“I Saw the Ferris Wheel Twice”

Collected Poems of Seattle, Cinema, Romance, and Ghosts

By:Christopher Schaap

“Up above, the angelsin the unshaken ether and crystalof human longingare braiding one another’s hair, which isstrawberry blondand the texture of cold rivers.”

-Robert Hass, The Privilege of Being

Contents.

What Eve Knew…………………………………………………………………………………………3What’s Possible in Morning………………………………………………………4The Fog, My Friend……………………………………………………………………………5The Loneliness Questionnaire…………………………………………………6Next Stop, The Twilight Zone…………………………………………………7A Message from Your Short-Lived Understudy……………8Dream-Maker, You Heart-Breaker……………………………………………9Ceremony for the Dead……………………………………………………………………10Spirit……………………………………………………………………………………………………………11When the Leaves Have Died, Orange and Brown…………12It’s Always Quiet in Paris………………………………………………………13Charming Idea…………………………………………………………………………………………14City Pilgrim……………………………………………………………………………………………15Invisible Monster………………………………………………………………………………16Night Walk in Seattle, 2013……………………………………………………18

Author’s Bio……………………………………………………………………………………………19

3.What Eve Knew

Don’t throw rocks.My mother’s words.

But I did;I threw a rock.

Without reason, without rhyme,Like every little boy, knowing temptation;

What are rocks for if not throwing? The playground knew this truth:

We may hurt others,Like a pigtailed girl,

But hurt is how we learn,Like the lesson of Bible study:

We eat apples because Adam listened to Eve.

4.What’s Possible in Morning

I woke up this morning In the throes of anger and heartbreak, Fearing that I give too much love andHoping that I don’t;

I expect this to last a while,

Until I realize howSmall everything is,Like grains of sand that areIndistinguishable from the greater whole, or howQuickly everything passesLike the sun in its endless, circular cycle ofSleep and life, andBecause of that thought, I wished thatI could sleep longer,A little longer so more time would pass,Time the inevitable, forEveryone knows the words“Time heals all wounds” are merely Copouts for the truth, which areThe scars that wounds leave;

I remind myself that these scars are,In a frightening way,Attractive,

And that soon I will move forwardUntil I see fit that I’m readyTo go through this,All of this,Again.

5.The Fog, My Friend

You come and go like the fogThat sleeps here for the night,Filling the blankets between us untilThe sun returns.

Like the foreboding glow,The haze that creeps upon us,I thought you villainous, uncertain ofYour divine truth.

But through the dark youTaught me something Of companionship, of love As effervescent as the mist.

You have been weathered downBut you revealed to meThe beauty, the mystery—Temporarily, inevitably good and evil.

From your quiet wisdomI now know through whatI must trek in order to be Rewarded by the day,

And like the day you promiseTo return,Evaporating into the air as purityAnd light.

6.The Loneliness Questionnaire

You have a thousand prayersBut God has one.--Anne Sexton, “Not So, Not So”

What is loneliness like for you?

There has to be some magic behindThings that glow;Everything is dark but the sky,

A piercing blue,

A neon sign declaringEXITAs we hide in the shadows.

Do loneliness and nostalgia go together?

Someone painted this bare wall butThe paint came fromRoots in the ground.

Do you feel lonely in a crowd?

The framed window on the doorIs divided becauseEverything we make must be

compartmentalized;

The door can lead anywhere,But before land we must face the sea.

7.Next Stop: The Twilight Zone

I leave pride in the typed pages ofCourier New.

My editor, the pair ofCriss-crossed legs and a restless foot,Who kicks me through my own stories withDelete-repeat-delete-repeat;

I delve into the man and the woman,A faithful product of the 50’s whoseMarriage is tested when they meetThe Devil in a diner,

But new ideas like to interrupt andTempt me to the unfinishedScreenplays of cryptic dialogueAnd jaded protagonists;

Still, my inspiration keeps me onThis sporadic path—an image ofRod Serling typing up worlds with aCigar and whiskey on rocks.

