ADD Man – 30,000 Feet Above Wyoming
I spotted him in the security line - jittery, drinking a coffee, talking on a cell phone,
Loudly.
I knew he was trouble.
Immediately, I prayed a silent prayer for myself – that this man was not on my flight.
Apparently, it was ironic day in heaven.
Because ADD man sat right next to me.
Before the flight departed
He fielded four calls – made three.
He drank a coffee.
He read half a book (He was a speed reader, duh).
He chewed gym.
He ignored the safety speech.
He had chronic halitosis.
His energy was too much for him. It flowed in excess from his shaking legs.
Hey, Shaky McShakypants, can I help you take your Ritalin with a heaping helping of
Scope?
Even his urine was energized. It had to leave his body – often.
Up/down/up/down – I was in Catholic Church for spazzes.
He was Speedy Gonzales.
He was a gerbil on crack.
Oh, ADD man, What’s your hurry?
Take a load off.
Relax.
Sit somewhere else.
Lucky
They are in love with the majesty of violet mountains.
Enamored with the juts and crags.
Give me the open spaces of the plains.
I want a man with dirt in his teeth.
And tumbleweed on his grill.
Weathered laugh lines around his eyes
Hands rough from the wind.
Let’s drive for miles on a straight road
Moving forward – not up
Returning back – not down
There’s something to be said about consistency
To lives without peaks and valleys
They say there’s nothing here to love – nothing to see
So they move away from green pastures to purple mountains.
Let them go.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
new poems
Here are the latest 550 poems. I will admit that I felt very uninspired this week. My poems are subpar. Sorry.
The Forgetting
It was on that September day, shortly after her 70th,
That they realized.
It was when they passed - on their way up her sidewalk - the unfamiliar face of the salesman
- on his way down her sidewalk.
She sat, with hands folded, in the kitchen of her small house.
She had purchased life insurance from the traveling salesman and had already forgotten that she'd written the check.
She had forgotten that she already had life insurance.
What's the correct phrasing here?
She had lost her mind?
Her mind had lost itself?
They chose the latter because then nothing - not time, not them, not her - bore the blame.
And what did it matter - in the end, there would be a collective loss.
They were all losing her.
Soon, they would be left with her,
but without her.
And, even though they weren't suprised that the "life insurance salesman" cashed the check,
They all knew that there is no such thing as life insurance.
Junk Mail (2 days)
I need to respond to all of my dear good friends who have been sending me junk mail.
Because It’s a great time to say hi and my X life is suffering.
Tom Forrest, for example, is anxiously awaiting to
Change my life and, wow, look, he’s got a 12 inch!
Good thing I received a notice regarding my camera
So that I can start taking better quality pictures with a 10.1 megapixel.
I’ll need that if I meet Tom. The Guinness Book will want visual confirmation.
I have a choice to make , though, because even though Tom sounds fabulous,
Don Cervantes contacted me, and he has a bigger pen1s for better s3x!
Choices, Choices.
Luckily, Roco the Star recommends 3 free bottles of man XL
Sam Newsome assures me that he wouldn’t be lying. No problem with man XL.
Basically, I need to stop making excuses and act now
Always remembering, as my dear good friend Ann Johnson reminds me,
that I am any man’s dream come true.
The Forgetting
It was on that September day, shortly after her 70th,
That they realized.
It was when they passed - on their way up her sidewalk - the unfamiliar face of the salesman
- on his way down her sidewalk.
She sat, with hands folded, in the kitchen of her small house.
She had purchased life insurance from the traveling salesman and had already forgotten that she'd written the check.
She had forgotten that she already had life insurance.
What's the correct phrasing here?
She had lost her mind?
Her mind had lost itself?
They chose the latter because then nothing - not time, not them, not her - bore the blame.
And what did it matter - in the end, there would be a collective loss.
They were all losing her.
Soon, they would be left with her,
but without her.
And, even though they weren't suprised that the "life insurance salesman" cashed the check,
They all knew that there is no such thing as life insurance.
Junk Mail (2 days)
I need to respond to all of my dear good friends who have been sending me junk mail.
Because It’s a great time to say hi and my X life is suffering.
Tom Forrest, for example, is anxiously awaiting to
Change my life and, wow, look, he’s got a 12 inch!
Good thing I received a notice regarding my camera
So that I can start taking better quality pictures with a 10.1 megapixel.
I’ll need that if I meet Tom. The Guinness Book will want visual confirmation.
