Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 5 -- new ending)

[CalebPerry]

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 5)

A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace
producing prodigious amounts of heat,
making me hot under the covers.
Switching them in and out, it took me
an hour to be satisfied. As I settled
into the warmth, all I could think of
was the homeless woman I walked past
forty years ago at midnight in New York,
sleeping in a window of St. Peter's Church
under the Citicorp Center in twenty-
degree cold, wearing a jacket, yes,
but also a dress, her swollen legs
making friends with the fierce air
as it whipped around the glass giants.

I was coming from a show. Happy, warm
entertainers danced and sung, celebrating
the wonder of being alive, of being young,
of having a bed. It seemed that this lost soul
was staging her own show. The window of
the modern church was waist high, with a ledge
for her to climb onto, a place where every
person walking by would catch the sight.
The lesson of that evening seemed clear:
This is how high humanity can rise, and this
is how low. What it means, I don’t know,
but it keeps me lying awake at night.

============================

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 4 -- slightly more concise)

A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace
producing prodigious amounts of heat.
The covers were too hot, the covers were
too cold; switching them in and out, it took
an hour to find a balance. As I settled
into the perfect warmth, all I could think
of was the homeless woman I walked past
forty years ago at midnight in New York,
sleeping in the window of St. Peter's Church
under the Citicorp Center in twenty-
degree cold, wearing a jacket, yes,
but also a dress, her bare legs making
friends with the fierce air as it whipped
around the impossible glass giants.

Today I wonder why it is so hard
for me to sleep under covers that aren’t
just so, not too cool and not too warm,
like Goldilocks tasting the bears’ porridge,
or the princess sleeping on the pea,
never having known the indignity
of homelessness, never having missed
a meal, or lost my life to poverty,
or slept outside with bare face, bare hands
and legs exposed for everyone to see.

============================

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 3)

Last night was a delivery from Hell.
A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace producing
prodigious amounts of heat. The weather
had warmed, and the coverlets were hot,
so I slept on top of them, and froze,
then slipped under them, and broiled, until
finally I removed one to find a balance,
and so I did — but then my body cooled,
and the room cooled, so back on it went.

But as I settled into the soothing warmth,
I could only think of the homeless woman
I walked past forty years ago at midnight
in New York City, on my way to the subway
from a second-shift job. She slept
in the window of the modern church beneath
the Citicorp Center in twenty-degree cold,
wearing a jacket, yes, but also a dress,
her bare legs making friends with the fierce air
as it whipped around the glass giants.

Today I wonder why it is so hard
for me to sleep under covers that aren’t
just so, not too cool and not too warm,
like Goldilocks tasting the bears’ porridge
or the princess sleeping on the pea,
never having known the indignity
of homelessness, never having missed a meal,
never having lost my life to poverty,
or slept outside with bare face, bare hands,
and bare legs for everyone to see.

============================

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 2)

Last night was a special delivery from Hell.
A big meal before bed turned my body
into a steel-smelting blast-furnace producing

prodigious amounts of heat. The weather
had warmed, and the coverlets were hot,
so I slept on top of them, and froze,

then slipped under them, and broiled,
’til finally I removed one to find a balance,
and so I did — but then my body cooled,

and the room cooled, and I had to put it
back on the bed; but as I settled into the perfect
warmth, all I could think of was the homeless

woman I walked past forty years ago at midnight
in New York City, on the way to the subway
from a second-shift job. She slept

in the window of the modern church beneath
the Citicorp Center in twenty-degree cold,
wearing a jacket, yes, but also a dress, her bare legs

making friends with the fierce wind whipping
around the glass giants. Today I wonder
why it is so hard for me to sleep under covers

that aren’t just so, not too warm and not too cold,
like Goldilocks tasting the bears’ porridge,
or the princess sleeping on the pea, never

having known the indignity of homelessness,
never having missed a meal, never having slept
outside with a bare face and bare hands

and bare legs for everyone to see.

============================

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius

Last night was a special delivery from Hell.
I ate before bed, which turned my body into
a steel-smelting blast furnace. Two thin coverlets
were just too much, so at first I slept on top
of them and froze, and then slipped under them
and burned like a serial killer atoning for sins,
’til finally I remove one sheet to find a balance —
and so I did, until my body cooled, and the room
cooled, and I started shivering under the sheet,
teeth chattering like a broken fan. So the top
coverlet came back on, but as the warmth
enveloped me, all I could think about was
the homeless woman I walked past at age thirty,
at midnight after leaving a second-shift job
in New York City, sleeping in the window
of the modern church under the Citicorp Center
in twenty degree cold, with the wind whipping
around the giant buildings, wearing a jacket, yes,
but also a dress, her bare legs making friends
with the fierce air, and I wondered why,
never having known such hardship, I couldn’t
sleep unless the covers were just so, not too warm
or too cold, like the porridge-eating girl
in the fable, or the princess sleeping on the pea,
never having been homeless, never having missed
a meal, and never having slept outside dressed
only in my bare legs.

