Migration
For my class
In a book with a green finch on the cover,
I learned all birds move, but not all birds
migrate. What marks this motion is
that it's seasonal, annual, repeated
at the end of something. When the wind
begins tossing around recently fallen leaves,
the temperature drops to give the grass
a nightly crisp, and the flowers start to fold
in on themselves, putting their colors away
for the winter, then the birds know in their tiny
beings it is time to move. They pick up
their wings and lift into the sky without
a backward glance. They do not hesitate.
They simply fly, unafraid. Because though
they have to fight the winter breezes bearing
down on their fragile feathers, they believe
the end of their journey is warm and plentiful.
And there they will rest until the next migration.
My friends, be the birds of your souls.
Monday, May 31, 2010
[poem#22] With a Whimper
With a Whimper
In her green round pillow, she lies within
the deep sleep of the soulless, resting
without wondering about the state
of the world and humankind.
Brown ears twitch at random as she sinks
perfectly into the dog-shaped crevice
visible even when she leaves her nest.
She often hears the things I do not,
and now her dreams speak to her.
Her front leg, paw too big for the rest
of her, begins to wiggle. The dream turns
dark. Legs start fruitlessly pawing the air,
small whimpers burst from her mouth.
In another land, one only she sees,
those whimpers are screams. And I realize
she may not be as soulless, as peaceful,
as I had hoped. I put my hand to her panting
chest, saying her name gently, bringing her back
to this world that, while at times cruel,
often saves us from our dreams.
In her green round pillow, she lies within
the deep sleep of the soulless, resting
without wondering about the state
of the world and humankind.
Brown ears twitch at random as she sinks
perfectly into the dog-shaped crevice
visible even when she leaves her nest.
She often hears the things I do not,
and now her dreams speak to her.
Her front leg, paw too big for the rest
of her, begins to wiggle. The dream turns
dark. Legs start fruitlessly pawing the air,
small whimpers burst from her mouth.
In another land, one only she sees,
those whimpers are screams. And I realize
she may not be as soulless, as peaceful,
as I had hoped. I put my hand to her panting
chest, saying her name gently, bringing her back
to this world that, while at times cruel,
often saves us from our dreams.
i'm back.
Sometimes, life gets in the way. I've been living in Weddingland the past week, but with my dear friend Jennifer carrying the surname of Loop since Saturday, I'm surfacing to the real world. For now - the big one that I've been living with for almost a year occurs in 26 days.
I've been spending the last day or so editing poems from the last six months. I'm meeting with my dear professor and poetry mentor on Wednesday morning, and he said he'd look at some of my work. Bill always has great things to say, so I never want to waste those meetings by having him look at something incomplete. There's nothing worse than hearing something you already know! So that's my project over the next few days. Editing's not my strong suite.
I'll post a revised poem or two. Hopefully in the next few days, I'll have some new stuff up. Don't desert me, faithful readers. I appreciate all two of you!
I've been spending the last day or so editing poems from the last six months. I'm meeting with my dear professor and poetry mentor on Wednesday morning, and he said he'd look at some of my work. Bill always has great things to say, so I never want to waste those meetings by having him look at something incomplete. There's nothing worse than hearing something you already know! So that's my project over the next few days. Editing's not my strong suite.
I'll post a revised poem or two. Hopefully in the next few days, I'll have some new stuff up. Don't desert me, faithful readers. I appreciate all two of you!
Friday, May 21, 2010
[poem#21] Breathe
(I don't know what this is...probably nothing)
Sometimes I forget how to breathe
in this world of azure and gray, of
yes and no. The air seems too thick
somehow, my lungs within me beating
their wings, my chest on fire. It all
seems too much and yet not enough.
And I look around for you, for help,
like you did in the brighter days:
when you would come up behind me,
take my head in your hands, and exhale,
and I would feel your motion calming
those frantic wings that threatened
to fly out of my chest.
But now you are breathing another air,
an air that I have just felt briefly tickle
the back of my neck before it was gone,
and so, I watch you from afar, folding
into myself for protection,
trying to keep the air clear.
Sometimes I forget how to breathe
in this world of azure and gray, of
yes and no. The air seems too thick
somehow, my lungs within me beating
their wings, my chest on fire. It all
seems too much and yet not enough.