I have a choice to make , though, because even though Tom sounds fabulous,
Don Cervantes contacted me, and he has a bigger pen1s for better s3x!
Choices, Choices.
Luckily, Roco the Star recommends 3 free bottles of man XL
Sam Newsome assures me that he wouldn’t be lying. No problem with man XL.
Basically, I need to stop making excuses and act now
Always remembering, as my dear good friend Ann Johnson reminds me,
that I am any man’s dream come true.
Friday, April 13, 2007
All writers must experience sparagmos
This is what I'm beginning to believe. In two poems I've looked at recently, both poets speak of sparagmos. And, Tennessee Williams alludes to experiencing something akin to sparagmos while he wrote. To some degree, then, in order to produce literature, I'm beginning to think that the author must experience a psychogical rending. Then, if the work is an extension of him or herself, the ensuing editing process would also be sparagmos.
Here are the poem excerpts.
"Kneeling Down to Peer into a Culvert" Robert Bly
"I am alone, with no duties, living as I live. / Then one morning a head like mine pokes from the water. / I fight - it's time, it's right - and am torn to pieces fighting."
"Homily" Jim Harrison
"He is rended, he rends himself, he dances, / he whirls so hard everything he is flies off. / He crumples as paper but rises daily from the dead."
The second example is so reminiscent of the archetype of sparagmos that it's a little unnerving. It resonates with the tearing of flesh, the carnival associated with the Dionysian ritual, and the resurrection often associated with sparagmos.
Here are the poem excerpts.
"Kneeling Down to Peer into a Culvert" Robert Bly
"I am alone, with no duties, living as I live. / Then one morning a head like mine pokes from the water. / I fight - it's time, it's right - and am torn to pieces fighting."
"Homily" Jim Harrison
"He is rended, he rends himself, he dances, / he whirls so hard everything he is flies off. / He crumples as paper but rises daily from the dead."
The second example is so reminiscent of the archetype of sparagmos that it's a little unnerving. It resonates with the tearing of flesh, the carnival associated with the Dionysian ritual, and the resurrection often associated with sparagmos.
Jim Harrison
I could be way off here. If I am, Jimmy will set me straight.
The title “The Theory and Practice of Rivers” struck a chord with me. As a teacher, I find that the terms theory and practice are often mutually exclusive – those who theorize don’t practice and those who teach (practice) don’t have time to do in-depth theorizing. They just have to teach. Rarely do the two meet. But, Jim Harrison seems to have achieved a praxis. He is able to theorize about rivers, birds, the moon, and dancing while living life on rivers, dancing, and watching birds. Then, he seems to incorporate both the living and the theory into his poetry, making a nice full and continuous circle.
Along with the familiar images of rivers, birds, the moon, and dancing, Harrison also uses the familiar ideas of love and death. But, one of the most interesting images that I saw recurring was the question mark, particularly in association with youth and children. In “Porpoise” he writes, “You see a school making love off Boca Grande/ the baby with his question mark staring / at us a few feet from the boat.” And in “Small Poem” is found “dead children fly off in the shape/ of question marks.” This was interesting. First, the shape of the question mark is very suggestive and, in a way, ethereal, like the flame of a candle or a wisp of smoke. It’s not unusual that he would pair the question mark with children as that is what they are often found doing. In the first example, I am left questioning what he means. But, in the second example, he is the one who is questioning why children have to die. I noticed that he dedicated his collection to Gloria Ellen Harrison 1964-1979 and naturally wondered if that was his daughter. So, like the joining of theory and practice, he seems to be achieving another kind of praxis here – the children are question marks, I am questioning, he is questioning. The image is the child, who questions. His questions leave me questioning.
I’m not sure if “The Times Atlas” is one of my favorite poems, but I really appreciated some of the lines. “Camus said / it rained so hard even the sea was wet.” Does that mean that it didn’t rain hard at all? The sea is already pretty wet. I also appreciated the simplicity of the line “Meanwhile the weather is no longer amusing” because he appears to be speaking of more than the weather. Something is no longer a joke; no one is laughing.
