My Brother, The Artist, At Seven

is the title of the poem, by Richard Levine, which I have chosen. Of all the poems I looked through for Poetry Out Loud, many were interesting and well written, and many more were not. However, none of them quite connected the way this poem did. So as to not confuse the reader, here's the poem in its entirety:

As a boy he played alone in the fields   

behind our block, six frame houses   

holding six immigrant families,   

the parents speaking only gibberish   

to their neighbors. Without the kids   

they couldn't say "Good morning" and be   

understood. Little wonder   

he learned early to speak to himself,   

to tell no one what truly mattered.   

How much can matter to a kid   

of seven? Everything. The whole world   

can be his. Just after dawn he sneaks   

out to hide in the wild, bleached grasses   

of August and pretends he's grown up,   

someone complete in himself without   

the need for anyone, a warrior   

from the ancient places our fathers   

fled years before, those magic places:   

Kiev, Odessa, the Crimea,   

Port Said, Alexandria, Lisbon,   

the Canaries, Caracas, Galveston.   

In the damp grass he recites the names   

over and over in a hushed voice   

while the sun climbs into the locust tree   

to waken the houses. The husbands leave   

for work, the women return to bed, the kids   

bend to porridge and milk. He advances   

slowly, eyes fixed, an animal or a god,   

while beneath him the earth holds its breath.

 

     It's a bit lengthy, which is why I initially wasn't sure whether I wanted to read it, but it strikes a deep chord 

with me. Where I originally lived, we had a large (or so it seemed when I was five or six, anyway) backyard 

built on a gently sloping hill, with a small lawn and a gazebo at the bottom. This backyard was the subject of 

the many adventures my brother and I conducted exploring this strange, alien landscape. We had named almost 

every conceivable part of the landscape: the small downhill between the trees was a waterfall, the gazebo had a 

giant oracular snake inside, the small stone chair was a portal to another world, the sandy, secluded, part of the 

hill was a cliff prone to rockslides, the climbing tree granted powers to us small children, and the front yard was 

in reality a massive maze filled with strange creatures. We would craft elaborate morality plays in this landscape, 

mostly concerning random elements of whatever we had read or seen recently. And so the boy in the poem who 

the author describes with such fondness could really be myself, looking back on my childhood in the backyard.

     Another element of the poem which I felt fondness for were the lines about the immigrant families and their

neighbors. Like the poem's author, my parents immigrated, in his case from Russia, in mine from Iran, but I have

had the experience of having to translate what my parents heard into names that others understand enough times 

that it has become almost whimsical for me. These shared experiences form the reason why I have chosen "My 

Brother, the Artist, at Seven" for Poetry Out Loud.

Poetry Out Loud

Medusa, by Louise Bogan
Anne Rutledge, by Edgar Lee Masters
It was not Death, for I stood up, by Emily Dickinson
In Praise of Pain, by Heath McHugh
Famous, by Naomi Shihab Nye
Fairy-tale Logic, by A.E. Stallings
My Brother, the Artist, at Seven, by Philip Levine

Out of these poems, I liked "Fairy-tale logic," "It was not Death, for I stood up," "in Praise of Pain,"  "Famous," and "My Brother, the Artist, at Seven." I liked these as they communicated a unique emotional meaning that I could relate to myself.


I did not like "Medusa," or "London" as they seemed overly archaic, or "Anne Rutledge," as I thought it tried to be too patriotic.

Out of these, I would probably choose My Brother, the Aritst, at Seven, as it was most interesting to me and was long enough that I would consider reciting it. Personally, this poem reminded my of time in my backyard, exploring imaginary worlds. The imagery of immigrants speaking gibberish without their children to translate also rings especially in my memory.

Looking at the audience and avoiding over-acting will probably be fairly easy for me, as my eyes tend to wander naturally when I am speaking, and because hand motions are not something I use subconsciously.

Proceeding at a natural and fitting pace may be difficult for me, as I tend to speak quickly. Also, relaxing and enjoying the poem may also be hard, because I become nervous fairly easily.

I watched Danse Russe, recited by William Farley, and was impressed by his facial expression, as it matched the tone of the poem extremely well, as well as his occasional but fleeting use of gesture, which provided accentuation without overdramatising the poem.
I also watched I Am Waiting, recited by Madison Niermeyer. The recitation was successful in large part because the reciter's tone maintained a balance between ironic and expressive.


     I think I will choose to recite My brother, the artist, at seven, and am also looking forward to the competition and hearing the poems everyone has chosen. I chose my poem because of its meaning to myself, length, and vivid imagery. As for the website where I found it, I found it well-designed and easy to navigate, thankfully. A descriptor of the poems by category or subject matter may have helped with finding a poem, however.


 - Sherwin