Poetry by George Franklin

     Dane Van CC




Among Magnolias

I waited among magnolias in  Louisiana with dark green leaves   and heavy
               white  blossoms, on  August  nights  thick  with  humidity,   drinking
               beer in someone’s driveway,
I waited breathing air  that  tasted  wet,  the  headlights  of  cars, of sedans,
               convertibles, station wagons, speeding down Line Avenue  past my
               window,
Or waited with friends, passing joints, sitting on the  hood of  a Pontiac  out
               by the airport fence, planes landing over our heads--
Just another sentimental story of adolescence and loss. I left Shreveport at
               16, then left it again  at 17.  There was  no  guidebook  for  leaving.  I
               went all the way to New Hampshire.
In below zero weather in  Franconia, it  was  hard  to  feel my nose.  I waited
               for the envelope with my Vietnam lottery  number—I  knew  already
               I wouldn’t make a good  soldier—but  my  number  was  high  enough
               never to be called. I didn’t think much  about  what  happened  to the
               guys whose numbers were lower.
In  Europe,  I  waited  in hotel   lobbies  reading  The Herald  Tribune  to  feel
               less lonely.  It didn’t work.
In my marriage,  I  waited  too.   Even   then,   I   didn’t   feel   less   lonely   and
               didn’t know what I wanted. 
I didn’t know that loneliness has   its   own   language—impossible   to   learn,
              full of rules that don’t make sense—with only one pronoun.
I didn’t know   that if  you  let loneliness  bother you  long    enough  it  might
               turn   into  solitude,  and  you  might  write a  poem   about  what you
want and what you don’t have.
Of course, it would be a bad    poem, one   of   those    sentimental  stories of
                adolescence and loss, but it might make you feel   the loneliness less
                or feel there’s a purpose to it.
Now, I count all the places I waited, the     B&Bs in London, the    apartments
               in New York and    Boston,    freeways in LA   that lead   to the   ocean,
               the checkerboard of streets that run to the Everglades in Miami,
And I know that loneliness has no purpose, and cafés are better for waiting
              than hotel lobbies—I don’t   think they    publish The Herald   Tribune
              anymore.

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​George Franklin was previously published in Anti-Heroin Chic in 2023 and is the author of seven poetry collections, including his recent: What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions.  He practices law in Miami, is a translations editor for Cagibi and a guest editor for Sheila-Na-Gig Online, teaches poetry workshops in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez's Último día/Last Day. In 2023, he was the first prize winner of the W.B. Yeats Poetry Prize, and his work has been featured on the public radio podcast The Slowdown.  His website: https://gsfranklin.com/