about the green tomato
was supposed to change things,
loose my loving tongue on its voluptuous
surface—simple music—
To Hannah
after L. Cohen
It’s early in the morning, the last days
of April. I write you now that
the weather’s improving.
Spring’s seeming late this year,
the skies have been darker.
You’ll not come back here, I know.
Those songs I collected
that insulted California,
they were never intended
to change your mind.
I’m told that you wept last time you called.
Another courageous decision you made.
What can I tell you that you don’t already know?
Courage is rough on the brave.
I see you there with the flowers and light
that you’ve found, your drive across the desert
your lover beside you — what more could I wish for you?
— what more could I give?
I’m thinking of another song right now
born out of a more complicated love than mine.
It’s just that sometimes it’s easier
to misappropriate a line
even as it guesses wrong colors
how I — miss and — forgive you,
can confess of my faults,
how with that off my chest I could send this
without the slightest grain of salt.
Those songs I collected
that insulted California,
they were never intended
to change your mind.
Sincerely,
your father.
•
“To Hannah” appears in April: 30 Poems
If instead it described rain
fallen on dark soil, one pale flower
where no one would believe a seed had ever fallen
—where granite clasts —broken through
—are so slightly proud
and if this fiction weren’t actually
about forgetting or ignoring, but rather
about finding —just the one tender fact
—that stone awash in a turbulent stream
—to take it up, only to weigh it in your hand.
A Craft Essay in Abraxas Review
https://www.abraxasreview.org/features/about-rules-a-craft-essay-by-tom-driscoll
Ask again
for that morning,
the sun not risen yet,
the radio on the counter
drones and whines and squeals
seeking signal.
Look out the kitchen window,
past the sink, still with its last-night dishes,
across the misty yard
to that thin strand of woods
then the grassy playing field just beyond.
The static calms now, noise becomes music.
Ray Charles sings
of—Grace —Brotherhood
—America, America
about loving —mercy more than life.
Naked from the waist, my father,
readied for his morning shave,
leaves hot water running in the basin,
steps from the hall bathroom
to join me in the moment’s majesty,
looking out, watching that still lightless field
—everyone else in the house so safely sleeping.
As Heron appeared it was already leaving.
Maybe I am the one that scared it from its place
in among the river birch and undergrowth, the banks
this side of the river.
Maybe I can look at what I once wrote thinking you
—always thinking you— would read it.
I told a friend about this hollow feeling,
feeling like the residue left inside a lost wax mold.
Something about about fire, about wanting to be burned away.
The day your father was born, one thousand miles away,
his grandfather walked out into the woods behind his house
and cut a small dogwood branch with the perfect y-shaped fork
for a slingshot. He would use rubber laboratory tubing
for bands, an old leather scrap for the pocket.
Like with anything and everything he’s ever made
by hand, your great-grandfather took his time
on each detail—where leather fastened to the bands,
and each band to the wood. I can see him now,
when the notion first came to him, setting off
with his work gloves and a pruning shears, already
one particular branch in mind for the project.
It was Christmas when that slingshot arrived in a box
of other presents sent for the newborn’s first holiday. It wasn’t
wrapped like the other things. There was just a yellow post-it note
with your father’s name written in your great grandfather’s hand.
About
Driscoll’s lyrical ear, and dowser’s alertness to strong currents of feeling, as well as to meaning, provides deep pleasure in poem after poem. A collection well-worth owning and returning to.
–Alan Feldman, Author of The Golden Coin
In the lead poem [Tom Driscoll] writes about birches, “sentries of the forest” and “their tendency towards light” as “delicate witnesses.” Tom is a birch, and this is a brave and wonderful book.
–Polly Brown, Author of Pebble Leaf Feather Knife
These are poems that move a reader to look deeply into their own mirror of loss and regret, hard lessons learned, and moments of pleasure and triumph that in spite of everything emerge like dandelions poking through the pavement. Filled with images and insights that seem both startling and inevitable…
–Charles Coe, Author of Momento Mori
In poignant, sensitive poems Tom Driscoll recalls instances that are like “flecks of gold in riverwash sand/ to catch the light of certain moments, so precious—”
–Miriam Levine, Author of Saving Daylight
Available from Finishing Line Press and Amazon
as well as Barnes & Noble.com
That day
That day the river will be full again
—an ample cup to sip.
We’ll watch the heron make his careful way
along the banks
like he’s looking for a coin that fell from his pocket.
I will have perfected my prayers
and ask for nothing.
Tom Driscoll Writing 