My favorite poem was “Homily” with its combination of commonsensical, humorous, and poignant advice. “Dance with yourself with all your heart / and soul, and occasionally others, but don’t / eat all the berries birds eat or you’ll die.” And, instead of giving “how to” advice about love, he tells us how not to fall in love. The don’t advice I found most notable was not to be “a cow floundering / in quicksand while the other cows watch / without particular interest, backwards / off a crumbling cornice.” This was intriguing for several reasons. First, I found it odd that he chose a cow because the natural images he usually chooses aren’t domesticated – they’re wild and free - like birds and porpoises. At the same time, however, the cows not in the quicksand are meeting a similarly disastrous fate. While one cow is drowning in love, the others, fearfully backing away from it yet, I think, feigning indifference, are also going to die, just a little less hideously.
The title “The Theory and Practice of Rivers” struck a chord with me. As a teacher, I find that the terms theory and practice are often mutually exclusive – those who theorize don’t practice and those who teach (practice) don’t have time to do in-depth theorizing. They just have to teach. Rarely do the two meet. But, Jim Harrison seems to have achieved a praxis. He is able to theorize about rivers, birds, the moon, and dancing while living life on rivers, dancing, and watching birds. Then, he seems to incorporate both the living and the theory into his poetry, making a nice full and continuous circle.
Along with the familiar images of rivers, birds, the moon, and dancing, Harrison also uses the familiar ideas of love and death. But, one of the most interesting images that I saw recurring was the question mark, particularly in association with youth and children. In “Porpoise” he writes, “You see a school making love off Boca Grande/ the baby with his question mark staring / at us a few feet from the boat.” And in “Small Poem” is found “dead children fly off in the shape/ of question marks.” This was interesting. First, the shape of the question mark is very suggestive and, in a way, ethereal, like the flame of a candle or a wisp of smoke. It’s not unusual that he would pair the question mark with children as that is what they are often found doing. In the first example, I am left questioning what he means. But, in the second example, he is the one who is questioning why children have to die. I noticed that he dedicated his collection to Gloria Ellen Harrison 1964-1979 and naturally wondered if that was his daughter. So, like the joining of theory and practice, he seems to be achieving another kind of praxis here – the children are question marks, I am questioning, he is questioning. The image is the child, who questions. His questions leave me questioning.
I’m not sure if “The Times Atlas” is one of my favorite poems, but I really appreciated some of the lines. “Camus said / it rained so hard even the sea was wet.” Does that mean that it didn’t rain hard at all? The sea is already pretty wet. I also appreciated the simplicity of the line “Meanwhile the weather is no longer amusing” because he appears to be speaking of more than the weather. Something is no longer a joke; no one is laughing.
My favorite poem was “Homily” with its combination of commonsensical, humorous, and poignant advice. “Dance with yourself with all your heart / and soul, and occasionally others, but don’t / eat all the berries birds eat or you’ll die.” And, instead of giving “how to” advice about love, he tells us how not to fall in love. The don’t advice I found most notable was not to be “a cow floundering / in quicksand while the other cows watch / without particular interest, backwards / off a crumbling cornice.” This was intriguing for several reasons. First, I found it odd that he chose a cow because the natural images he usually chooses aren’t domesticated – they’re wild and free - like birds and porpoises. At the same time, however, the cows not in the quicksand are meeting a similarly disastrous fate. While one cow is drowning in love, the others, fearfully backing away from it yet, I think, feigning indifference, are also going to die, just a little less hideously.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
poetry
Answers
“If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?” Mary Oliver
The little girl taps my knee, pointing up,
“Look, Mel, it’s God.”
I bend my neck back, my face upward to geese winging in chevron formation
against the broken clouds and the sun’s rays, pale yellow.
I am stopped short
She sees God.
Can I?
I am no match for her 5-year-old hope.
And, I am certainly no match for this image
Of the geese, the girl,
and God in the rays of the sun.
I turn again to the sky,
Full of the questions that come to me mostly on spring days.
If Sylvia Plath Were a Valley Girl
Dad – I totally don’t get it.
I mean, when you kicked the bucket
I was way bummed.
I was thinking, “As if! Like, oh my God!”
So, I went to the mall
And met a bitchin’ version of you.
His name was Ted. He was totally awesome;
he was tubular.
And, so, like when he asked me to marry him, I said, “Fer Sure.”
But, I was sooo bummed
Because, dad, he turned out to
grody to the max, a classic barfbag.
Like you.
I thought about doing myself in
But, seriously, dad
I couldn’t kill myself without, like
Totally messing up my hair
Or my nails
Or my face
I mean, gag me with a spoon.
So, whatever, dude.
I’m totally over it. I’m through.
