I think one of the worst things you can do as a writer is to write from an inauthentic place. You see this a lot when folks try to go somewhere different with their stories -- say, a comic-book nerd tries to write a protagonist who comes from an urban background. The dialogue often rings false at best, and can descend into outright racism at worst. (Note: this is not a pre-emptive strike against Ultimate Spider-Man. I've got more faith in Bendis than that.)
However, it's really tough as a writer to stretch out if you're forever telling stories with the same kind of protagonist. You don't really get fulfillment just writing about what you know. The drive is there to imagine what it's like on the other side of the fence as it were, to take the life of someone radically different and try to find common ground. Or at least explore the differences. The temptation is there, I know. And I try not to knock someone for at least trying to think outside of their box, even if the results of their artistic exercises tweak me the wrong way at times. After all, there really aren't that many stories being told about people like me -- a gay black Buddhist who really likes his modern fantasies.
It wasn't until I thought about stretching out with one of my own protagonists that I really thought about why. I'm interested in writing a medieval fantasy from the perspective of a post-teen girl (around 19 or 20) because, well, it's a good vehicle for me to explore my ideas about the mythology of the feminine and how they can be applied in the messy reality of the 'real world,' so to speak. We've explored the masculine ideal through superheroes and anti-heroes and fairy tales and all kinds of other things, but...the idea of the feminine, the specific attributes that the female gender role brings to the table, is woefully under-represented. At least from what I've seen.
I don't need to talk much about what a minefield this idea could turn out to be. Just reading the words "feminine ideal" might be enough to cause most of you out there to cringe. It might even be automatically offensive. How would I feel, after all, if some white guy were to write some collegiate bullshit about the "mythology of the black experience"? Add to that the fact that I'm coming to this idea from a place of relative ignorance. I left my mother and sister behind over twelve years ago and fell in immediately with the gay crowd. I'm a gay man, and almost all of my friends are gay men. Regular, frank contact with a woman almost never happens.
That being said, all dialogue has to start somewhere. If a white guy who's lived in the suburbs all of his life wanted to write a story about a black man living in the ghetto, where would he start? Should he even be allowed to try? I almost guarantee you that his first stab at it will feature misconceptions that will lead to subjects that are uncomfortable, even painful, to talk about. It definitely wouldn't be an easy process. But I think it's absolutely necessary to tell a story that even has a whiff of authenticity.
I have a feeling the same goes for me and that same desire to tell a story through a woman's eyes. Not only that, but to have a story where what we've come to think about women features heavily. There's likely to be a lot of things I get wrong. There's probably going to be a view I hold that is just...sexist by its very nature. I'm quite worried that even having the audacity to say "This is the female hero I would like to read" could come across as belittling or trivializing that experience. That worry isn't going to stop me, though. At least not at first. I'll be putting up a few vignettes of stories in the coming days and weeks to see if I can get a handle on my protagonist. Constructive criticism and honest feedback is welcome, of course. As are suggestions.
But honestly, what do you guys think? Is it possible to tell the story of a minority authentically if you're not a part of that group? What's necessary for it to ring as true as it needs to?
Monday, August 8, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
What Kind of Writer Do I Want to Be?
This is a question I'm sure most writers don't give a lot of thought to. Most of us just sit down and write what interests us, what we're passionate about, and after enough time and practice a pattern begins to emerge. For most of us, we leave the packaging to someone else and try our best to make writing as organic and nebulous as possible. That is, after all, what gives us the best results.
To be honest, I'm not sure that's going to work out for me. When I read a blog or story I particularly like, my first response is something like "I want to do something like that." And thanks to a wide variety of friends, I'm exposed to all *kinds* of writing. Obviously, I'm not versatile enough to write in every style I want to, so I think it makes sense for me to sit down and think about exactly what I want to be doing with my writing. What do I want to sound like? What's my ultimate goal with this kind of thing?
It's not an easy question to answer, even though I feel like it's something I should be asking of myself. What interests me? Why do I want to talk about these interests with a wide audience? What am I hoping to show people?
I think when it comes right down to it, I'm fascinated by the act of storytelling and what we get out of it -- as a society and as individuals. I think the symbols we use and how they relate to the aspects of ourselves we admire is very, very telling. Most of the time, we don't even realize what we're doing, what we're saying by who we choose to obsess over, tell stories about and connect with. It's that cultural subconscious that's really intriguing to me. I think there's always an undercurrent running through a community that will tell you what it's about if you're able to crack the code. I think, ultimately, what I want to do is talk about that in my stories.
Storytelling, to me, is a worthwhile pursuit because it's such a powerful tool of self-reflection. Our storytellers show us who we are in ways that we would otherwise find incredibly painful. They hypnotize us into seeing the parts of ourselves and our society that we would rather not see. Our stories, at their best, force us to be honest but also enable us to handle that honesty with grace and compassion. If you're able to do it just right, you can take the blinders off of someone's experience with a well-constructed story. You help people to see things exactly as they are -- or exactly as you see them, at least.
Right now I've been focusing on the idea of stories as entertainment, because I think that's what a story needs to do at the very least. No one's going to let your story affect them if they're not entertained by it; so you need to figure out how to package your presentation in a way that's gripping and fun. There's no shame in wanting to write a story just to entertain; in fact, a lot of our 'serious' writers could really stand to remember that lesson. Entertainment, ideally, shouldn't be the only reason for a story's existence, but it's got to be a big reason. If you're going to sermonize or lecture, there are other avenues for that. Ayn Rand may have had an interesting political idea to espouse, but she absolutely sucks at story-telling.
Ultimately I'd love to be the kind of writer who had something to say about the role mythology plays in our lives, in all of its forms. I would love to playfully tweak our fascination with pop culture while at the same time illuminating its purpose and elevating it beyond its admittedly shallow nature and reputation. I would love to explore the alchemical process of mixing truth in with a stew of symbolism, metaphor and misdirection so it can be made palatable. And I would love to entertain while doing it.
So there we go. Now that I've outright said it, I guess I have a direction to point myself in. That direction might completely change once I get some actual practice under my belt. We'll see. I just think this is a talking-out-loud conversation with myself that needed to happen.
To be honest, I'm not sure that's going to work out for me. When I read a blog or story I particularly like, my first response is something like "I want to do something like that." And thanks to a wide variety of friends, I'm exposed to all *kinds* of writing. Obviously, I'm not versatile enough to write in every style I want to, so I think it makes sense for me to sit down and think about exactly what I want to be doing with my writing. What do I want to sound like? What's my ultimate goal with this kind of thing?
It's not an easy question to answer, even though I feel like it's something I should be asking of myself. What interests me? Why do I want to talk about these interests with a wide audience? What am I hoping to show people?
I think when it comes right down to it, I'm fascinated by the act of storytelling and what we get out of it -- as a society and as individuals. I think the symbols we use and how they relate to the aspects of ourselves we admire is very, very telling. Most of the time, we don't even realize what we're doing, what we're saying by who we choose to obsess over, tell stories about and connect with. It's that cultural subconscious that's really intriguing to me. I think there's always an undercurrent running through a community that will tell you what it's about if you're able to crack the code. I think, ultimately, what I want to do is talk about that in my stories.
Storytelling, to me, is a worthwhile pursuit because it's such a powerful tool of self-reflection. Our storytellers show us who we are in ways that we would otherwise find incredibly painful. They hypnotize us into seeing the parts of ourselves and our society that we would rather not see. Our stories, at their best, force us to be honest but also enable us to handle that honesty with grace and compassion. If you're able to do it just right, you can take the blinders off of someone's experience with a well-constructed story. You help people to see things exactly as they are -- or exactly as you see them, at least.
Right now I've been focusing on the idea of stories as entertainment, because I think that's what a story needs to do at the very least. No one's going to let your story affect them if they're not entertained by it; so you need to figure out how to package your presentation in a way that's gripping and fun. There's no shame in wanting to write a story just to entertain; in fact, a lot of our 'serious' writers could really stand to remember that lesson. Entertainment, ideally, shouldn't be the only reason for a story's existence, but it's got to be a big reason. If you're going to sermonize or lecture, there are other avenues for that. Ayn Rand may have had an interesting political idea to espouse, but she absolutely sucks at story-telling.
Ultimately I'd love to be the kind of writer who had something to say about the role mythology plays in our lives, in all of its forms. I would love to playfully tweak our fascination with pop culture while at the same time illuminating its purpose and elevating it beyond its admittedly shallow nature and reputation. I would love to explore the alchemical process of mixing truth in with a stew of symbolism, metaphor and misdirection so it can be made palatable. And I would love to entertain while doing it.
So there we go. Now that I've outright said it, I guess I have a direction to point myself in. That direction might completely change once I get some actual practice under my belt. We'll see. I just think this is a talking-out-loud conversation with myself that needed to happen.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Reading List (May 2011)
I'm coming up on the end of my self-imposed month-long hiatus from all things poetry, so now I'm going to have to start digging through the poetry I wrote for National Poetry Month 2010. In a way I'm kind of dreading it; you know there's a lot of pain in discovering how awful you were even just a year ago. There are a lot of poems that I've written where I just sit back and wonder, "What the hell was I thinking?"
It'll help, of course, to remind myself to be gentle with my work. There's always an idea struggling to get out and even if it was born misshapen and ugly, there's the chance that it could turn out better with the proper shaping.
In the meantime, I've been reading more than I have before. This is intentional, of course. In order to be a better writer, I'm going to have to be a better reader; the two practices go hand in hand. If I don't search out writing that's exciting and engaging to me, how in the world am I going to figure out how to steal...er, imitate it?
Ryan also got me a Kindle for Christmas last year, and I really want to be better about using it. It's meant to make reading easier, and by God it does! I just have to get into the habit of wielding it.