And I look around for you, for help,
like you did in the brighter days:
when you would come up behind me,
take my head in your hands, and exhale,
and I would feel your motion calming
those frantic wings that threatened
to fly out of my chest.
But now you are breathing another air,
an air that I have just felt briefly tickle
the back of my neck before it was gone,
and so, I watch you from afar, folding
into myself for protection,
trying to keep the air clear.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
[poem#20] Shoveling Snow with Abe
The snow is high,
I say, so I throw Abe a shovel
and we head out to the driveway.
Abe wears his stovepipe hat,
as always, and his
ears become purple with cold.
I run inside to grab him
some earmuffs.
Abe says, Honestly,
I don’t care much for
shoveling, but he continues
to work, work hard,
at this impossible task,
because halfway through,
it starts to snow
again. Rather than give up,
he continues to shovel,
until the walk is clear
of powder. I suggest going
inside, for some soup
and cocoa, knowing he will
regale me with
heartbreaking stories and
witty anecdotes.
That’ll be just fine, he says,
that’ll be just fine.
update
I've been reminded lately by a certain reader that I have not been posting. I am fully aware of my lack of creation. Resistance has gotten to me. I'm finding that I can only fight Resistance really well in one area at a time without exhaustion. But regardless, I am remiss. I'll try to write much more often next week. I'll also probably do a bit of editing, as I'm going to have coffee with a former prof who will be honest with me about what I've produced. Always good, but painful. So I'll post revisions as...they...happen?
I need some inspiration. Any ideas out there? I could use some.
I need some inspiration. Any ideas out there? I could use some.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
[ProsePoem#2] Closets
For Papua New Guinea
It seemed to be light outside for hours at night, until the world
outside our screened windows with the slats to direct the
nonexistent breezes was at all once black as a tropical night
can be, without street lamps and headlights. The buzz of the
insects, the chorus of the dogs, that rooster who never knew
the time of day - all these things came out of that darkness,
erupting like invisible lava over the sense already on overload,
due to the confusing nature of this inconceivable country.
Laying on mats on the ground, a thin sheet covering us for
pure nostalgia, we tried to sleep, praying the fan would continue
to spin, spin, spin, all through the night. The fan's rotation
meant the power was in operation, which also made the closets
glow. An unexpected comfort, our nightly companion and
nightlight were the closets that housed lightbulbs to dry
our continuously damp clothing and towels, always in danger
of mold in the country with 98% humidity for days on end.
The air was thick with moisture, you only had to open your mouth
to drink it in, but our poor cotton t-shirts were drowning.
And so, in the unseeing tropical night, when the palm trees
swished with some imagined wind and the dogs howled in Pidgin,
our dreams were guided by the glow of the closets,
a constant in a world so entirely foreign. Until the power went out.
It seemed to be light outside for hours at night, until the world
outside our screened windows with the slats to direct the
nonexistent breezes was at all once black as a tropical night
can be, without street lamps and headlights. The buzz of the
insects, the chorus of the dogs, that rooster who never knew
the time of day - all these things came out of that darkness,
erupting like invisible lava over the sense already on overload,
due to the confusing nature of this inconceivable country.
Laying on mats on the ground, a thin sheet covering us for
pure nostalgia, we tried to sleep, praying the fan would continue
to spin, spin, spin, all through the night. The fan's rotation
meant the power was in operation, which also made the closets
glow. An unexpected comfort, our nightly companion and
nightlight were the closets that housed lightbulbs to dry
our continuously damp clothing and towels, always in danger
of mold in the country with 98% humidity for days on end.
The air was thick with moisture, you only had to open your mouth
to drink it in, but our poor cotton t-shirts were drowning.
And so, in the unseeing tropical night, when the palm trees
swished with some imagined wind and the dogs howled in Pidgin,
our dreams were guided by the glow of the closets,
a constant in a world so entirely foreign. Until the power went out.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
[Poem#19] Hello, Said with Delight
When the phone rang, that familiar beloved
sound, his waiting voice bouncing off
satellites and across the scraping towerous
peaks and the endless burgeoning fields,
he was there somehow, in the well of my
mind, brown always-short hair with a slight
wave in the wind, driving from Fargo to Bismarck,
window down despite
the May chills the prairie is known for,
the highways that are marked 75, but
most go faster, and the cell phone by his ear,
while the car barrels past field after field of
corn, then beans, then corn, then beans,
stretching out toward kingdom come.