8.A Message from Your Short-Lived Understudy

I shall play the DevilTo your Lord andAmputate the puppeteer’s strings, The stage no longer yours;

You will submit yourself to thisThird act, a hard-left turnFrom your production’s pace—Your theatrics inverted,

And I will laugh atAll of this, the maniacal madmanYou cast me into, for whom there isNo stage combat necessary;

Mine is hero-less, andVillainy has been restored, as seen inThe standing ovation forYour loss;

MACBETH shall be utteredThree times over and,Like that curse,I could kill you.

9.Dream-Maker, You Heart-Breaker

I’m sorry that,Like Peppard and Hepburn,I thought that I was entitled to Moon River—A lost cat found in the rain,

My apologies for Lemmon and MacLaine,Rough on the edges andProving that the chase pays off with Popped champagne and a shut-up-and-deal,

Even a blundering Cusack,With Peter Gabriel blastingFrom his outreached armsPlayed a part in my mistakes.

I’m sorry for being naïve, But you have to admit thatYou are a deceitful companion,Poisoning me with your flickering beauty,

I’m sorry that I didn’t know thenThat I would need to apologize For following you, for being reeled inFrom the back row of your consoling box of magic.

10.Spirit

Somewhere between your heart and your stomachWrenches the foreign feelingLike the blind faith you attribute to church and sermons.

The unattainable, yet palpable knowledge of something divine,Preaching goodness for heavenly safety.

Spirituality is a ghost.The unconditional ghost,Like mediums in psychic tentsEmbracing it behind closed eyelids.A stepping stone to the formidable phantom,

Spirituality is the courage, accepting itWith open, petrified arms.

11.Ceremony for the Dead, with thanks to

Robert Hass

Resurrect the cold,The flaccid, the dry,Enchant out of deathFor an hour or so.

Leave no room,These corpses have starved,So breathe deep, deep life intoSweet graves to flood

Electrify through fingers,The bones will preserveAnd claw for the surface,A hex on your flesh;

Entangle the limbs,The eight, not four.Devour all prey,Web shakes and quivers.

See life as it comes,Only to return underground.Sleep alone,These hours are eternal.

12.When the Leaves Have Died, Orange and Brown

I bless the lights that twinkle fromSkyscraper windows, bedrooms illuminatedBy electricity, by life.

I am moved by distant crowds, by strangersBy street cars, by trains;Nature frightens me, like specters and ghosts,

But the city is tangible, every story,Explicit but hidden, isDestructive, enigmatic, beautiful.

These faces are manmade, destroyed byConcrete, by construction, Wild, but unlike the wilderness;

I am spiritual here, among the Loudness, the sirens, the headlight shadowsThat dart across my painted walls;

Must I bless nature?

I’d like to bless human nature instead,Giving it a round of applause for theRoars of eternal construction.

Bless you, cranes, you are

Dinosaurs,Mavericks for the worlds ahead of you.

13.It’s Always Quiet in Paris

The English speaker is my identity andI feel muted.I have no interest toEngage with the inebriated.

Even the most crowded room is Filled with the quiet.And girls keep hugging, As if to replace conversation.

Every word is foreign, Conversation is a mystery.Freshmen are humpingLike middle-schoolers, like dogs.

I am left With the silence in my mind.What I’m hearing is too harsh To be music.

I feel at most peace here, Abroad.Two hours later, everyone Is still hugging.

With no noise, I am permanently in thought.

These transactions are physical, Not verbal.

The park is the quietest.It’s too forward for words.The escape is needed.So everyone shuts up and presses their bodies together.

I am unprepared For the deafening layover in Chicago.So I’m leaving the party Because I want to hear something else.

14.Charming Idea

I had the charming idea toHibernate for the winter andJingle-bell myself in the burrow of blanketsSo I could stay away fromImpatient six-year olds who tell meI can’t ice skate.