So far I've picked up Storm Front by Jim Brooks, On Writing by Stephen King and Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. There's quite a few others on my list, but I'm trying to work down my list before I start filling the damned thing up with stuff I'll never get to. Hopefully by keeping the book list small I'll have more incentive to read what's there. Right?
Anyway, the Kindle is a really great device. It's ultra-portable, carries quite a lot of books (you can even subscribe to blogs, newspapers and magazines that will automatically update in the background whenever wi-fi is turned on) and best of all is quite easy to read. There's no glare on the screen, the words are crisp and clear, and it's really easy to navigate. If you download the Kindle app across multiple platforms (I have it for PC, iPhone and iPad), then it'll automatically fetch your most recent page and pick up where you left off. Awesome!
Now that the plug is out of the way (I'm waiting for my free book downloads, Amazon), I'll talk a bit about the last book I finished. Storm Front is a pretty neat concept -- a pulp detective novel crossed with modern fantasy. I've been a fan of that cross ever since reading Gun, With Occasional Music several years ago, and Brooks manages the blend a bit more seamlessly than Lethem did.
The plot is fairly basic when you get right down to it. Harry Dresden is hired to investigate the disappearance of a family man who's been dabbling in magic. At the same time, a particularly gruesome magical crime has been committed, and the police call Dresden in to investigate. The governing body of wizards in this world, the White Council, believe that he's up to no good and are just waiting to catch him in the act. It all comes together for a pretty explosive climax, just as you'd expect it to. The big mystery, the thing that drives you along in the novel, is figuring out how.
It's a bit difficult to explain how the novel works from a storyteller's perspective. I'm not used to looking at books from that angle, and I have even less experience talking about them that way. Functionally, it all fits, but there's something about the style of it, the artistry that makes it just a bit lacking. You can tell that Brooks is still getting his feet under him with this stuff, and he's being pretty careful about the positioning of the pieces. The characters all have personality, but you can't help but see the mechanism underneath the artifice, driving them to be in the right (or wrong) places at the right time.
That isn't to say that Storm Front is unenjoyable. It's fun, and the world that Brooks introduces us to is pretty intriguing. A lot of the writing, though, feels intentionally "grabby," with beats and turns of phrase that are only meant to grab our attention. It's like sitting next to someone who's rehearsed the same story hundreds of times so that he's got everything down but figuring out how to make it all sound natural.
In other words, it's pretty good, but you can also tell that it's a first novel. The style is unpolished but competent enough to stay out of the way of the narrative most of the time. I'd expect that everything gels pretty well in future novels, actually, and it's cool to see something that's polished enough to be of publishable quality but still rough enough that you can see how the story was shaped.
So yeah, after this next little bout of reading, I'll be downloading the second in the Dresden series for my Kindle. First though, Stephen King and another rough draft of a novel written by a friend.
At some point, I *really* have to catch up on my comic books...
It'll help, of course, to remind myself to be gentle with my work. There's always an idea struggling to get out and even if it was born misshapen and ugly, there's the chance that it could turn out better with the proper shaping.
In the meantime, I've been reading more than I have before. This is intentional, of course. In order to be a better writer, I'm going to have to be a better reader; the two practices go hand in hand. If I don't search out writing that's exciting and engaging to me, how in the world am I going to figure out how to steal...er, imitate it?
Ryan also got me a Kindle for Christmas last year, and I really want to be better about using it. It's meant to make reading easier, and by God it does! I just have to get into the habit of wielding it.
So far I've picked up Storm Front by Jim Brooks, On Writing by Stephen King and Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. There's quite a few others on my list, but I'm trying to work down my list before I start filling the damned thing up with stuff I'll never get to. Hopefully by keeping the book list small I'll have more incentive to read what's there. Right?
Anyway, the Kindle is a really great device. It's ultra-portable, carries quite a lot of books (you can even subscribe to blogs, newspapers and magazines that will automatically update in the background whenever wi-fi is turned on) and best of all is quite easy to read. There's no glare on the screen, the words are crisp and clear, and it's really easy to navigate. If you download the Kindle app across multiple platforms (I have it for PC, iPhone and iPad), then it'll automatically fetch your most recent page and pick up where you left off. Awesome!
Now that the plug is out of the way (I'm waiting for my free book downloads, Amazon), I'll talk a bit about the last book I finished. Storm Front is a pretty neat concept -- a pulp detective novel crossed with modern fantasy. I've been a fan of that cross ever since reading Gun, With Occasional Music several years ago, and Brooks manages the blend a bit more seamlessly than Lethem did.
The plot is fairly basic when you get right down to it. Harry Dresden is hired to investigate the disappearance of a family man who's been dabbling in magic. At the same time, a particularly gruesome magical crime has been committed, and the police call Dresden in to investigate. The governing body of wizards in this world, the White Council, believe that he's up to no good and are just waiting to catch him in the act. It all comes together for a pretty explosive climax, just as you'd expect it to. The big mystery, the thing that drives you along in the novel, is figuring out how.
It's a bit difficult to explain how the novel works from a storyteller's perspective. I'm not used to looking at books from that angle, and I have even less experience talking about them that way. Functionally, it all fits, but there's something about the style of it, the artistry that makes it just a bit lacking. You can tell that Brooks is still getting his feet under him with this stuff, and he's being pretty careful about the positioning of the pieces. The characters all have personality, but you can't help but see the mechanism underneath the artifice, driving them to be in the right (or wrong) places at the right time.
That isn't to say that Storm Front is unenjoyable. It's fun, and the world that Brooks introduces us to is pretty intriguing. A lot of the writing, though, feels intentionally "grabby," with beats and turns of phrase that are only meant to grab our attention. It's like sitting next to someone who's rehearsed the same story hundreds of times so that he's got everything down but figuring out how to make it all sound natural.
In other words, it's pretty good, but you can also tell that it's a first novel. The style is unpolished but competent enough to stay out of the way of the narrative most of the time. I'd expect that everything gels pretty well in future novels, actually, and it's cool to see something that's polished enough to be of publishable quality but still rough enough that you can see how the story was shaped.
So yeah, after this next little bout of reading, I'll be downloading the second in the Dresden series for my Kindle. First though, Stephen King and another rough draft of a novel written by a friend.
At some point, I *really* have to catch up on my comic books...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Allowing Yourself to Suck
I’m writing a lot more than I used to these days, which is a good thing for a variety of reasons. For one thing, I’m getting a lot of practice under my belt, and for another it’s training me to look at storytelling from a more critical, ‘insider’s’ perspective. While enjoying something on an emotional level, I can also take it apart piece by piece, figure out what works and what didn’t, compare and contrast how I would have done something with how it was ultimately presented and learn that way. Learning to write and learning to read like a writer are very interconnected concepts, and it’s rather exciting to feel like I’m getting my legs with what’s essentially a new language.
One of the not so great things about writing more often is facing down the fact that I’m simply not very good at it yet. Most of the time my characterization is poor, my dialogue and description isn’t very efficient, and I’m not yet practiced at juggling a bunch of eggs in a scene. Paragraphs will run from description to internal monologue to action without very smooth transitions, so scenes feel jarring and a bit schizophrenic. It’s a lot harder than it looks to switch gears from function to function in a single scene, so it makes me respect the fact that people can have a scene do multiple things (introducing characters, establishing motivation, reinforcing themes and moods) so effortlessly.
It can be a little disheartening when you share company with people who are so good. I’m lucky enough to be married to a very good writer, and I’ve known quite a few people who seem to have a natural talent for it. Back in Arkansas, so many people just have this innate understanding of how to tell a story, and they make it seem like the easiest thing in the world. I’m not sure if that ability was ingrained in them or what, but now that I’m trying to blaze their trail on my own I see that I have a lot of catching up to do.
And that’s a really difficult thing to accept: the fact that compared to a lot of your peers, you suck. No one wants to have one of their worst fears realized -- that they’re just not very good at something they desperately want to do. It’s a pretty strong blow to your pride and it makes you just want to give up. I know there’s a lot of times where I just want to throw in the towel, to say that it might be better if I just gave up the illusion of being a writer. No matter how good I get, I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never be like *them*.
There are multiple ways out of this trap, but here’s the idea that worked for me. It’s the idea of impermanence. No matter what state you’re in, no matter how firmly entrenched you think you are, every state is passing. I suck now, that’s a fact. But if I keep working at it, if I keep paying attention to my mistakes and working to correct them, then I’ll get better. Eventually, I’ll suck a little less. And a little less still. And then I’ll be OK. One day, if I work hard enough, I might even be pretty good. All it requires is dedication and patience, and the belief that the current state of sucky affairs will not last.
So right now I’m working on three different short stories that aren’t very good. One I’ll likely edit and post online, another I’ll submit to a zine I somehow got let into, and another I’ll try to submit for ‘legitimate’ publication -- though it might not be up to snuff until next year. Sure, none of these stories might not be the best on the web, or in this particular zine issue, or in that anthology, but I’ll have worked hard on them. And I can use the experience to put a little distance between myself and my current suckiness.
This tack might not work for everyone, of course. Sometimes it doesn’t help to have a kind of mantra when you’re feeling down on yourself. “I suck right now, but I will still do the best I can. Later, I won’t be quite so bad -- as long as I work hard now.” Maybe it’s not productive to think, “I suck at writing, so what? I’ll do it anyway.”
Does anyone else have suggestions? What do you tell yourself to push through a time of self-doubt?
