Russell Edson (1935-2014) - American prose poet and illustrator

Back in my late 30s, when I first began writing, I could sense my writer's voice wasn't to be found in conventional poetry or fiction. What then? Visiting a city library, I picked up this book by Russell Edson and read Father Father, What Have You Done?. The experience was so powerful I almost dropped to my knees. Right then and there, I knew exactly how I was to write.

I spent the next eight years writing surreal prose poems. When I had my books published by small presses, I sent a thank you note with a copy of each book to Russell Edson. He was kind enough to send me, in turn, Russell Edson-esque letters of thanks.

Here are three prose poems from Russell's book. Also two Russel Edson illustrations. I've also included one of my own prose poems at the very bottom. Thanks so much again, Russell!

FATHER, FATHER, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
A man straddling the apex of his roof cries, giddyup. The house rears up on its back porch and all of its bricks fall apart and the house crashes to the ground.
His wife cries from the rubble, father father, what have you done?

LITTLE DEAD MAN
Onward, little dead man, said a little man passing through a land of butterflies, purple and white, yellow and black, all in flux; they are not told from the flowers they drink, nor are the wind fluttered flowers from those they host.
This is a land of vibrating velvet. Eating itself. Forming itself. This is the land of death. Endless. Absurd.



DINNER TIME
An old man sitting at table was waiting for his wife to serve dinner. He heard her beating a pot that had burned her. He hated the sound of a pot when it was beaten, for it advertised its pain in such a way that made him wish to inflict more of the same. And he began to punch at his own face, and his knuckles were red. How he hated red knuckles, that blaring color, more self-important than the wound.

He heard his wife drop the entire dinner on the kitchen floor with a curse. For as she was carrying it in it had burned her thumb. He heard the forks and spoons, the cups and platters all cry at once as they landed on the kitchen floor. How he hated a dinner that, once prepared, begins to burn one to death, and as if that weren't enough, screeches and roars as it lands on the floor, where it belongs anyway.

He punched himself again and fell on the floor.

When he came awake again he was quite angry, and so he punched himself again and felt dizzy. Dizziness made him angry, and so he began to hit his head against the wall, saying, now get real dizzy if you want to get dizzy. He slumped to the floor.

Oh, the legs won't work, eh? . . . He began to punch his legs. He had taught his head a lesson and now he would teach his legs a lesson.

Meanwhile he heard his wife smashing the remaining dinnerware and the dinnerware roaring and shrieking.

He saw himself in the mirror on the wall. Oh, mock me, will you. And so he smashed the mirror with a chair, which broke. Oh, don't want to be a chair no more; too good to be sat on, eh? He began to beat the pieces of the chair.

He heard his wife beating the stove with an ax. He called, when're we going to eat? as he stuffed a candle into his mouth.

When I'm good and ready, she screamed.

Want me to punch your bun? he screamed.

Come near me and I'll kick an eye out of your head.

I'll cut your ears off.

I'll give you a slap right in the face.

I'll break you in half.

The old man finally ate one of his hands. The old woman said, damn fool, whyn't you cook it first? you go on like a beast — You know I have to subdue the kitchen every night, otherwise it'll cook me and serve me to the mice on my best china. And you know what small eaters they are; next would come the flies, and how I hate flies in my kitchen.
The old man swallowed a spoon. Okay, said the old woman, now we're short one spoon.

The old man, growing angry, swallowed himself.

Okay, said the woman, now you've done it.


Again, this prose poem is mine:

HEAVEN BENEATH OUR FEET
In an upside down world bats hang right side up. They use their radar to fly straight into wooden beams.

The next morning, men walking along the ceiling climb down ladders head first to peel the crushed bats off the floor. There is not one man who doesn't weep at the sight of what he takes to be a host of blessed angels.