Day 2~Andrew Demcak
Today I want to profile a man that I consider my friend, Andrew Demcak. I met Andrew (what seems like a million years ago) in college. It was my first day at California State University, Long Beach, and I had signed up for a Creative Writing Poetry class that I had no right to be in. I sat in the corner scared as I watched all these upper classmen come in, and finally just stared down at a blank paper tapping my pen, then Andrew walked in greeting everyone like family members he had not seen in far too long. I looked up and saw hair, wild and spiraling hair, which would take many formations in the time we were in college. Andrew, at that time, I believe was in his 5th year of college, as he decided to take his time, and I was grateful because some of the best times I ever had in college were a direct result of him (particularly when we took Buddhism class together). But what was amazing about Andrew, outside of his hair, was his writing. Even then, sitting in a class with him, I knew he was destined to be a great writer and being his friend was a privilege. Lately he has found his writing leading him to novels, but I want you to see some of his work as a poet. He does what great poets do, he makes us see images in ways we have not considered, but when he writes them, it is like we should have known all along. The two poems below are a small fraction of how he will amaze you if you were to pick up his book Night Chant, or any of his books actually.
I have picked two that I love below. Enjoy and feel free to friend him on Facebook, or following him on twitter.
Your cancer was trimmed with blue scissors.
You folded like a Parisian rag rug,
a tourist in the sterile, chemo room.
Culled cloth, little fugues from fingertips,
tissue patterns issuing from your body.
Radiology, loose ends rethreaded.
Stitched with a sash of mango crepe,
costly silk in venous pleats, dark yellow.
Your rebirth came as a daffodil cape.
Copyright © 2009 Andrew Demcak
All rights reserved from A Single Hurt Color
Client #15 twitches and sweats. My latest rehab cellmate,
he tells of offering his arm’s white dandelion to any passing
bee. He waits in bloom. Industrial chemicals to needle
into his wilting skin, pollinating him. Miraculous, there he
curls dreaming of that brood chamber: a queen’s poisonous
barb looming over him, weekly visits of waxy syringes and
You can purchase many of Andrews poetry books on Amazon.
Some are sold out, he’s that amazing!