Sticks英文詩詞精選

　　Sticks

　　by Thomas Sayers Ellis

　　My father was an enormous man

　　Who believed kindness and lack of size

　　Were nothing more than sissified

　　Signs of weakness. Narrow-minded，

　　His eyes were the worst kind

　　Of jury — deliberate， distant， hard.

　　No one could out-shout him

　　Or make bigger fists. The few

　　Who tried got taken for bad，

　　Beat down， their bodies slammed.

　　I wanted to be just like him：

　　Big man， man of the house， king.

　　A plagiarist， hitting the things he hit，

　　I learned to use my hands watching him

　　Use his， pretending to slap mother

　　When he slapped mother.

　　He was sick. A diabetic slept

　　Like a silent vowel inside his well-built，

　　Muscular， dark body. Hard as all that

　　With similar weaknesses

　　— I discovered writing，

　　How words are parts of speech

　　With beats and breaths of their own.

　　Interjections like flams. Wham！ Bam！

　　An heir to the rhythm

　　And tension beneath the beatings，

　　My first attempts were filled with noise，

　　Wild solos， violent uncontrollable blows.

　　The page tightened like a drum

　　Resisting the clockwise twisting

　　Of a handheld chrome key，

　　The noisy banging and tuning of growth

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