One of the not so great things about writing more often is facing down the fact that I’m simply not very good at it yet. Most of the time my characterization is poor, my dialogue and description isn’t very efficient, and I’m not yet practiced at juggling a bunch of eggs in a scene. Paragraphs will run from description to internal monologue to action without very smooth transitions, so scenes feel jarring and a bit schizophrenic. It’s a lot harder than it looks to switch gears from function to function in a single scene, so it makes me respect the fact that people can have a scene do multiple things (introducing characters, establishing motivation, reinforcing themes and moods) so effortlessly.
It can be a little disheartening when you share company with people who are so good. I’m lucky enough to be married to a very good writer, and I’ve known quite a few people who seem to have a natural talent for it. Back in Arkansas, so many people just have this innate understanding of how to tell a story, and they make it seem like the easiest thing in the world. I’m not sure if that ability was ingrained in them or what, but now that I’m trying to blaze their trail on my own I see that I have a lot of catching up to do.
And that’s a really difficult thing to accept: the fact that compared to a lot of your peers, you suck. No one wants to have one of their worst fears realized -- that they’re just not very good at something they desperately want to do. It’s a pretty strong blow to your pride and it makes you just want to give up. I know there’s a lot of times where I just want to throw in the towel, to say that it might be better if I just gave up the illusion of being a writer. No matter how good I get, I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never be like *them*.
There are multiple ways out of this trap, but here’s the idea that worked for me. It’s the idea of impermanence. No matter what state you’re in, no matter how firmly entrenched you think you are, every state is passing. I suck now, that’s a fact. But if I keep working at it, if I keep paying attention to my mistakes and working to correct them, then I’ll get better. Eventually, I’ll suck a little less. And a little less still. And then I’ll be OK. One day, if I work hard enough, I might even be pretty good. All it requires is dedication and patience, and the belief that the current state of sucky affairs will not last.
So right now I’m working on three different short stories that aren’t very good. One I’ll likely edit and post online, another I’ll submit to a zine I somehow got let into, and another I’ll try to submit for ‘legitimate’ publication -- though it might not be up to snuff until next year. Sure, none of these stories might not be the best on the web, or in this particular zine issue, or in that anthology, but I’ll have worked hard on them. And I can use the experience to put a little distance between myself and my current suckiness.
This tack might not work for everyone, of course. Sometimes it doesn’t help to have a kind of mantra when you’re feeling down on yourself. “I suck right now, but I will still do the best I can. Later, I won’t be quite so bad -- as long as I work hard now.” Maybe it’s not productive to think, “I suck at writing, so what? I’ll do it anyway.”
Does anyone else have suggestions? What do you tell yourself to push through a time of self-doubt?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
National Poetry Month Aftermath
Most years after I write a collection of thirty poems for National Poetry Month, I shut them away in a drawer and I never think of them again. This is pretty unfortunate -- not because you guys will never get to see such great work again or anything, but because I'm effectively robbing myself of much of the creative process. The raw material has been formed, and now it's just waiting for a delicate hand to shape it into something distinct and beautiful.
I won't lie to you, most of the poems I write in the month of April are just stinkers. They're half-formed ideas that I just threw up to meet the deadline, without much thought or car put into them. But who knows, maybe there's a seed in some of those that's been fertilized by all of the crap. And beyond that, there are actual poems that I really liked and, with nurturing, might even be worth submitting to a place or two later on down the road.
Writing poetry -- or anything at all -- isn't really worth the effort it takes if you're not going to see the process through. I have over a hundred poems written over the past four or five years that I've thrown up in various journals and subsequently forgotten about. It's time to dust them off, see what's worth pursuing, and see the projects through to their bitter end.
I still need a little bit of space from this most recent batch of poetry, so starting in June I'll look through the poems I wrote for last year's National Poetry Month and grab the twelve I like most. From there, I'll edit one a week, submit them to peer review, and eventually, start looking for places that might want to publish them. Hopefully by year's end there'll be at least one poem that's been published somewhere. Either online or in print. I'm not picky!
Another thing I've come to realize is that I have little patience for reading poetry. There are a number of factors for this -- a lot of poems written by people who are just starting out use words that are archaic and impressive-sounding for false inflation of their ideas. That is, they're making relative mundane statements and observations, but using lofty language to try and mask the fact. I don't know if it's my age or experience, but it's easy to see through and just immediately makes me want to bail on the work with no further effort.
By contrast, you have poetry from a lot of the 'establishment' that feels impenetrable without a Master's degree in the humanities. That's equally discouraging; I've got nothing against work that makes you think or something you can enjoy on multiple levels, and in fact the work of taking a poem apart is pretty rewarding. But I think too many people make poetry so dense there's no entry into it without specialized knowledge. It's difficult to be a 'casual' poetry fan.
Maybe I'm just reading all of the wrong people, but the result of this is that I'm just not reading poetry at all. And I think that's resulted in a degradation of my work. The areas of the brain that decipher metaphor and other poetic tricks are the same ones in play when you create poetry. And thinking of poetry as a realm of expression for people only interested in emotionally disconnect word-logic puzzles or emo kids with little to say makes your own work suffer. It's absolutely not true, but it's a hard stereotype to shake. When a part-time poet feels that way about his craft, you know the medium is in trouble.
So, what to do? The obvious answer is to read more poetry, put up with the chaff to get to the good stuff. I could brush off my old favorites -- Billy Collins, Tony Hoagland, Charles Rafferty -- to remind me that it's possible for poetry to be emotionally rich and complex, yet accessible. Or I could ask the three friends I know who like poetry who they recommend. But maybe I could encourage a bit of discussion here.
So, what do you guys think? What poets would you recommend to reawaken interest in a disillusioned reader? Have any of you ever experienced poetry burn-out before? What did you do to get out of it?
I won't lie to you, most of the poems I write in the month of April are just stinkers. They're half-formed ideas that I just threw up to meet the deadline, without much thought or car put into them. But who knows, maybe there's a seed in some of those that's been fertilized by all of the crap. And beyond that, there are actual poems that I really liked and, with nurturing, might even be worth submitting to a place or two later on down the road.
Writing poetry -- or anything at all -- isn't really worth the effort it takes if you're not going to see the process through. I have over a hundred poems written over the past four or five years that I've thrown up in various journals and subsequently forgotten about. It's time to dust them off, see what's worth pursuing, and see the projects through to their bitter end.
I still need a little bit of space from this most recent batch of poetry, so starting in June I'll look through the poems I wrote for last year's National Poetry Month and grab the twelve I like most. From there, I'll edit one a week, submit them to peer review, and eventually, start looking for places that might want to publish them. Hopefully by year's end there'll be at least one poem that's been published somewhere. Either online or in print. I'm not picky!
Another thing I've come to realize is that I have little patience for reading poetry. There are a number of factors for this -- a lot of poems written by people who are just starting out use words that are archaic and impressive-sounding for false inflation of their ideas. That is, they're making relative mundane statements and observations, but using lofty language to try and mask the fact. I don't know if it's my age or experience, but it's easy to see through and just immediately makes me want to bail on the work with no further effort.
By contrast, you have poetry from a lot of the 'establishment' that feels impenetrable without a Master's degree in the humanities. That's equally discouraging; I've got nothing against work that makes you think or something you can enjoy on multiple levels, and in fact the work of taking a poem apart is pretty rewarding. But I think too many people make poetry so dense there's no entry into it without specialized knowledge. It's difficult to be a 'casual' poetry fan.
Maybe I'm just reading all of the wrong people, but the result of this is that I'm just not reading poetry at all. And I think that's resulted in a degradation of my work. The areas of the brain that decipher metaphor and other poetic tricks are the same ones in play when you create poetry. And thinking of poetry as a realm of expression for people only interested in emotionally disconnect word-logic puzzles or emo kids with little to say makes your own work suffer. It's absolutely not true, but it's a hard stereotype to shake. When a part-time poet feels that way about his craft, you know the medium is in trouble.
So, what to do? The obvious answer is to read more poetry, put up with the chaff to get to the good stuff. I could brush off my old favorites -- Billy Collins, Tony Hoagland, Charles Rafferty -- to remind me that it's possible for poetry to be emotionally rich and complex, yet accessible. Or I could ask the three friends I know who like poetry who they recommend. But maybe I could encourage a bit of discussion here.
So, what do you guys think? What poets would you recommend to reawaken interest in a disillusioned reader? Have any of you ever experienced poetry burn-out before? What did you do to get out of it?
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Poem #30: Self-Portrait
He is of a dark complexion with hair that indicates laziness or perhaps avoidance.
There is the makings of a shaped body dominated by a large belly;
he loves food but also loves the idea of discipline.
He has the kind of frame that you hate to see go but you love to watch leave.
Secretly thrilled by his color, his hair, his teeth, his feet,
loves the idea of these as slipped seemings for his inherent nature.
Tries to be subtle about said nature, but fails at it; it's all around him
if you really look. He alternates between pride, sloth and whimsy
which means he'll never be as consistent as he likes
but he'll keep trying; it's his own stone, and he'll roll it up the hill
any damned way he pleases.
Worries that his eyes are too dark, longs to steal the spark he sees in others,
imagines himself as Pollack slashing colors on huge canvasses --
transmitting a wordless reality that will never be understood
because it can't be explained.
Then he realizes what pretentiousness that is and tries anyway.
Embarrassed, he knows other people will always say it better
and that he'll just be a finger pointing at the finger who points at the moon.
Sometimes, he accepts that.
Others...
He loves and is loved.
He is preoccupied with endings because he can never get to them.
And there are a million things he will never get to do.
He sees himself as small when he is not.
He sees himself as poor though he is not.
Once he realizes his potential, he will live up to his responsibility.
There is the makings of a shaped body dominated by a large belly;
he loves food but also loves the idea of discipline.
He has the kind of frame that you hate to see go but you love to watch leave.
