Most Emotive: “Bleeder” by Stephen Dobyns
By now I bet he’s dead which suits me fine,
but twenty-five years ago when we were both fifteen
and he was a camper and I a counselor
in a straight-laced Pennsylvania summer camp
for crippled and retarded kids, I’d watch
him sit all day by himself on a hill.
No trees, or sharp stones: he wasn’t safe to be around.
The slightest bruise and all his blood would simply drain away
It drove us crazy – first to protect him, then to see it happen
I would hang around him, picturing a knife or pointed stick
wondering how a small cut you’d have to make, then see the expectant face
of another boy watching me, and we each knew, how the other would like to see him bleed.
He made us want to hurt him so bad so much we hurt ourselves instead:
sliced fingers in craft class, busted noses in baseball, then joined at last mass wrestling matches beneath his hill, a tangle of crutches and braces, hammering at
each other to keep from harming him. I’d look up from slamming a kid in the gut and see him watching
with the empty blue eyes of children in sentimental paintings, and hope to see him frown or grin.
But there was nothing: as if he had already died.
Then after a week, they sent him home. Too much responsibility, the director said.
Hell, I bet the kid had skin like leather.
Even so, I’d lie in bed at night and think
of busting into his room with a sharp stick, lash
and break the space around his rose petal flesh,
while campers in bunks around me tossed and dreamt with this his pleasure: To make us cringe beneath
our wish to do damage? But then who cared?
We were living children, he the ghost
and what he gave us was the pleasure of being bad together.
He took us from our private spite and offered our bullying a common cause:
which is why we missed him, even though we wished him harm. When he went, we lost ours hared meanness and each of us was left to snarl his way to a separate future, eager to discover some new loser to link us in frailty again.
I choose this poem because it shows a lot of anger, shared feelings with all the campers at this one camp, the desire to hurt this one person, to make him bleed and see the blood come out of him. The feelings that come out of this poem are literally, hunger for blood, hunger for pain and hunger for satisfaction. Restricting emotions in this poem are the fact he wants to protect this camper, to make sure he has a good experience at camp instead of him dying. Another reason why I choose this poem is because of the conflicts that he experiences, personal conflicts, man vs world conflicts, and man vs nature conflicts.
Favorite Line: The slightest bruise and all his blood would simply drain away
but twenty-five years ago when we were both fifteen
and he was a camper and I a counselor
in a straight-laced Pennsylvania summer camp
for crippled and retarded kids, I’d watch
him sit all day by himself on a hill.
No trees, or sharp stones: he wasn’t safe to be around.
The slightest bruise and all his blood would simply drain away
It drove us crazy – first to protect him, then to see it happen
I would hang around him, picturing a knife or pointed stick
wondering how a small cut you’d have to make, then see the expectant face
of another boy watching me, and we each knew, how the other would like to see him bleed.
He made us want to hurt him so bad so much we hurt ourselves instead:
sliced fingers in craft class, busted noses in baseball, then joined at last mass wrestling matches beneath his hill, a tangle of crutches and braces, hammering at
each other to keep from harming him. I’d look up from slamming a kid in the gut and see him watching
with the empty blue eyes of children in sentimental paintings, and hope to see him frown or grin.
But there was nothing: as if he had already died.
Then after a week, they sent him home. Too much responsibility, the director said.
Hell, I bet the kid had skin like leather.
Even so, I’d lie in bed at night and think
of busting into his room with a sharp stick, lash
and break the space around his rose petal flesh,
while campers in bunks around me tossed and dreamt with this his pleasure: To make us cringe beneath
our wish to do damage? But then who cared?
We were living children, he the ghost
and what he gave us was the pleasure of being bad together.
He took us from our private spite and offered our bullying a common cause:
which is why we missed him, even though we wished him harm. When he went, we lost ours hared meanness and each of us was left to snarl his way to a separate future, eager to discover some new loser to link us in frailty again.
I choose this poem because it shows a lot of anger, shared feelings with all the campers at this one camp, the desire to hurt this one person, to make him bleed and see the blood come out of him. The feelings that come out of this poem are literally, hunger for blood, hunger for pain and hunger for satisfaction. Restricting emotions in this poem are the fact he wants to protect this camper, to make sure he has a good experience at camp instead of him dying. Another reason why I choose this poem is because of the conflicts that he experiences, personal conflicts, man vs world conflicts, and man vs nature conflicts.
Favorite Line: The slightest bruise and all his blood would simply drain away
It drove us crazy – first to protect him, then to see it happen
