How to use this Page

"Crooker has an extraordinary ear for the sounds of words. The reader's ear leaps up in delight at the alliteration, assonance, consonance and near rhymes . . . " ~ Diane Lockward


"Twilight on the Seine" by WPK1054/flickr

Have you ever tried to catch time in a bottle? 

With "Nocturne in Blue," Barbara Crooker beautifully captures twilight in one of my favorite cities in the world.
 
This poem was inspired by a request from the sitter who was hired to stay with Barbara's autistic son while she was away in Paris with her husband. As she considers the request, she ruminates on past and present, as well as the light and dark moments this fading time of day brings to mind.

I love how Barbara has distilled an elusive feeling, at once personal and universal, in the small yet expansive space of a single poem. With her vivid images, captivating diction and carefully measured cadence, she's succeeded in making time stand still.


"A City Wakes at Night" by moonlight on celluloid/flickr.

NOCTURNE IN BLUE
by Barbara Crooker

She asked me to bring her back a stone
from Paris, where even the dirt is historic,
but I wanted, instead, to find her the color
of l'heure bleu, the shimmer of twilight

with the street lamps coming on, the way they keep
the dark back for just a little while, the reflections
of headlamps and taillights, red and gold, on the Champs
d'Élysees wet with rain and a fog rising.

And there's the way the past becomes a stone,
how you carry it with you, lodged in your pocket.
The blue light deepens, evening's melancholy shawl,
the wide boulevard of the Seine, the way the stones

of the monuments become watery, ripple in the currents
and the wind. Everything seems eternal here,
to us from the West, who have no memory of dates
like 52 BC, 1066, the fin de siècle

as we barge on past the millennium,
history's crazy swirl, oil on pavement,
a promenade down les Grands Boulevards.
This is what I'd bring back: shadows of stones,

twilight longings, a handful of crushed lilacs
from the bar at the Closerie, some lavender de Provence,
Odilon Redon's chalky mauves, a jazz piano playing the blues,
Mood Indigo; just a condensation of blue,
distilled in a small glass bottle with a stopper,
as if it came from an expensive parfumerie,
musk of the centuries, the gathering dusk,
a hedge against night, the world that will end.

~ from Radiance, Winner of the Word Press First Book Prize (Word Press, 2005).


Ariya Hidayat/flickr

In

             
          kocojim/flickr

I've loved the idea of drive-in restaurants with car hops ever since childhood.

The ones we had in Hawai'i weren't very close to home, so the few times I actually got to sit in a car and watch the car hop attach the silver tray with our burgers and fries to the driver's side window were wildly exciting.     

These days, shouting your order at a little speaker box and then driving to a window to collect your food just isn't the same. Where are the cool roller skates? The feeling of being in a 50's time warp? The high suspense of watching the car hop balance the food on the tray?  

       
          KC Waffle Dogs by charlieboy808.

I think my quintessential car hop experience was at KC Drive-In, the very first car hop restaurant in Hawai'i, whose specialty was waffle dogs. Hot dogs were encased in a sweet batter and cooked in a press. Ah, that crispy dough around the edges, and the steamy hot dog in the middle! Mmmmmmmm. Sadly, KC closed back in 2005.

I shall have to drown my sorrows in this tasty poem by Barbara Crooker, a poet I've just recently "discovered" and whom I absolutely love. A wonderful evocation of vintage cars, neon signs, endless summers and adolescence.


psychosquirrel427/flickr

PATTY'S CHARCOAL DRIVE-IN
by Barbara Crooker

First job. In tight black shorts
and a white bowling shirt, red lipstick
and bouncing pony tail, I present
each overflowing tray as if it were a banquet.
I'm sixteen and college-bound,
this job's temporary as the summer sun,
but right now, it's the boundaries of my life.
After the first few nights of mixed orders
and missing cars, the work goes easily.
I take out the silver trays and hook them to the windows,
inhale the mingled smells of seared meat patties,
salty ketchup, rich sweet malteds.
The lure of grease drifts through the thick night air.
And it's always summer at Patty's Charcoal Drive-in—
carloads of blonde-and-tan girls
pull up next to red convertibles,
boys in black tee shirts and slick hair.
Everyone knows what they want.

(Rest is here.)


Mike6CA/flickr

Okay, I've got my roller skates on and I'm coming out to you. What'll it be?