Bleux Stockings Vol. 1: Reay Kaplan Maxwell
We are delighted to reprint Reay Kaplan Maxwell's piece from our January show.
My father was a poet. He was also the least comforting person I’ve ever known. Or, rather, the person who, after any sort of dealings, sent me running for comfort in the opposite direction. Every time.
The house I grew up in was my refuge. My sanctuary. My cocoon. An authentic Old English Tudor in the heart of suburbia, yet cloistered away on a private gravel road, walking distance from one of the oldest train stations in America. My house stood on a property line between the past and the future, between child and grown. Now, years since it’s been sold, I still dream of it. It still talks to me. Still comforts. I owe it some words, too.
I am not a poet. At least, I’ve never really tried to be in any meaningful way. The following is about as free form as poetry can be, I would guess. For those who really know poetry and what constitutes a poem, forgive me. This is my poetry. This is my truth.
Love songs to my home.
DECEMBER MAIL
Dear Santa,
I am 8. I know you’re getting pretty busy.
I’m so glad we have a fireplace, or I guess you wouldn’t come.
That must be how you can get to every house.
If there’s no chimney, you don’t have to stop.
Right?
Mummy grew up in an apartment and you went there.
Huh.
Granny says she heard the reindeer pawing the roof when she was little.
That’s how I know you’re real.
HIDEY HOLE
Dogs run free, here. Kids do too.
From dawn till dusk, a bestial stew.
Dappled light on blossoms white.
Down by the creek, I wallow and wait,
For fairies and giants I create
The hill above, the legend claims
Is final rest for lost remains
The rails by the old station
Brings them from and takes them to
Where would those tracks take me?
Oh! The adventures I wrought, the stories I made!
The questions asked, the nothings of young love gasped
We laughed, we cried, we screamed
We died.
These rafters raised me.
My home cradles other children now,
My hidey hole remains mine, waiting.
FATHER
The car idles to a stop.
Goodbye, he says, until next week.
Bye, I call, with scarcely a glance behind.
Running towards my keep, around the corner
He’s too sick to drive to my door.
Gray slate beacons lead me
To refuge.
Safe again.
SILENCE
Dark December. radiator perched, I check the lone lamp
Snow blankets the lawn, the hill, Alex’s VW bus.
There! Flakes fall in the night, quiet treachery coming down.
Boots creak on new ground.
Crystalline silence deafens.
Every night breath pauses
Rhododendron bushes droop under
winter weight.
Tomorrow, the struggle continues.
For now, the quiet is enough.
THE CHOICE
Crisp apple air
Crack! Swish!
Leaf explosions
Propel my steps
Up Sylvan, down Hillside,
Along the Indian Trail
Left? Right?
One way to mystical goblin paths
One way to the store
I choose my own adventure from my stoop
Maybe, it chooses me
Glen Cross to the tracks
Gutted station windows watch with vacant eyes
Trains passing through
Merely hesitate in rush hour trades
Overgrowth and gravel undermine most machine born automation
The winged and legged are what live here
GENERATION
I walk through rooms that raised me.
Tiny teeth marks on wooden windowsills.
Are mine.
French Door glass bears transparent ghosts from ancient holiday cards.
Our family’s traditions.
Stucco walls with faint pencil lines marking my growth.
I was small here. Now, I am large.
The being inside me will never know these planks and beams.
The sinews and veins of architecture which cradled and bolstered,
Cajoled and nourished.
A kiss and wave are all I leave behind. I can never go home again.
NIGHT TERROR
Flames lick the berries from my walls
The beams in the kitchen bend.
Grab what you can, get out!
No time for goodbyes.
What will I bring?
My home! My home! You are all I have!
Let me be consumed with you, for my foundation is yours.
Your history runs deeper than mine, but mine is encased in your walls
Wafts through your rafters
Rages in your furnace, winds through your wires
Inextricably bound, we’ll extinguish together.
ORIGIN STORY
1927, the year of your birth.
Who did you hold in your infancy?
I know there were those who came before
As those who will come after
But you are mine, have always been, will always be
The heart we drew in white paint on the wall behind the garage.
Wooden floor planks remember feet, claws and wheels
The broken path, the jammed window latch
The raccoon hole in the eaves
I am marked as you are
Will you remember me as new memories are made?
FROM 5 SYLVAN
Small child, babe in arms
My walls cradle you, the branches of my trees will paint pictures for you in the sky
Small child, running now,
Tiny fingers tickle my sides
My floor planks creak and peel with your games
The back garden, behind where I sit, holds magic and wondrous creatures
Along the hill, in the dogwood limbs
Swinging in the fairy circle beneath the mighty oak
Small child, not so small
Let me be your refuge
As you navigate the perilous waters of youth
Venture forth and make your mistakes
My peeling linoleum and swelled wood will be here
Grown woman, no longer small
It’s time for you to go
I’ve raised you in my mortar
I will never tell your secrets
Another small child needs me now
My foundation will live in you