Nine months since we've talked, a wedding,
a graduation, much life since then as the band
on his left hand keeps control of the wheel
and the early morning awaiting keeps my
reality in check, and yet after twenty odd
years of friendship, born out of mothers sharing
hormonal craving stories, bellies bulging against
the kitchen table, it is all fine - the time, the wife,
the completely opposite lives on the side and middle
of the country.
Our history within that world of waving stalks and
dusty dirt roads makes me confident as I see him
drive and I see me pick up the phone, ready for
catching up.
sound, his waiting voice bouncing off
satellites and across the scraping towerous
peaks and the endless burgeoning fields,
he was there somehow, in the well of my
mind, brown always-short hair with a slight
wave in the wind, driving from Fargo to Bismarck,
window down despite
the May chills the prairie is known for,
the highways that are marked 75, but
most go faster, and the cell phone by his ear,
while the car barrels past field after field of
corn, then beans, then corn, then beans,
stretching out toward kingdom come.
Nine months since we've talked, a wedding,
a graduation, much life since then as the band
on his left hand keeps control of the wheel
and the early morning awaiting keeps my
reality in check, and yet after twenty odd
years of friendship, born out of mothers sharing
hormonal craving stories, bellies bulging against
the kitchen table, it is all fine - the time, the wife,
the completely opposite lives on the side and middle
of the country.
Our history within that world of waving stalks and
dusty dirt roads makes me confident as I see him
drive and I see me pick up the phone, ready for
catching up.
True quote of the day...
"Lower your standards and keep on writing."
-William Stafford, on removing writer's block
The Oregonian did a great section yesterday on Poet Laureates of Oregon (p.s. totally stole the paper from the gym, and I don't even feel guilty). I had forgotten that Stafford was one of them, and he was PL for a very long time (though apparently he disliked the title). It's simple advice, but great in its simplicity. For myself, I think I get bogged down in what is expected of me or what I know I can do. In fear of not living up to that potential, I am stagnant. I cease to produce because it may not be up to par with what I expect of myself. But writing is a very fluid art, and it can always improve or change. The first draft is never the perfect one, so heck, just do it. Just write it and go from there. Hold your ego loosely.
-William Stafford, on removing writer's block
The Oregonian did a great section yesterday on Poet Laureates of Oregon (p.s. totally stole the paper from the gym, and I don't even feel guilty). I had forgotten that Stafford was one of them, and he was PL for a very long time (though apparently he disliked the title). It's simple advice, but great in its simplicity. For myself, I think I get bogged down in what is expected of me or what I know I can do. In fear of not living up to that potential, I am stagnant. I cease to produce because it may not be up to par with what I expect of myself. But writing is a very fluid art, and it can always improve or change. The first draft is never the perfect one, so heck, just do it. Just write it and go from there. Hold your ego loosely.
[Prose#4] Jennifer Knapp Second Opinion Review
Second Opinion Review (the sidebar):
http://jesusfreakhideout.com/cdreviews/JenniferKnappLettingGo.asp
http://jesusfreakhideout.com/cdreviews/JenniferKnappLettingGo.asp
[Prose#3] Tenth Ave. North Review
Here's what I feel about this: Meh.
http://jesusfreakhideout.com/cdreviews/TheLightMeetsTheDark.asp
http://jesusfreakhideout.com/cdreviews/TheLightMeetsTheDark.asp
Monday, May 10, 2010
True quote of the day...
"Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction."
-Dylan Thomas, letter to Vernon Watkins, March 1938
This simply makes me laugh, and I recall many similar statements coming out of my mouth. Bad With Conviction!
P. S. Just because it's typed on my blog doesn't mean it's typed-typed. Doesn't count. Don't judge.
P. P. S. I'm running out of true quotes because I haven't been READING. I have, though, been working, organizing my poetry folder, going to the gym (okay, once), eating ice cream (okay, more than once), watching copious amounts of Project Runway, and sleeping. Oh, where to find the hours?!?
-Dylan Thomas, letter to Vernon Watkins, March 1938
This simply makes me laugh, and I recall many similar statements coming out of my mouth. Bad With Conviction!
