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Poetry by JC Snyder

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HFStival 2004

[HFStivals were THE events in the DC/Baltimore area while I was in school, all thanks to the greatest alternative radio station that ever was, 99.1 WHFS (rip)]

Trade your aviator shades for
a Seattle radio station button during
Modest Mouse off-stage, grab a beer, and
settle down on a hill
next to greasy passed out bare legs,
and pick at French fries like sea gulls,
stumble off inside,
shoving through to the stadium floor
for a taste of mud mixed with beer mixed with weed
while you crowd surf and wipe-out.

We had such a buzz kickin cause it was 90 degrees and sunny.
We sweated body to body and our ears burned.

Collapse into a seat when night falls
and the sliver of a moon appears in the middle of the
open dome ceiling;
listen to the man with the black eyes and red lips
sing “i will always love you” with a gothic howl.

February 26, 2010
Finding Truth in a Darkroom

Am I the only one who misses film? Settling into the afternoon and thinking how much I miss the surprise of a new roll of film. I found an old roll sitting in my purse this morning, which I think was from a weekend trip to Portland, Maine. I wonder if it is still good? I wonder if there are any places left that will process it? I wonder what our faces will look like if I do get the prints made….

Finding Truth in a Darkroom

My eyes are a
shutter open as the world blurs by
and when I blink,
I capture your face in
black and white clarity—
your scars
etched carefully on film.

Then, if I use the technique
of solarization
I learned many years ago,
your expression can be exposed,
naked print facing forward,
before a flash of light.

Negatives will
become positives
by chance, in chaotic fashion,
meaning
you can’t know exactly
how it will turn out.

At first thought,
the Sabatier effect
may suggest a complete darkening,
a wasted effort,
but no, instead your face appears—
your pupils brightly opposite.

February 25, 2010
I get what I want

I said to the man,
“Gimme more”
and he said, “take take!”

I reach; my hands fervently
staining with the juice
of those red berries pressed
into wine,
and I am drunk,
my lips purple and even
that color I lick
off to get more.

I said again to the man,
“It is not enough;
you must do better”
And he quietly
takes me by the hand,
and leads me down
into the
hungry darkness.

February 25, 2010
One Night in Mission Beach

In the shadows
Of a steaming bath with Turkish detailing
And palm trees framing its lovely face,
So gently,
Like my wet hair to my forehead and neck,
I was held in arms
Bigger than my own, bigger than my fears.
Arms
With strong muscles and hands
That seemed to seek out
My weaknesses and my dreams
On my wet appendages and
Underwear not meant for swimming.

And the jet stream pulsed around us with bubbles,
And the sky seemed to spell out in its stars,
You only live once,
Live it up.

February 24, 2010
Nursing Home Hallway

I turn to leave
and watch my grandmother,
dressed gracefully in
white slacks hanging
loose over thin limbs. She is tall,
regal,
looking at me from the middle of a
tan hallway that stretches
into a deep florescent
lighting, nourishing
the hazy limbo between us.

I walk straight,
past pictures of Christ
and metal crosses that hang
on the stripes of wallpaper
and fish circling in a dull tank,
past dark hollow rooms
where white-clothed bodies
watch TV,
past the chapel
that is now empty and waiting for
tomorrow morning’s mass.

I stop abruptly after a few feet and turn.
I watch my grandmother, her
thin frame easing into the hallway shadows.
She knows,
turns,
waves goodbye.

The light gets bright at the entrance.
I pass
white-haired women
who talk of President Roosevelt
and I hurriedly
push open the door.

February 24, 2010
no meds

Little poems are soul food~
you will feast as long as you
don’t let em get ya, don’t let em ever get ya.
You’ll live the colors that create life.

Don’t you let em lock ya up
with their nonsensical ramblings of ordinary thought.

Tell em: no meds;
you were born as stardust
and don’t need nothing more than that.

February 24, 2010
agoraphobic

An old man with gray mustache
deplores the light when peeking through the green door
of an unmarked bar
on an unmarked, unremarkable city street.
He wears
an argyle sweater vest
that matches nothing, and stands in stark contrast
to the dark pouring out from behind him.

I saw him.

And I saw a 1-800-call-Jesus billboard bus sign
for a quit heroin half way house
sprayed with graffiti.
I saw porcelain hands praying without arms
confined in a windowsill, in front of blinds dusty
with neglect.

I saw all those others
rushing by and those passed out on the benches
that boldly boast: Baltimore, the greatest city in America.

I did nothing but stare.
My heart beating
loud above the sirens;
my palms wet with sweat.

February 23, 2010
ghost

I am a cold vapor, a whisper— I feel
nothing when I walk. My
loose skirt gliding gently above the
wooden floor.
The dust stirs slightly in my presence
but that is all.

I want to be the spirit who
throws china with a heart-breaking crash.
I want to be the memory that
raises hair on your arms.
I want to be the phantom
you call to in the night, when no one is around.

But silence is mine. I leave
the light on
with tears that
won’t wet my cheeks.

February 22, 2010
almost twice my age

This was written back around age 20. I was introduced to Zeppelin by my ultra cool friend Ashleigh, when she came to my house and played “Heartbreaker” as loud as it would go (until my parents yelled to turn it down) in 6th grade. Since that moment, that song, I’ve never quite been the same. I only wish I could have been there to see them live!

almost twice my age

So good and looking at me with shaded eyes
soulful,
under hot lights and sweating.

There, in the midst of Zeppelin blues and the crowd,
is the ageless anticipation, the complicated thought of:

Screams from bodies trembling, hear those
soft six string moans,
those microphone inhales and stifled words,
those fevered hands grasping air and
heated timbre,
harmonica cries in crescendo
until the volume is unbearable, until consumed.

I don’t remember who I was before.
He doesn’t speak but for songs,
kisses my cheek before I vanish
into the clamped mouth of another world
where my parents would disown
if these ephemeral moments ever came true.

We are so far; I know nothing of him.
We are so close; I see him there
leaning darkly beside the stairs.

February 22, 2010
house clean

Nothing quite like the feeling after a long volleyball tournament; ah the aches! Half hour to USA hockey, perfect time to post a poem….

House Clean

When I die
will you go through my things?
Fingering papers
and smudging your fingerprints all over my photos
even though you might remember later
that I hate that.

And making a mess in my kitchen where I
always wished that you were but
you weren’t.

Tossing out this and that; the this and that
that I saved purposefully
all those years.
Hoping to get it all done quickly,
hoping to find
that million dollar antique
that you already know I never had.

Then, in one corner, finding letters,
letters of deep secret
towards
self, family, love;
diaries of thoughts you never knew I had.

Will you throw them out?
Yes. Suddenly, in one moment, I am no longer
who you
want to remember.

February 21, 2010

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