Secretly thrilled by his color, his hair, his teeth, his feet,
loves the idea of these as slipped seemings for his inherent nature.
Tries to be subtle about said nature, but fails at it; it's all around him
if you really look. He alternates between pride, sloth and whimsy
which means he'll never be as consistent as he likes
but he'll keep trying; it's his own stone, and he'll roll it up the hill
any damned way he pleases.
Worries that his eyes are too dark, longs to steal the spark he sees in others,
imagines himself as Pollack slashing colors on huge canvasses --
transmitting a wordless reality that will never be understood
because it can't be explained.
Then he realizes what pretentiousness that is and tries anyway.
Embarrassed, he knows other people will always say it better
and that he'll just be a finger pointing at the finger who points at the moon.
Sometimes, he accepts that.
Others...
He loves and is loved.
He is preoccupied with endings because he can never get to them.
And there are a million things he will never get to do.
He sees himself as small when he is not.
He sees himself as poor though he is not.
Once he realizes his potential, he will live up to his responsibility.
Poem #29: Why Running Is Best
Most of the time, it's just terrible.
You're sweating and huffing, you have to control your breathing
and your gait. You must watch out for the people around you.
People never cheer you on; at best they nod and step aside
while looking at your generous belly or the way sweat drips
from your second chin. They never congratulate your effort
to look better; they merely think how much worse you'd look
if you weren't doing that.
But every once in a while, an inhale will force your back straight
and your eyes up, and the colorful world you've ignored for a mile
is right in front of you. There are houses that broke someone's back to make,
a family who lives inside and tends to the roses and poppies.
There are bees brushing pollen on the backs of their legs before they lift
like tiny helicopters, delivering their payload to the next petals, and the next.
There are dogs, babies, cats, toys and sunlight.
There is wind and scent and traffic lights and cars
and there's you, a part of this scene moving through
not perfect, but not bad, with every right to be there.
And when you collapse, soaked and exhausted
on your bed there's the knowledge of tiredness earned,
a sense of accomplishment that won't replace the construction of a good home
but gets you just close enough to believe that you can do anything,
if you just push yourself for one more step.
You're sweating and huffing, you have to control your breathing
and your gait. You must watch out for the people around you.
People never cheer you on; at best they nod and step aside
while looking at your generous belly or the way sweat drips
from your second chin. They never congratulate your effort
to look better; they merely think how much worse you'd look
if you weren't doing that.
But every once in a while, an inhale will force your back straight
and your eyes up, and the colorful world you've ignored for a mile
is right in front of you. There are houses that broke someone's back to make,
a family who lives inside and tends to the roses and poppies.
There are bees brushing pollen on the backs of their legs before they lift
like tiny helicopters, delivering their payload to the next petals, and the next.
There are dogs, babies, cats, toys and sunlight.
There is wind and scent and traffic lights and cars
and there's you, a part of this scene moving through
not perfect, but not bad, with every right to be there.
And when you collapse, soaked and exhausted
on your bed there's the knowledge of tiredness earned,
a sense of accomplishment that won't replace the construction of a good home
but gets you just close enough to believe that you can do anything,
if you just push yourself for one more step.
Poem #28: A Diary of Sins
I've written down the things I'm not proud of
and laid them out for you in a neat little line.
You might think this puts a distance between myself and these acts
but that's not the way I see it:
speaking is quick and thoughtless --
I just make my tongue and lips work in the way I've rehearsed
but writing, writing is a slow thing that demands your attention.
You can't put something to paper without meaning it,
and I've meant all the words you'll find there.
So, if you please, write my absolutions in the second half,
tell me that God's grace is with me and that he still finds me fit.
But choose your words carefully, Father. I'll know if they're thoughtless
and there is nothing worse than committing sins not worthy
of your full attention.
and laid them out for you in a neat little line.
You might think this puts a distance between myself and these acts
but that's not the way I see it:
speaking is quick and thoughtless --
I just make my tongue and lips work in the way I've rehearsed
but writing, writing is a slow thing that demands your attention.
You can't put something to paper without meaning it,
and I've meant all the words you'll find there.
So, if you please, write my absolutions in the second half,
tell me that God's grace is with me and that he still finds me fit.
But choose your words carefully, Father. I'll know if they're thoughtless
and there is nothing worse than committing sins not worthy
of your full attention.
Poem #27: The Enlightened One
It doesn't matter how old he is; he wears his age well.
When he makes tea, he makes tea; when he washes the dishes,
he does so fully.
He has his habits, but he is not burdened by them --
they are merely comfortable clothes that serve their purpose.
There is always the capacity for surprise; he's seen a thing or two,
and his educated guesses are very good, but he realizes
that you can never truly know anything, and he is comfortable with that.
He sees people as people first, everything else second.
He is aware of the reality that whoever speaks to him wants something,
and he is not resentful of this: desire is a natural thing,
even when it drives people to unnatural, destructive behavior.
He is happy to provide what is demanded, as long as it is his to give.
Complication is something he can navigate by cutting through to the simple realities,
though he is aware how everything can be colored and subsumed
by their relationships.
He is appreciative of the smallest things.
The way the sunlight hits the leaves,
the curves of his lover's back,
the timing of tension's release,
the clockwork tick of a good story.
He wakes up the same way he goes to bed,
quietly, simply, with contentment purring in his heart
even through the noise and chaos of the world around him.
He is not perfect by any means,
but he is flawless in his imperfection.
When he makes tea, he makes tea; when he washes the dishes,
he does so fully.
He has his habits, but he is not burdened by them --
they are merely comfortable clothes that serve their purpose.
There is always the capacity for surprise; he's seen a thing or two,
and his educated guesses are very good, but he realizes
that you can never truly know anything, and he is comfortable with that.
He sees people as people first, everything else second.
He is aware of the reality that whoever speaks to him wants something,
and he is not resentful of this: desire is a natural thing,
even when it drives people to unnatural, destructive behavior.
He is happy to provide what is demanded, as long as it is his to give.
Complication is something he can navigate by cutting through to the simple realities,
though he is aware how everything can be colored and subsumed
by their relationships.
He is appreciative of the smallest things.
The way the sunlight hits the leaves,
the curves of his lover's back,
the timing of tension's release,
the clockwork tick of a good story.
He wakes up the same way he goes to bed,
quietly, simply, with contentment purring in his heart
even through the noise and chaos of the world around him.
He is not perfect by any means,
but he is flawless in his imperfection.
Poem #26: Depths of Mind
To him the world is always colorful
and something must be monochrome to catch his attention.
It's why he loves the old movies with Bogey and Bacall,
lives for those visionaries who make a strong statement in either-ors.
He's tired of living in a world with shades, variations on a figure
that could mean anything depending on its relationship to everything else.
Black is so much deeper than grey.
White is so much more pure than cream.
The older he gets, the more he finds himself dancing around extremes,
mistaking dim bulbs for the sun, playing havoc with his navigation,
losing all sense of perspective for the sake of the simple.
Sometime, once he's grown comfortable, even two options will start to annoy him
and he'll try his best to ignore anything else
but the light he dances around, crashing over and over again,
burning the choice out of smooth, smooth brain.
and something must be monochrome to catch his attention.
It's why he loves the old movies with Bogey and Bacall,
lives for those visionaries who make a strong statement in either-ors.
He's tired of living in a world with shades, variations on a figure
that could mean anything depending on its relationship to everything else.
Black is so much deeper than grey.
White is so much more pure than cream.
The older he gets, the more he finds himself dancing around extremes,
mistaking dim bulbs for the sun, playing havoc with his navigation,
losing all sense of perspective for the sake of the simple.
Sometime, once he's grown comfortable, even two options will start to annoy him
and he'll try his best to ignore anything else
but the light he dances around, crashing over and over again,
burning the choice out of smooth, smooth brain.
Poem #25: The Star
When you look up at it, it's hard to imagine it being huge and hot.
From down here it looks so small, so cold and sharp,
just one of a myriad dotting the sky with the faint light it's managed.
You never think about how much energy it's expended
to shine down on you, the distance and time it's taken to be there.
You never think about what it's really like, an enormous fire
raging out there in the void, providing heat and motion to a universe
that would be dead otherwise. It expands and contracts,
breathes and expires -- mindless but alive. And we especially never think
how long ago it really existed, or the fact that the night sky we see
are little more than photographs, a celestial photo album with family members
who may or may not be there now. We see them as they wish to be remembered,
strong and young, in their prime, full of spit, full of fire.
From down here it looks so small, so cold and sharp,
just one of a myriad dotting the sky with the faint light it's managed.
You never think about how much energy it's expended
to shine down on you, the distance and time it's taken to be there.
You never think about what it's really like, an enormous fire
raging out there in the void, providing heat and motion to a universe
that would be dead otherwise. It expands and contracts,
breathes and expires -- mindless but alive. And we especially never think
how long ago it really existed, or the fact that the night sky we see
are little more than photographs, a celestial photo album with family members
who may or may not be there now. We see them as they wish to be remembered,
strong and young, in their prime, full of spit, full of fire.
Poems #23 and #24: Catfish/Wearing Bees
Catfish
Father went away every weekend to a place we couldn't follow
and he'd always come back with things I'd never seen before.
One time, it was a dead bird he'd wrapped in his handkerchief
for me to see; I was fascinated by its tiny eyelids, the way the skin
matched its feathers, the scales on its legs.
Sometimes he would bring home a rock or a giant pinecone
and those were interesting enough until I forgot the stories
he'd always given me with them. With the words gone, so was their luster.
My favorite, though, was when he brought home the fish.
Always in the detergent bucket, with water and silt in the bottom,
always cramped, nimble bodies curved around the sides,
wide eyes staring in terror at the air-breathing giants above them.