P. S. Just because it's typed on my blog doesn't mean it's typed-typed. Doesn't count. Don't judge.
P. P. S. I'm running out of true quotes because I haven't been READING. I have, though, been working, organizing my poetry folder, going to the gym (okay, once), eating ice cream (okay, more than once), watching copious amounts of Project Runway, and sleeping. Oh, where to find the hours?!?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
[Poem#18] Splits Boys
{in honor of my dear PNG friends, about whom I do not think nearly enough}
Stepping gingerly, we avoided gaps and
rotted wood as we walked
along the walkway kept suspended above
the waters of the Pacific by resting on
knotted fallen tree trunks.
A tropical drizzle began, only
uncommon for those of us not native.
Way over there, a walkway separated
from us by the sea, three young boys knew
what to do. Instant nudity, as they stripped
off clothes with abandon and decency
under their mother's clothesline.
When they saw our pale faces,
they shouted and jumped. We gave
them our full attention, and so they performed
with joy, splits, naked legs wide on the rotting
platform. We laughed and clapped, the universal
language of appreciation, and so they jumped up
and did it again. And again. In the rain.
And we were all happy for a moment.
Stepping gingerly, we avoided gaps and
rotted wood as we walked
along the walkway kept suspended above
the waters of the Pacific by resting on
knotted fallen tree trunks.
A tropical drizzle began, only
uncommon for those of us not native.
Way over there, a walkway separated
from us by the sea, three young boys knew
what to do. Instant nudity, as they stripped
off clothes with abandon and decency
under their mother's clothesline.
When they saw our pale faces,
they shouted and jumped. We gave
them our full attention, and so they performed
with joy, splits, naked legs wide on the rotting
platform. We laughed and clapped, the universal
language of appreciation, and so they jumped up
and did it again. And again. In the rain.
And we were all happy for a moment.
[Poem#17] Fantasy
Horses do not excite me, their taut
muscles rippling beneath their glossy
hide, long manes and tails flowing out
behind them, bit in the mouth, eyes wide
and focused on an unseen goal as they
race to the adventure up ahead.
Nor do men dressed in metal, clanking
with their protection, dents and chinks
showing where other battles have been
won, only making them stronger and
more thirsty for the next, and even as a gloved
hand reaches down to assist, their eyes
are already seeing the next adventure.
No, what I desire is a welcoming and soft shoulder
inside a sweater vest - half-off on clearance - resting
on a quiet porch with wicker furniture,
content to overlook a dusty road, out of danger
from any fire-breathing dragons or rogue
knights. Unless they be yapping pups and
a knight who always loses his race car shoes.
In that case, lead me, dear one, into the fray.
muscles rippling beneath their glossy
hide, long manes and tails flowing out
behind them, bit in the mouth, eyes wide
and focused on an unseen goal as they
race to the adventure up ahead.
Nor do men dressed in metal, clanking
with their protection, dents and chinks
showing where other battles have been
won, only making them stronger and
more thirsty for the next, and even as a gloved
hand reaches down to assist, their eyes
are already seeing the next adventure.
No, what I desire is a welcoming and soft shoulder
inside a sweater vest - half-off on clearance - resting
on a quiet porch with wicker furniture,
content to overlook a dusty road, out of danger
from any fire-breathing dragons or rogue
knights. Unless they be yapping pups and
a knight who always loses his race car shoes.
In that case, lead me, dear one, into the fray.
oops...
Jiminy cricket, it's been nearly a week since I posted last. I wish I felt worse about it, and I wish I could say I felt like I really want to write something. Sadly, neither are the case.
But I was doing so well, and I'm feeling rather dry emotionally tonight. Not the best place to be in for creative outbursts, but it's a good a place as any.
Not that I haven't been writing - I just haven't been posting, as they are for other venues. I just finished up two reviews for JesusFreakHideout.com, one about which I got very complimentary comments from my editor. So needed tonight, so thanks, John. It's still crazy to me that I'm writing for them freelance - I used to frequent the site religiously as a middle schooler hooked on the world of Christian music.
The other piece is an article for the GFU Journal. It's more journalism-y than I've been in a long while, so I'm a bit nervous about it. I hope it'll come out okay, but luckily editors are there to help...right, Mike? And it's even a paying gig! The last time I had one of those? I'd have to think a long while on that.