“If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?” Mary Oliver
The little girl taps my knee, pointing up,
“Look, Mel, it’s God.”
I bend my neck back, my face upward to geese winging in chevron formation
against the broken clouds and the sun’s rays, pale yellow.
I am stopped short
She sees God.
Can I?
I am no match for her 5-year-old hope.
And, I am certainly no match for this image
Of the geese, the girl,
and God in the rays of the sun.
I turn again to the sky,
Full of the questions that come to me mostly on spring days.
If Sylvia Plath Were a Valley Girl
Dad – I totally don’t get it.
I mean, when you kicked the bucket
I was way bummed.
I was thinking, “As if! Like, oh my God!”
So, I went to the mall
And met a bitchin’ version of you.
His name was Ted. He was totally awesome;
he was tubular.
And, so, like when he asked me to marry him, I said, “Fer Sure.”
But, I was sooo bummed
Because, dad, he turned out to
grody to the max, a classic barfbag.
Like you.
I thought about doing myself in
But, seriously, dad
I couldn’t kill myself without, like
Totally messing up my hair
Or my nails
Or my face
I mean, gag me with a spoon.
So, whatever, dude.
I’m totally over it. I’m through.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
more sparagmos
I've been thinking about how to organize my paper on sparagmos and about where to go from where I am...which is here. :)
The primary question I think I need to address is what is being displaced when sparagmos gets displaced? And, is this true when sparagmos also involves omophagia?
It seems to me (and to some of the articles I've been reading) that sparagmos has different purposes.
1. Taking apart to eventually reassemble
2. Taking apart to have it become a part of you (usually involving omophagia)
3. Taking apart as a form of communication - a statement
Then, I think I need to think about these ideas.
4. Some authors seem to think that we're moving from the sparagmos of gods to the sparagmos of scapegoats? Why?
5. What if the sparagmos is self-inflicted?
I'm planning on looking at several works, including Suddenly, Last Summer; King Lear; The Bible; Silence of the Lambs.
I also think I need to look at the difference between sparagmos in comedy and tragedy, taking another look at Frye.
Last, but not least, what is the connection between carnival and sparagmos?
That's it.
The primary question I think I need to address is what is being displaced when sparagmos gets displaced? And, is this true when sparagmos also involves omophagia?
It seems to me (and to some of the articles I've been reading) that sparagmos has different purposes.
1. Taking apart to eventually reassemble
2. Taking apart to have it become a part of you (usually involving omophagia)
3. Taking apart as a form of communication - a statement
Then, I think I need to think about these ideas.
4. Some authors seem to think that we're moving from the sparagmos of gods to the sparagmos of scapegoats? Why?
5. What if the sparagmos is self-inflicted?
I'm planning on looking at several works, including Suddenly, Last Summer; King Lear; The Bible; Silence of the Lambs.
I also think I need to look at the difference between sparagmos in comedy and tragedy, taking another look at Frye.
Last, but not least, what is the connection between carnival and sparagmos?
That's it.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
help me, please
I am reading an article entitled "The Sparagmos of Myth Is the Naked Lunch of Mode: Modern Literature As the Age of Frye and Borges." How does Northrop Frye's definition and explanation of modes fit with this title? Insight, anyone?
Sunday, April 1, 2007
contemporary poetry
Hmmm…what is contemporary poetry? Trying to define contemporary poetry is problematic for me on several levels. First, the word “contemporary” is tricky. How old can the poetry be to not be contemporary or, in other words, how new should it be? I’ve always thought that poetry written in the 60s is contemporary, but considering that it is now 2007, some of that poetry would be about 50. In other words, if that poetry were a human, it would be a little over middle-aged; if it were a dog, it’d be dead.
Also, contemporary poetry is different depending on the poet. This, I think, is one of the keys to being contemporary, in a tricky kind of way. In order to be contemporary, the style of the poetry probably does not conform to a strict rhyme or rhythm. Or, if it does, it probably does in a cagey and/or satirical sort of way.
Another possible hallmark of contemporary poetry, not that this is exclusive to contemporary poetry, seems to be that contemporary poetry makes the reader work a little harder to extract meaning. Even in poetry that we think is accessible, like that of Billy Collins, upon second or third or fourth readings, there are levels of meaning and connection that are revealed.
Then, there are the poems of Michael Earl Craig and Sandra Alcosser, difficult for other reasons: Craig, because he seems “normal” but then decidedly is not; and, Alcosser, because I feel the need to scrub her humid, suffocating imagery out of my brain after it has been soaked in her sexually twisted bayou.