I never knew how they died, but I would follow them from the yard
to the kitchen, where Mother was ready with her knife.
Her incisions were clean and practiced, right up the belly,
under the cheek, and the smell of them was sweet and watery
just like the candied blood soaked through the newspapers.
From then on, my nose took over --
I smelled everything from the cast-iron skillet,
the onions, the bacon grease and Crisco, the lima beans,
the sugar and flour, cheese, potatoes, the leaves and dirt outside.
Then, the dish, in three sections:
succotash, boiled vegetables, and a brown mass
lightly breaded and vaguely fish-shaped, without its head
but with all of its terror, still but sizzling.
It was the most amazing thing to me, the journey of that catfish
from its magical place to mine, the last it would know.
And it never occurred to me the suffering that went into that simple plate;
the work of my father, of my mother,
the life of everything else.
Wearing Bees
He claimed they did it because he smelled so sweet
but we knew the secret: a tiny cage where the queen
was held captive. Her knights would come first,
trying to draw her out, and then curious onlookers
rubber-necking the scene of the accident.
One bee would leave and dance the story to his friends
and they would come, a massive cloud
dimly aware that something great was happening,
that order had been disrupted, if only for a little bit.
They were content to be a part of it just to be near her,
the only order they needed. This is the love of a serf for his master,
something the old man would never understand.
"See?" he would say, and smile.
I always noticed how they would move away from his teeth.
"My breath is like honey to them."
Father went away every weekend to a place we couldn't follow
and he'd always come back with things I'd never seen before.
One time, it was a dead bird he'd wrapped in his handkerchief
for me to see; I was fascinated by its tiny eyelids, the way the skin
matched its feathers, the scales on its legs.
Sometimes he would bring home a rock or a giant pinecone
and those were interesting enough until I forgot the stories
he'd always given me with them. With the words gone, so was their luster.
My favorite, though, was when he brought home the fish.
Always in the detergent bucket, with water and silt in the bottom,
always cramped, nimble bodies curved around the sides,
wide eyes staring in terror at the air-breathing giants above them.
I never knew how they died, but I would follow them from the yard
to the kitchen, where Mother was ready with her knife.
Her incisions were clean and practiced, right up the belly,
under the cheek, and the smell of them was sweet and watery
just like the candied blood soaked through the newspapers.
From then on, my nose took over --
I smelled everything from the cast-iron skillet,
the onions, the bacon grease and Crisco, the lima beans,
the sugar and flour, cheese, potatoes, the leaves and dirt outside.
Then, the dish, in three sections:
succotash, boiled vegetables, and a brown mass
lightly breaded and vaguely fish-shaped, without its head
but with all of its terror, still but sizzling.
It was the most amazing thing to me, the journey of that catfish
from its magical place to mine, the last it would know.
And it never occurred to me the suffering that went into that simple plate;
the work of my father, of my mother,
the life of everything else.
Wearing Bees
He claimed they did it because he smelled so sweet
but we knew the secret: a tiny cage where the queen
was held captive. Her knights would come first,
trying to draw her out, and then curious onlookers
rubber-necking the scene of the accident.
One bee would leave and dance the story to his friends
and they would come, a massive cloud
dimly aware that something great was happening,
that order had been disrupted, if only for a little bit.
They were content to be a part of it just to be near her,
the only order they needed. This is the love of a serf for his master,
something the old man would never understand.
"See?" he would say, and smile.
I always noticed how they would move away from his teeth.
"My breath is like honey to them."
Poem #22: This is the Way
Hollywood always imagines we'd know about it
because to be honest it's more dramatic that way.
But I like to think that we'd be doing what we've always done --
picking a good wine for the salmon with lemon sauce,
lying on the rooftop with a best friend, looking at the stars,
making love with the lights on so you can see each other.
Then, suddenly,
there's a flash
and a rumble
and then nothing is ever the same again.
because to be honest it's more dramatic that way.
But I like to think that we'd be doing what we've always done --
picking a good wine for the salmon with lemon sauce,
lying on the rooftop with a best friend, looking at the stars,
making love with the lights on so you can see each other.
Then, suddenly,
there's a flash
and a rumble
and then nothing is ever the same again.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Poem #21: Cloven Wingtips
He never meant to be a friend
but we made him one anyway
and that is something he'll never forgive us for.
We've shaved his legs, we've covered his obscene nakedness--
the pants are baggy and down to the floor
just to make sure there are no accidents.
His teeth were flattened, and whitened and
we've diluted the brimstone right out of his mouth.
We let him eat an egg sandwich now and then.
We've bleached his skin, we've filed his horns,
we've covered that bare and blasphemous chest
with a double-breasted suit that makes him respectable.
His hair has been tamed into something far more agreeable
and in just the right light he has the dangerous edge of a Dean or Brando
as we take him out of the wild and put him squarely in the boardroom.
It's there he plots in between games of solitaire,
nudging things just so while he bides his time.
In no time at all, you see, he'll have a great view
as he remakes the world in his own image
and his imported clothing wilts right off of him.
He'll smile, a horrible, wild one he'd been saving
for just that night.
but we made him one anyway
and that is something he'll never forgive us for.
We've shaved his legs, we've covered his obscene nakedness--
the pants are baggy and down to the floor
just to make sure there are no accidents.
His teeth were flattened, and whitened and
we've diluted the brimstone right out of his mouth.
We let him eat an egg sandwich now and then.
We've bleached his skin, we've filed his horns,
we've covered that bare and blasphemous chest
with a double-breasted suit that makes him respectable.
His hair has been tamed into something far more agreeable
and in just the right light he has the dangerous edge of a Dean or Brando
as we take him out of the wild and put him squarely in the boardroom.
It's there he plots in between games of solitaire,
nudging things just so while he bides his time.
In no time at all, you see, he'll have a great view
as he remakes the world in his own image
and his imported clothing wilts right off of him.
He'll smile, a horrible, wild one he'd been saving
for just that night.
Poem #20: The Benefits of Religious Upbringing
I think often of my cravings:
the calls for beef and pork, sugar, fat,
the need to express my subverted sexuality
in the most fantastic way possible --
I think of them collected into a neurosis,
how their influence has travelled to every corner of my life
so that any time there's happiness inevitably there is shame.
This is what I'm used to. I'm not sure I understand what healthiness is.
I often think of what it would be like
to indulge those cravings without remorse,
to walk into a restaurant, order the biggest, roundest thing on the menu,
watch it drip onto my table before I take that first bite
and feel simply bliss without the the cricket gnawing my ear.
One day, maybe, release will be just that
without the burden of additional sin, the fundamental knowledge
that what feels right is always wrong,
that little sting that keeps me from surrendering to that tingle of contentment.
Until then, I'll keep piecing together moments here and there
where just this is enough and the mystical feeling of
consequence-free enjoyment never enters the equation.
the calls for beef and pork, sugar, fat,
the need to express my subverted sexuality
in the most fantastic way possible --
I think of them collected into a neurosis,
how their influence has travelled to every corner of my life
so that any time there's happiness inevitably there is shame.
This is what I'm used to. I'm not sure I understand what healthiness is.
I often think of what it would be like
to indulge those cravings without remorse,
to walk into a restaurant, order the biggest, roundest thing on the menu,
watch it drip onto my table before I take that first bite
and feel simply bliss without the the cricket gnawing my ear.
One day, maybe, release will be just that
without the burden of additional sin, the fundamental knowledge
that what feels right is always wrong,
that little sting that keeps me from surrendering to that tingle of contentment.
Until then, I'll keep piecing together moments here and there
where just this is enough and the mystical feeling of
consequence-free enjoyment never enters the equation.
Poem #19: The Little Deaths
She's heard that the closer you are to bliss, the closer you come to death
and she's always been one to test the theories that entice her.
That's why you'll find her on the stool at 2 pm, readying herself
for a marathon run through the bartender's book.
By 5, she's not even close to quitting time; she's still got miles to go.
She's the one who'll be dancing alone by the jukebox,
shouting for the nearest person to come have some fun with her
a little too desperately; she's the one who'll sidle up next to you
like she's known you all of her life. She's the one who will tell you secrets.
They come tumbling over her lips from some forgotten place
and they evaporate like hot alcohol on her breath
but that's precisely the point. She expunges them to kill them,
to send them out of their host where they won't hope to survive
but, and here's the worst part, they always do.
Just long enough to crawl back to the stranger's apartment
she finds herself in at noon, her head pounding with the hard work
of last night's forgetting. They lodge themselves unseen, right where they were
and they fill her with an animal's sudden need
to brave the blinding sun, to seek out her territory's bar,
to eat pretzels to slow the tequila's sink into her bloodstream.
She drinks, she dances, she talks, she kills
night after night after night, never understanding how she destroys
the wrong parts of herself every time.
and she's always been one to test the theories that entice her.
That's why you'll find her on the stool at 2 pm, readying herself
for a marathon run through the bartender's book.
By 5, she's not even close to quitting time; she's still got miles to go.
She's the one who'll be dancing alone by the jukebox,
shouting for the nearest person to come have some fun with her
a little too desperately; she's the one who'll sidle up next to you
like she's known you all of her life. She's the one who will tell you secrets.
They come tumbling over her lips from some forgotten place
and they evaporate like hot alcohol on her breath
but that's precisely the point. She expunges them to kill them,
to send them out of their host where they won't hope to survive
but, and here's the worst part, they always do.
Just long enough to crawl back to the stranger's apartment
she finds herself in at noon, her head pounding with the hard work
of last night's forgetting. They lodge themselves unseen, right where they were
and they fill her with an animal's sudden need
to brave the blinding sun, to seek out her territory's bar,
to eat pretzels to slow the tequila's sink into her bloodstream.