And I had the charming idea to clip thisRed bow tie onto thisWholesome, white button-upSo everyone could knowHow charming of an ideaThis charming fellow had.

And I had the charming idea to pursue the adjectiveCOZY, relentlessly, until itBeats me into a spooning sessionNear a fireplace,On the couch,Under these hibernating covers;

So snug in close andWrap yourself in myFeeble, bear armsFor this is my most charming idea yet.

15.City Pilgrim

I come back to this placeFor the turkey’s sakeAnd I know that time has frozen,Even if only for the weekend;

This place, where I seeA child, stuckIn the time warp between past, presentAnd canned cranberries;

So I wonder if,Like when a tree falls in the empty woods,Life goes on in the city,The distant city;

Sirens rest hereAnd a crackling log Glows, giving the neon signsTheir restful break,

This break, for a mother and a fatherAnd a baby I don’t recognize whoMust be new to all of this,A godson can only live in the present,

This endless present of Sunday football,And parks and birds and the woodsThemselves, nothing more than a whisper;The time between us is incompatible,

So I must leave this boy andReturn to my city, ticking away.

16.Invisible Monster

“Love your neighbors; love everyone.”

My mother’s words. I might hate them at times but I’m desperate to cling to them, even if it means really, really loving someone. I love my family, like my mother, who I thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. I love my quiet father and my persistent, relentless brother. I even love my cat, who died a year after she was given to me as a birthday gift. I remember loving my neighbors, my literal neighbors, because of what my mom had told me. The Mexican family next door, the old couple across the street with the rainforest in their backyard—I love all of them.

But I have to wonder if I love the girl who I threw a rock at in pre-school. Did I love her? My mother yelled at me, and I was frightened for what I had done. Deep down I knew her yelling was out of love, and it was nothing but a childish error— foolishness, thoughtlessness. I have to love that girl; it’s the only certain truth.

I’m sure I love her like I love my friends—my high school buds who scattered and dissipated to far-away universities and my

college relationships that are summed up by the tears of restless, drunken nights. I love all of them.

But does this mean that I have to love the monster, the invisible monster, who keyed FAG into my first love’s blue, Land Rover? I love to think the world would be a better place without him, he, who in a domino effect, ended my secret relationship with a closeted Mormon.

I suppose I must love him, love both of them, love the whole rotten thing. Just like I love my dog that bites frequently.

I wonder if she meant myself though. If my mother meant that I should love myself. I assume that I am included among my neighbors, among everyone. So yes, I do love myself. I love myself always—in the day, in the night, in the mornings even when I fog up the bathroom mirror by not turning on the shower fan to avoid seeing my face.

“Love your neighbors, love everyone.”17.

And I do, like the strangers who pass me on the street, knowing nothing about me. And my actual neighbors, who I know nothing about. They smile sometimes, though, in the briefest of passings, so I wonder if they love me too. I wonder if other mothers have said it:

“Love your neighbors, love everyone.”

Love, as I know through rocks, fog, and the chipped, blue paint of that invisible monster.

18.Night Walk in Seattle, 2013

I saw the Ferris wheel twice,Once in stars, once in water.

Because I had walked a mileThrough the dark and through the nightAnd romanced, for solace, to the sound’s edge;

Because the music dreamed of doo-wopAnd the carousel spun, red to blue,I wished the purple would last longer than the moment;

Because I wondered if other couples went on dates orTyped through distant devices instead,Hiding from loved ones behind locked bedrooms;

Because I hoped that,Even if meeting behind a computer screen,We could recreate it, the stars and the water.

19.

Christopher Schaap is a screenwriter currently living in Seattle, Washington. This collection of poems was written during his senior year at Seattle University,

in which he completed his B.F.A. in Film Studies. Schaap’s screenplays include the short, Social, and three feature-length screenplays: Fun with Girls, Prom King, 2010 and Kathleen, Kathleen.