I liked all of the poets this week (Oliver, Stafford, Plath, Snyder). I probably haven’t read enough of their work to say this, but I found myself playing the Sesame Street Game: “One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just isn’t the same.” And, unfortunately for her, it seems that Plath is the odd man out. Komunyakaa may also join Sylvia in being kicked off Poetry Survivor, but for different reasons. Oliver, Stafford and Snyder all seem to find a restorative awe in nature. This is evident in “Song of the Builders” by Mary Oliver and also in a round-a-bout sort of way in “Singapore.” “Singapore,” along with “Ask Me” by William Stafford, just happen to be two of my favorite poems ever, by the way. Gary Snyder’s “Hay for Horses” and “For All” seem to express a similar sentiment about nature.
I just don’t see this happening with Sylvia Plath. In fact, if we were to take “For All” by Gary Snyder and put a Plath simplistic and probably grossly unfair spin on it, I think it may go a little something like this.
For All
Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.
Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.
I pledge allegiance
I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.
For Daddy
Ah to be almost dead
On any foggy day
Cutting my thumb
Barefoot, toe big as a Frisco Seal
Holding pills, gas oven on
No sunshine, hot ice in my brain
Overcast England
….
I pledge allegiance
I pledge allegiance to my daddy
Of the bastard with the Mein Kampf look
And to the love of the rack and the screw
One pretty red heart
Bitten in two
Under my gauze Ku Klux Klan babushka
With my red hair, dirty girl, thumb stump, I rise and eat men like air.
Above all, the other three poets seem hopeful, and this hopefulness seems connected to the inspiring and awesome scope of nature. Sylvia – light on the hopeful, heavy on the hopeless. Sylvia, the tribe has spoken.
Also, contemporary poetry is different depending on the poet. This, I think, is one of the keys to being contemporary, in a tricky kind of way. In order to be contemporary, the style of the poetry probably does not conform to a strict rhyme or rhythm. Or, if it does, it probably does in a cagey and/or satirical sort of way.
Another possible hallmark of contemporary poetry, not that this is exclusive to contemporary poetry, seems to be that contemporary poetry makes the reader work a little harder to extract meaning. Even in poetry that we think is accessible, like that of Billy Collins, upon second or third or fourth readings, there are levels of meaning and connection that are revealed.
Then, there are the poems of Michael Earl Craig and Sandra Alcosser, difficult for other reasons: Craig, because he seems “normal” but then decidedly is not; and, Alcosser, because I feel the need to scrub her humid, suffocating imagery out of my brain after it has been soaked in her sexually twisted bayou.
I liked all of the poets this week (Oliver, Stafford, Plath, Snyder). I probably haven’t read enough of their work to say this, but I found myself playing the Sesame Street Game: “One of these things is not like the other; one of these things just isn’t the same.” And, unfortunately for her, it seems that Plath is the odd man out. Komunyakaa may also join Sylvia in being kicked off Poetry Survivor, but for different reasons. Oliver, Stafford and Snyder all seem to find a restorative awe in nature. This is evident in “Song of the Builders” by Mary Oliver and also in a round-a-bout sort of way in “Singapore.” “Singapore,” along with “Ask Me” by William Stafford, just happen to be two of my favorite poems ever, by the way. Gary Snyder’s “Hay for Horses” and “For All” seem to express a similar sentiment about nature.
I just don’t see this happening with Sylvia Plath. In fact, if we were to take “For All” by Gary Snyder and put a Plath simplistic and probably grossly unfair spin on it, I think it may go a little something like this.
For All
Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.
Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.
I pledge allegiance
I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.
For Daddy
Ah to be almost dead
On any foggy day
Cutting my thumb
Barefoot, toe big as a Frisco Seal
Holding pills, gas oven on
No sunshine, hot ice in my brain
Overcast England
….
I pledge allegiance
I pledge allegiance to my daddy
Of the bastard with the Mein Kampf look
And to the love of the rack and the screw
One pretty red heart
Bitten in two
Under my gauze Ku Klux Klan babushka
With my red hair, dirty girl, thumb stump, I rise and eat men like air.
Above all, the other three poets seem hopeful, and this hopefulness seems connected to the inspiring and awesome scope of nature. Sylvia – light on the hopeful, heavy on the hopeless. Sylvia, the tribe has spoken.
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