She drinks, she dances, she talks, she kills
night after night after night, never understanding how she destroys
the wrong parts of herself every time.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Poem #18: Damned
When he came down from the mountains
and told everyone about the great things he had seen
they only replied "You haven't come down far enough."
They stripped from him
the clothes he made himself
from the carcasses of goats and meager leaves,
they snapped the walking sticks
he wittled from the trees that hugged the foothills,
they kicked him bleeding and naked
further down the valley. He bore it without complaint.
When he arrived at the next town,
he told them about the great things he had seen
through swollen eyes and cracked lips,
and they said "You're crazy, but we'll help you anyway."
They nursed him and clothed him, made him comfortable,
but they shook their heads when he told them of wonders
far from home; eventually, he fell silent and smiling
until, one day, someone looked up at the jagged teeth
scraping the sky all around him and wondered
what the village looked like from up there.
He took them aside and he told them
"You'll be damned if you go, and you'll be damned if you stay here.
Go."
and told everyone about the great things he had seen
they only replied "You haven't come down far enough."
They stripped from him
the clothes he made himself
from the carcasses of goats and meager leaves,
they snapped the walking sticks
he wittled from the trees that hugged the foothills,
they kicked him bleeding and naked
further down the valley. He bore it without complaint.
When he arrived at the next town,
he told them about the great things he had seen
through swollen eyes and cracked lips,
and they said "You're crazy, but we'll help you anyway."
They nursed him and clothed him, made him comfortable,
but they shook their heads when he told them of wonders
far from home; eventually, he fell silent and smiling
until, one day, someone looked up at the jagged teeth
scraping the sky all around him and wondered
what the village looked like from up there.
He took them aside and he told them
"You'll be damned if you go, and you'll be damned if you stay here.
Go."
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Poems #16 and 17: Crushing/Why I Wear Gloves
Crushing
These days, it’s hardest simply to say “No”
simply because we’ve run out of reasons to.
Why not? someone will say, and when you get down to it
there’s no such thing as a good answer.
Surrendering is easy, doing what’s easy is easy
and it gets you the same place as doing what’s hard
so what’s the point?
Temperance just makes us boring --
it’s much more exciting to live on the extremes
just because the view at the apex of the pendulum is so enthralling.
Who wants to wear brown when orange and purple
are always in season?
Who wants to be quiet when it’s become so easy
to be loud?
Who wants to work so hard when it’s better
to be friends with who you work with?
We’ve let ourselves grow soft with indulgence
until we barely notice the pressure of our desires
and the way it immobilizes us.
Suddenly, one day, we can’t move
because we’ve never learned to resist
the winds blowing all around us
saying “Why not? Consume.”
Why I Wear Gloves
There’s an entire unseen world out there that wants to do me harm.
Unseen animals are crawling on every surface all the time,
and you’re an entire world to them. Why wouldn’t they exploit you as a resource?
I can imagine them, strip-mining the minerals out of your skin
for their own use, taking your hard-earned fuel and using it for their own.
They’re relentless, and they won’t stop simply because
they’ve never learned how. They’ll keep on multiplying
until they’ve covered every inch of you with their filth,
until you’re wasting away with disease. The fight against their kind
ages you, you know, and me, I’m going to live forever
as long as I protect myself from their assault.
These gloves are my bid for immortality, you see;
I’ve suffocated everything that touched me
and I’m refusing access to anything else.
This is what I’ve learned from my time on Earth,
that the only way to truly live is to be lonely
These days, it’s hardest simply to say “No”
simply because we’ve run out of reasons to.
Why not? someone will say, and when you get down to it
there’s no such thing as a good answer.
Surrendering is easy, doing what’s easy is easy
and it gets you the same place as doing what’s hard
so what’s the point?
Temperance just makes us boring --
it’s much more exciting to live on the extremes
just because the view at the apex of the pendulum is so enthralling.
Who wants to wear brown when orange and purple
are always in season?
Who wants to be quiet when it’s become so easy
to be loud?
Who wants to work so hard when it’s better
to be friends with who you work with?
We’ve let ourselves grow soft with indulgence
until we barely notice the pressure of our desires
and the way it immobilizes us.
Suddenly, one day, we can’t move
because we’ve never learned to resist
the winds blowing all around us
saying “Why not? Consume.”
Why I Wear Gloves
There’s an entire unseen world out there that wants to do me harm.
Unseen animals are crawling on every surface all the time,
and you’re an entire world to them. Why wouldn’t they exploit you as a resource?
I can imagine them, strip-mining the minerals out of your skin
for their own use, taking your hard-earned fuel and using it for their own.
They’re relentless, and they won’t stop simply because
they’ve never learned how. They’ll keep on multiplying
until they’ve covered every inch of you with their filth,
until you’re wasting away with disease. The fight against their kind
ages you, you know, and me, I’m going to live forever
as long as I protect myself from their assault.
These gloves are my bid for immortality, you see;
I’ve suffocated everything that touched me
and I’m refusing access to anything else.
This is what I’ve learned from my time on Earth,
that the only way to truly live is to be lonely
Poem #15: 19:20
When they give the automatic letters
I always immediately think “rustling leaves”
and just like that I’m back to my childhood
at Roslyn Avenue, with the maple trees and mulberries,
the honeysuckle and tiny wild strawberries
growing between the cracks of the sidewalk.
I would remember the way we would squeeze dandelions
to see the milk, the mystery of the dead fireflies
that always greeted us on summer mornings.
Did they just hate mason jars? Or could they not survive captivity?
The face on the bottom right corner of the screen
gives us additional letters, looking as determined as possible.
C - The caramel candies I got for a penny from the corner store.
D - Our dogs, Lady and Chance, who liked to sleep underneath our porch.
M - Mina, one of my best friends, who suddenly got too old to play with boys.
A - Atlantic City, home of the best beach pizza and salt-water taffy...
The puzzle is easy, but I’m miles away from solving it by the time the letters turn.
“What’s wrong with you?” he says, bumping my elbow. “That was so easy!”
“Nothing,” I reply, and wrap my arms around him.
“I was just thinking about something else.”
I always immediately think “rustling leaves”
and just like that I’m back to my childhood
at Roslyn Avenue, with the maple trees and mulberries,
the honeysuckle and tiny wild strawberries
growing between the cracks of the sidewalk.
I would remember the way we would squeeze dandelions
to see the milk, the mystery of the dead fireflies
that always greeted us on summer mornings.
Did they just hate mason jars? Or could they not survive captivity?
The face on the bottom right corner of the screen
gives us additional letters, looking as determined as possible.
C - The caramel candies I got for a penny from the corner store.
D - Our dogs, Lady and Chance, who liked to sleep underneath our porch.
M - Mina, one of my best friends, who suddenly got too old to play with boys.
A - Atlantic City, home of the best beach pizza and salt-water taffy...
The puzzle is easy, but I’m miles away from solving it by the time the letters turn.
“What’s wrong with you?” he says, bumping my elbow. “That was so easy!”
“Nothing,” I reply, and wrap my arms around him.
“I was just thinking about something else.”
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Poem #14: A One Way Conversation
From my window, I see the trees speaking to one another
in ancient tongues, sharing news of the weather, the mating habits of birds,
what’s current in the cuisine of squirrels this year.
Branches will bend towards each other, then straighten
with wizened self-satisfaction; they know how to mesmerize
when they speak, command respect from the young saplings
who will do what they do one day but not yet.
They know that there might be someone like me,
watching them through the window, wondering what it’s like
to be so still, yet constantly moving, always changing.
How can anyone think the world is silent?
If you know what to listen for, it always has something to say.
in ancient tongues, sharing news of the weather, the mating habits of birds,
what’s current in the cuisine of squirrels this year.
Branches will bend towards each other, then straighten
with wizened self-satisfaction; they know how to mesmerize
when they speak, command respect from the young saplings
who will do what they do one day but not yet.
They know that there might be someone like me,
watching them through the window, wondering what it’s like
to be so still, yet constantly moving, always changing.
How can anyone think the world is silent?
If you know what to listen for, it always has something to say.
Poem #13: Cutting
Inevitably, you have to let some things go.
If you want to be one thing, with all of your heart,
it means you have to give up on those other things that catch your fancy.
You have to watch them fall away, one by one,
the doors of possibility closing with that tightening focus
on the reality you’ve chosen. This is what it means to grow up;
making the successful transition from “I can be anything”
to “I am now something”; and it’s rough, I know, because
those potential people are still you, and it always feels like a death in the family
when one of them goes away. It is acceptable to mourn.
But never let the grief get the best of you.
It’s a long road from indulging potential to aimless drifting,
and it’s quite easy to miss the signposts,
but you’ll know you’re there. Even if you hide behind billboards screaming
“All who wander are not lost”,
you’ll know.
If you want to be one thing, with all of your heart,
it means you have to give up on those other things that catch your fancy.
You have to watch them fall away, one by one,
the doors of possibility closing with that tightening focus
on the reality you’ve chosen. This is what it means to grow up;
making the successful transition from “I can be anything”
to “I am now something”; and it’s rough, I know, because
those potential people are still you, and it always feels like a death in the family
when one of them goes away. It is acceptable to mourn.
But never let the grief get the best of you.
It’s a long road from indulging potential to aimless drifting,
and it’s quite easy to miss the signposts,
but you’ll know you’re there. Even if you hide behind billboards screaming
“All who wander are not lost”,
you’ll know.
Poem #12: Or Maybe You're Just An Asshole
Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee,
which, depending on how many people take my advice,
could be after seven thirty but is more likely closer to nine.
I swear my blood is more caffeine than plasma.
The rush wears off right before eleven, so that’s no good for me either;
you’ll see me rush off for a walk with a granola bar in hand
and heaven help you if you try to stop me.