☙

I usually try to write more lyrically, but I felt this subject needed a blunt treatment. This actually happened (last night!).

In the time since I last wrote a poem, I've critiqued lots of poems, so I've done my part.

[jisbell00]

Hi Caleb,

I was wondering about changing from Hades to Hell! It makes sense, but OTOH I think there's an argument form aking the entire poem have feminine endings, since you have a bunch of them and they seem to be working.

I think the turn to the homeless lady works very well and gives the poem unexpected weight. Nice that you remember her today.

Cheers,
John

[CalebPerry]

Thanks, John.

I am working on making the poem more lyrical. I have already changed "Hades" to "Hell".

Does English have feminine endings? Is "Hades" feminine?

What I actually did at that time was I called the police and asked her if they shouldn't try to rescue the woman from the cold, and they told me that they didn't have the authority to force people into shelters. They said that she probably knew that she could go to a shelter but didn't want to.

Yes, I never forgot her.

I'll post a new version in a day or two.

[jisbell00]

Hi Caleb,

To me, "Last night was a special delivery from Hades" has a feminine ending. And yes, to me English has them.

I agree, a person shouldn't be forced into a shelter. But it lingers in the mind, as you note.

Cheers,
John

[CalebPerry]

Oh oh oh -- a feminine ending is one with an unstressed vowel at the end; I see. I was thinking in terms of muchacha and muchacho, etc.

[CalebPerry]

New version, more lyrical.

[CalebPerry]

Now on to version 3.

[Macavity]

Fahrenheit, Not Celsius (version 2)


But as I settled into the soothing warmth,
I could only think of the homeless woman
I walked past forty years ago at midnight
in New York City, on my way to the subway
from a second-shift job. She slept
in the window of the modern church beneath
the Citicorp Center in twenty-degree cold,
wearing a jacket, yes, but also a dress,
her bare legs making friends with the air
as it whipped around the glass wealth.

Today I wonder why it is so hard
for me to sleep under covers that aren’t
just so, not too warm and not too cold
or sleep outside with bare face, bare hands,
and bare legs for everyone to see.

============================

It is a contrast worthy of a poem Caleb. I feel a succinct, austere poem, less ornamentation and preamble, has more impact.

[CalebPerry]

I agree, Phil. I tend to say too much. I love the sound of my own voice.

On the other hand, I see myself as a narrative poet, and narratives aren't usually concise.

I'll work on it, though I won't be cutting out THAT much. The part about getting comfortable in bed could be its own poem, and I see an important contrast between that portion of the narrative and the story about the homeless woman.

Thanks for looking in.

[jisbell00]

Hi Caleb,

I agree, this could be trimmed a bit. The core of the poem is the shift from your discomfort to the memory of the homeless lady. It's good to keep her vivid.

Cheers,
John

[ton321]

Hi Caleb

As Mac suggested, you don't need the first verse. But it's a bit forced overall too. You could trim it down

here is my version



I could only think of the homeless woman
I walked past forty years ago at midnight
in New York City, on my way to the subway
from a second-shift job. She slept
in the window of the modern church beneath
the Citicorp Center in twenty-degree cold,

Today I wonder why it is so hard
for me to sleep under covers that aren’t
just so, not too warm and not too cold,


Maybe it reveals the empathy of your piece more?

Tony

[CalebPerry]

Thank you for your suggestion, Tony, but I'm not going in that direction. As I said to Phil, I am going to cut some stuff out -- most specifically, the part about the coverlet going off and then coming back on, etc. That can be condensed. But the basic structure of the poem -- the trouble sleeping contrasted with the woman sleeping outside, and then wondering about my entitled attitude, is going to stay. That's the poem I want to write, just better than I have.

[CalebPerry]

Version 4 posted, not as reduced as you all wanted, but slightly more concise.

[Macavity]

I feel the poem is where you want it to be Caleb.

[CalebPerry]

Thanks, Phil.

In my world, more is more. I know you don't see it that way. However, sometimes "more" is "too much". Finding the balance is the problem. Actually, I think I just improved it a bit.

[CalebPerry]

I have re-imagined this poem with a new ending. I hope you'll take a look.

[Macavity]

I was coming from a show. Happy, warm
entertainers danced and sang, celebrating
the wonder of being alive, of being young,
of having a bed. It seemed that this lost soul
was staging her own show. The window of
the modern church was waist high, with a ledge
for her to climb on, a place where every
person walking by had to catch the sight.
The lesson of that evening seemed clear:
This is how high humanity can rise, and this
is how low. What it means, I don’t know,
but it keeps me lying awake at night.

I prefer this because it removed the fairytale references. The make believe world of theatre is a better contrast. I miss the bare leg exposure, that indignity stayed in my head. The last four lines is your preference, which is fair enough Caleb.

[CalebPerry]

Thanks so much for looking in again, Phil, and for taking the time to read the previous version to make a good comparison.

Yes, I love the new ending. It's a keeper for me. "but it keeps me lying awake at night" -- I can't let go of that line. But I also miss the bare legs ending. I'll see if I can find a way to put it back in the poem.

Thanks again!