Lunch is late, because I’m putting out fires until then;
I’ll be occupied straight through early afternoon and by the time I’m hungry
you really won’t want to deal with me. Besides, I eat my salad in the park
and talking about work is the last thing I’ll want to do.
The earliest I can pencil you in is about two, but don’t expect me to be attentive.
There’s that mid-afternoon crash after lunch
and I’ll probably need to catch up on everything I let slide over lunch
while chugging Diet Coke -- you’ve seen me in work mode,
you know how much I hate to be disturbed.
I do have open office hours starting at four, but they’re always so busy;
there’s always at least eight people clamoring for my attention
and you know how hard it is to switch gears from one crisis to another.
I’m thinking it might be best to just stay late until I can get to you.
We’ll order in Chinese, we’ll huddle close over my laptop to see your charts
and I’ll make a comment about your perfume, how unassuming, yet sweet it is.
Just like you, I’ll say,
and my lips will touch your skin
before you have the chance to pull away.
which, depending on how many people take my advice,
could be after seven thirty but is more likely closer to nine.
I swear my blood is more caffeine than plasma.
The rush wears off right before eleven, so that’s no good for me either;
you’ll see me rush off for a walk with a granola bar in hand
and heaven help you if you try to stop me.
Lunch is late, because I’m putting out fires until then;
I’ll be occupied straight through early afternoon and by the time I’m hungry
you really won’t want to deal with me. Besides, I eat my salad in the park
and talking about work is the last thing I’ll want to do.
The earliest I can pencil you in is about two, but don’t expect me to be attentive.
There’s that mid-afternoon crash after lunch
and I’ll probably need to catch up on everything I let slide over lunch
while chugging Diet Coke -- you’ve seen me in work mode,
you know how much I hate to be disturbed.
I do have open office hours starting at four, but they’re always so busy;
there’s always at least eight people clamoring for my attention
and you know how hard it is to switch gears from one crisis to another.
I’m thinking it might be best to just stay late until I can get to you.
We’ll order in Chinese, we’ll huddle close over my laptop to see your charts
and I’ll make a comment about your perfume, how unassuming, yet sweet it is.
Just like you, I’ll say,
and my lips will touch your skin
before you have the chance to pull away.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Poem #11: To the Roots
Instead of coming up from the ground,
thick and full as children only to diminish
our potential with every choice until, at last,
we’re tiny, fragile things,
I like to think that we start at the end,
small and pliable, and every choice we make
brings us together, makes us stronger,
makes us wider and richer with experience.
Our momentum turns us downward,
and we join and join and join
until at last we’re sturdy and ancient,
able to support those coming after us on their journeys,
tender and green.
Though we become brown and ugly,
though we’re heavy and low,
we’re the part you lean against when you seek shade
and we’re the symbol of what you’ll miss
when the whole damned tree is gone.
thick and full as children only to diminish
our potential with every choice until, at last,
we’re tiny, fragile things,
I like to think that we start at the end,
small and pliable, and every choice we make
brings us together, makes us stronger,
makes us wider and richer with experience.
Our momentum turns us downward,
and we join and join and join
until at last we’re sturdy and ancient,
able to support those coming after us on their journeys,
tender and green.
Though we become brown and ugly,
though we’re heavy and low,
we’re the part you lean against when you seek shade
and we’re the symbol of what you’ll miss
when the whole damned tree is gone.
Poems #9 and #10: Smash and Grab/You Are What You Eat
Again, a pretty full weekend, so I thought I would post the weekend poems together. I think I'm starting to hit a stride.
The deadbolt seems useless now;
the door is always going to be broken.
There are the muddied bootprints tracked across the floor,
the first sign of the intruder’s violent nature
(an end table thrown onto the path from the hallway to her favorite reading chair),
the brand new flatscreen she had to replace with a smaller one.
It still doesn’t cover the scrapes on her hardwood floor
from where the entertainment center fell face-first, like a bar drunk;
sometimes she still thinks she sees the glimmer of smashed glass.
The books, curiously, are the same as they always were,
but the kitchen has never recovered --
the tea kettle’s whistle reminds her of the police siren
and the pop of the toaster forces her back
to the tromp of police shoes over her life’s wreckage
and she recalls how perfectly she couldn’t meet their eyes
even after they gave her their cards, after they apologized, after they left.
Her bedroom has changed the most.
It is tight and orderly, always locked before the lights are out
because, when she pulls up the covers and closes her eyes,
she swears she can hear him pacing the hallways
looking for the next thing to turn over, the next most valuable thing
to take right out from under her.
You Are What You Eat
I don’t know how I ever liked him.
He couldn’t appreciate the taste of a mulberry plucked right off the tree --
we’d always have to walk three blocks to the corner store for
a Ziploc bag full of penny candies instead. Never mind
that the honeysuckle in our yard was free, or that the rose petals
from Mom’s garden were tart and bitter and challenging
(it was like you could taste the thorns). It was all American cheese
and Wonder bread with this guy.
I knew it wouldn’t work when we planned our first barbecue.
I raided the perimeter, he snaked through the aisles
and we met at checkout with his foods all boxed in cardboard
and mine wrapped in plastic.
When we got home, I marinated the beef and mushrooms
while he microwaved the Velveeta and dug out the ranch dip with a spatula.
Our guests arrived, and I immediately took Vera aside to talk through
her standing me up last Tuesday.
He grilled the meat and was the first one to eat it.
He drank beer with our friends, he laughed and joked,
and in bed that night he told me how much he hated them.
Right then and there I said,
“I’m breaking up with you.”
Friday, April 8, 2011
Poem #8: The Complex of Simple Things
Everyone tells you to take it step by step
but they’ve never done it themselves.
Do you know how hard it is to focus on this one step
knowing that it will be followed by another, and then another?
They bleed together, the motion is automatic,
relegated to the part of the brain that keeps ticking without you
and you’re free to think of other things.
The way your foot hits flat on pavement reminds you to get
a better running shoe, and that reminds you to check out
that store you ran past one time, and that reminds you
of the old neighborhood with those great restaurants you miss.
Then, if you’re like me, you’re reminded of your gut
and the fact that you’re braving sunset and cold and judgemental looks
to lose it. The steps don’t matter themselves,
they’re just a means.
The end is what we’re conditioned to think about,
the next big thing, the connections we’ve made from now
to then to what will be.
Every step is the movement from one place to another,
and our journey is nothing without a place to come from or a place to go.
but they’ve never done it themselves.
Do you know how hard it is to focus on this one step
knowing that it will be followed by another, and then another?
They bleed together, the motion is automatic,
relegated to the part of the brain that keeps ticking without you
and you’re free to think of other things.
The way your foot hits flat on pavement reminds you to get
a better running shoe, and that reminds you to check out
that store you ran past one time, and that reminds you
of the old neighborhood with those great restaurants you miss.
Then, if you’re like me, you’re reminded of your gut
and the fact that you’re braving sunset and cold and judgemental looks
to lose it. The steps don’t matter themselves,
they’re just a means.
The end is what we’re conditioned to think about,
the next big thing, the connections we’ve made from now
to then to what will be.
Every step is the movement from one place to another,
and our journey is nothing without a place to come from or a place to go.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Poem #7: The Glass House
His shoes were an expensive barrier
keeping his toes away from the marble floors;
they were nice to look at, anyway, but not meant for touching.
The same was true of the lions protecting the narrow hallway
to his bedroom, where delicate things awaited his use.
The windows were thin and he liked them that way --
it put him closer to that fantastic city view, made him feel
as if he could reach out and touch all of that crystal glittering below.
The furniture was not made for people of any excess except wealth.
Brown leather, all imported, all vulnerable to anything sharper than a fingernail
backed against walls carefully clothed with etched paper, also imported,
that would not stand for being leaned against.
It took him ten years, but he kept his vow.
When he left the hard world of dirt behind,
where everything he owned had to withstand a variety of uses
he told himself he would learn one thing and do it so well
that he would never have to be his brush or a crude tool,
but a specialty surrounded by singular implements of like function,
that they would all do one thing well,
they would be delicate
and they would be his.
Now, with his brutish hands he held his demitasse
and toasted -- here’s to the dream and the trappings thereof
and may these soft things never remind him
of how hard he has become.
keeping his toes away from the marble floors;
they were nice to look at, anyway, but not meant for touching.
The same was true of the lions protecting the narrow hallway
to his bedroom, where delicate things awaited his use.
The windows were thin and he liked them that way --
it put him closer to that fantastic city view, made him feel
as if he could reach out and touch all of that crystal glittering below.
The furniture was not made for people of any excess except wealth.
Brown leather, all imported, all vulnerable to anything sharper than a fingernail
backed against walls carefully clothed with etched paper, also imported,
that would not stand for being leaned against.
It took him ten years, but he kept his vow.
When he left the hard world of dirt behind,
where everything he owned had to withstand a variety of uses
he told himself he would learn one thing and do it so well
that he would never have to be his brush or a crude tool,
but a specialty surrounded by singular implements of like function,
that they would all do one thing well,
they would be delicate
and they would be his.
Now, with his brutish hands he held his demitasse
and toasted -- here’s to the dream and the trappings thereof
and may these soft things never remind him
of how hard he has become.
Poem #6: Noblesse Oblige
When she was angry, the whole world knew it.
The dog would slink from the sound of the frying pan
and we would perk in the way we did
when we heard thunder approaching.
If we saw the storm rolling in we would seek out whatever shelter we could find;
a book borrowed from the library,
a doll that was suddenly unbearably naked.
We would wait for the clouds to pass and sometimes, they did.
That was her nature, mysterious patterns of weather we could not predict.
Every now and again, though;
lightning would strike. One of us would disappear, snatched up
in a frightened whimper or wail of despair
only discovered later, somewhere else, confused and red and wild-haired.
That was our way. We were nature’s children.
The droughts would come without warning,
entire evenings spent without a drop. We were expected
to scrounge for what we could, to go to bed grateful but wondering
why there were no clouds, why the wind didn’t move.
Later, in the darkness, our dreams would flash white and forked,
and we could almost taste the salt of water, bittersweet.
Those were the days we’d dance, voices raised and feet stamping,
doing what we had to
praying for rain.
The dog would slink from the sound of the frying pan
and we would perk in the way we did
when we heard thunder approaching.
If we saw the storm rolling in we would seek out whatever shelter we could find;
a book borrowed from the library,
a doll that was suddenly unbearably naked.
We would wait for the clouds to pass and sometimes, they did.
That was her nature, mysterious patterns of weather we could not predict.
Every now and again, though;
lightning would strike. One of us would disappear, snatched up
in a frightened whimper or wail of despair
only discovered later, somewhere else, confused and red and wild-haired.
That was our way. We were nature’s children.
The droughts would come without warning,
entire evenings spent without a drop. We were expected
to scrounge for what we could, to go to bed grateful but wondering
why there were no clouds, why the wind didn’t move.
Later, in the darkness, our dreams would flash white and forked,
and we could almost taste the salt of water, bittersweet.
Those were the days we’d dance, voices raised and feet stamping,
doing what we had to
praying for rain.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Poem #5: The Maestro
She can never stop hearing the music.
When she rises, the wind haunts her
with the echo of the violin her father played.
She can hear it, weaving through the trees
harmonizing with the branches, fading back in time
for the songbird solo.
The whistle of the tea kettle,
the percussion of dishes against silverware against furniture,
all set against the backbone hum of the rising sun.
The crickets play the same concert they always have
when she’s in the garden, but here’s what makes it special--
the overture of her leather gloves,
the allegro walk through her back yard,
the adagio of planning her tools,
the scherzo of hard work,
the triumph of sweat and exhaustion.
In the evening, the insects keep time
for the sun’s longer, lazier notes.
Sometimes, she jams with whoever’s around;
sometimes, she isn’t afraid of sounding crazy on her own --
she likes to improv.
Even the silence is music of its own,
empty bars of feeling her roots sliding full and deep and tight
in the fertile soil of her existence.
Those notes, her favorite, become long and even,
carrying her steadily on into the night
into the endless rehearsal of simple, tonal dreams.
When she rises, the wind haunts her
with the echo of the violin her father played.
She can hear it, weaving through the trees
harmonizing with the branches, fading back in time
for the songbird solo.
The whistle of the tea kettle,
the percussion of dishes against silverware against furniture,
all set against the backbone hum of the rising sun.
The crickets play the same concert they always have
when she’s in the garden, but here’s what makes it special--
the overture of her leather gloves,
the allegro walk through her back yard,
the adagio of planning her tools,
the scherzo of hard work,
the triumph of sweat and exhaustion.
In the evening, the insects keep time
for the sun’s longer, lazier notes.
Sometimes, she jams with whoever’s around;
sometimes, she isn’t afraid of sounding crazy on her own --
she likes to improv.
Even the silence is music of its own,
empty bars of feeling her roots sliding full and deep and tight
in the fertile soil of her existence.
Those notes, her favorite, become long and even,
carrying her steadily on into the night
into the endless rehearsal of simple, tonal dreams.
Poem #4: The University's Apprentice
He’s stared at computer screens for so long
his eyes glow with the cold fire of the world’s knowledge
and has stood on the shoulders of giants for so long
he has mistaken himself for one
there is no thing that he can’t do
no idea he will not entertain
the thought of point-counter-point makes him giddy
with possibility -- he assembles to dissemble,
to find the guts strewn out on his table and look for the gaps
where they connect, or don’t, where the missing parts
don’t have a corollary
then, he creates one
the universe is his laboratory
and experiments play themselves out in real-time
presenting results that he forgot to ask for
and delivering consequences to actions that weren’t his
but inevitably, he would reap
it’s a struggle, he says
to learn to be unsurprised with everything that happens
but by the end of his four
he’ll know that there’s nothing new under the sun
that everything, everywhere
is the product of something
somewhere
his eyes glow with the cold fire of the world’s knowledge
and has stood on the shoulders of giants for so long
he has mistaken himself for one
there is no thing that he can’t do
no idea he will not entertain
the thought of point-counter-point makes him giddy
with possibility -- he assembles to dissemble,
to find the guts strewn out on his table and look for the gaps
where they connect, or don’t, where the missing parts
don’t have a corollary
then, he creates one
the universe is his laboratory
and experiments play themselves out in real-time
presenting results that he forgot to ask for
and delivering consequences to actions that weren’t his
but inevitably, he would reap
it’s a struggle, he says
to learn to be unsurprised with everything that happens
but by the end of his four
he’ll know that there’s nothing new under the sun
that everything, everywhere
is the product of something
somewhere
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Weekend Poems
Here are two poems I wrote over the weekend. Because Saturday and Sunday were so packed full of awesome, though, I didn't really have time to post them. Here they are, in all of their glory. I hope you like!
Tea
The aim, they say,
is to take you back to the time
where we had to be quick on our feet
and we lived on what we found
It almost works -- if it weren’t for
the crafted teapot, or the simple but polished
cups to brew, then pour, then drink
leaves that have been carefully preserved
for that illusion of raw age
There’s the creamy sage dressing
in a metal cup that’s splashed over kale
beets and carrots; they aren’t seasonal
but they haven’t been scraped and it’s feasible
they were cooked over an open flame
It’s a meager meal -- that part they’ve gotten right
and you look up after scraping the last of the seeds
from your polished wooden bowl
I catch the longing look you give my scone,
the same wild gleam our ancestors gave
when they saw something sweet
Go ahead, take it, there’s plenty for all --
there’s simple pleasure in watching you
devour the cream and jam, thinking
who would ever want to go back to that time
when we had to think on our feet
and only ate what we found?
is to take you back to the time
where we had to be quick on our feet
and we lived on what we found
It almost works -- if it weren’t for
the crafted teapot, or the simple but polished
cups to brew, then pour, then drink
leaves that have been carefully preserved
for that illusion of raw age
There’s the creamy sage dressing
in a metal cup that’s splashed over kale
beets and carrots; they aren’t seasonal
but they haven’t been scraped and it’s feasible
they were cooked over an open flame
It’s a meager meal -- that part they’ve gotten right
and you look up after scraping the last of the seeds
from your polished wooden bowl
I catch the longing look you give my scone,
the same wild gleam our ancestors gave
when they saw something sweet
Go ahead, take it, there’s plenty for all --
there’s simple pleasure in watching you
devour the cream and jam, thinking
who would ever want to go back to that time
when we had to think on our feet
and only ate what we found?
What Happens With Sun and Water
All around me the trees are saying,
“I know I won’t be here forever.”
They prepare for the future in the way they always have
with an explosion of fruit and flower,
hoping to attract the air or the favor of birds
to carry their half of their progeny to the other.
Nature, of course, takes care of the rest.
The flowers are blatantly mistrustful of the good weather
so they ready themselves while they can,
screaming for bees in their way, offering the promise of food
that these insects can’t turn down --
they need to feed their young too, after all.
The buzz fills the air as I jog by,
everything making its plan to ensure that this,
just this, continues to happen next year.
“I know I won’t be here forever.”
They prepare for the future in the way they always have
with an explosion of fruit and flower,
hoping to attract the air or the favor of birds
to carry their half of their progeny to the other.
Nature, of course, takes care of the rest.
The flowers are blatantly mistrustful of the good weather
so they ready themselves while they can,
screaming for bees in their way, offering the promise of food
that these insects can’t turn down --
they need to feed their young too, after all.
The buzz fills the air as I jog by,
everything making its plan to ensure that this,
just this, continues to happen next year.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Poem #1: Anything
I'm celebrating National Poetry Month by writing one poem a day every day this month. Here's the first one. :)
Anything
I have only walked on air
for these past dozen miles or so
to prove a point;
that the gravity of a situation only holds you down
as much as you allow it
and that any connection, no matter how fundamental,
can be cut.
And who wouldn’t want to float over the precipice of life,
unburdened with the need to look down,
leaving the sharp teeth of reminder and responsibility behind.
It’s so amusing to watch those crocodile jaws close slow
around nothing at all. The unfulfilled, jealous stare
makes you feel even more alive than the banishment of physics --
there is nothing, nothing at all
like the feeling of knowing you’ve inspired someone to wonder
what else is impossibly possible?
As they shrink in your vision, note the way they look over the cliff
as if they could follow you, as if
there’s the seed growing within them,
displacing those connections, making them fray until one by one
they unravel.
This, my friend, is how we unmake the world
and put it back together to exactly our liking.
for these past dozen miles or so
to prove a point;
that the gravity of a situation only holds you down
as much as you allow it
and that any connection, no matter how fundamental,
can be cut.
And who wouldn’t want to float over the precipice of life,
unburdened with the need to look down,
leaving the sharp teeth of reminder and responsibility behind.
It’s so amusing to watch those crocodile jaws close slow
around nothing at all. The unfulfilled, jealous stare
makes you feel even more alive than the banishment of physics --
there is nothing, nothing at all
like the feeling of knowing you’ve inspired someone to wonder
what else is impossibly possible?
As they shrink in your vision, note the way they look over the cliff
as if they could follow you, as if
there’s the seed growing within them,
displacing those connections, making them fray until one by one
they unravel.
This, my friend, is how we unmake the world
and put it back together to exactly our liking.
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