I'll be sure to post when those are up. Until then, some more poor poetry that needs major editing for your consumption!
But I was doing so well, and I'm feeling rather dry emotionally tonight. Not the best place to be in for creative outbursts, but it's a good a place as any.
Not that I haven't been writing - I just haven't been posting, as they are for other venues. I just finished up two reviews for JesusFreakHideout.com, one about which I got very complimentary comments from my editor. So needed tonight, so thanks, John. It's still crazy to me that I'm writing for them freelance - I used to frequent the site religiously as a middle schooler hooked on the world of Christian music.
The other piece is an article for the GFU Journal. It's more journalism-y than I've been in a long while, so I'm a bit nervous about it. I hope it'll come out okay, but luckily editors are there to help...right, Mike? And it's even a paying gig! The last time I had one of those? I'd have to think a long while on that.
I'll be sure to post when those are up. Until then, some more poor poetry that needs major editing for your consumption!
True quote of the day...
"But when you write poetry, you hope to leave holes for transcendence to shine through rather than building a house of prose."
-Jonathan Foreman
#1. I think houses are necessary, and holes are necessary too.
#2. I think prose can be written in such a way there are holes where the windows and doors should be, little chinks between the logs of the house.
#3. In the same way, poetry (usually bad poetry, but not always) can be written as a block, a small house with no holes at all.
Thank you, Mr. Foreman. I strive for those holes.
-Jonathan Foreman
#1. I think houses are necessary, and holes are necessary too.
#2. I think prose can be written in such a way there are holes where the windows and doors should be, little chinks between the logs of the house.
#3. In the same way, poetry (usually bad poetry, but not always) can be written as a block, a small house with no holes at all.
Thank you, Mr. Foreman. I strive for those holes.
Monday, May 3, 2010
nothing more tonight...
Sorry. I feel like a slacker, but my bed beckons and I have much to do before I can embrace it.
I'm losing some of my momentum. The inspiration I'm garnering is fleeting, and the notes I make in the moment never strike me as anything special later. The words aren't coming as easily these days, and I wonder if it's because I'm getting out of the habit. But no worries, I'm all about good habits these days, so it'll come back.
I'm also feeling a little negative about what I've written so far. Most of it needs significant editing (that's what happens when you write your poetry in the little "new post" box), and so I'm not exactly proud of what I've produced. And I've been reading some other poetry, and I suffer poet envy - I want what I don't have, in terms of words. And yet, I think I'm okay. Nothing groundbreaking to be sure, but with some intensive editing, I think some of these will turn out alright.
I think, too, that my old system was to write it freehand first, in a notebook. Then when I typed it up, I edited it as I went, as well as played with form and line breaks and such. I may need to head back to that - only thing is that it takes a little longer and I'm less motivated to do so. Mixing things up is never a bad thing, and dry spells aren't the end of the world.
I have some freelance prose projects with deadlines in the near future, so I may be posting some paragraphs from those, just so it's clear I'm writing. :) It's exciting to have these jobs lined up - I just need to stop procrastinating and get to them. It may be, too, that in preparation for these, I've slowed my poetry spout to a trickle. I'm also reading fiction, so who knows where my mind will take me? I started my own novel years ago; it may be time to revisit it (though I HATE those who say they're working on a novel - gag. so many people are working on THEIR NOVELS at all levels of the word "work" and the word "novel").
So, never fear. I will return soon. Fight Resistance!
I'm losing some of my momentum. The inspiration I'm garnering is fleeting, and the notes I make in the moment never strike me as anything special later. The words aren't coming as easily these days, and I wonder if it's because I'm getting out of the habit. But no worries, I'm all about good habits these days, so it'll come back.
I'm also feeling a little negative about what I've written so far. Most of it needs significant editing (that's what happens when you write your poetry in the little "new post" box), and so I'm not exactly proud of what I've produced. And I've been reading some other poetry, and I suffer poet envy - I want what I don't have, in terms of words. And yet, I think I'm okay. Nothing groundbreaking to be sure, but with some intensive editing, I think some of these will turn out alright.
I think, too, that my old system was to write it freehand first, in a notebook. Then when I typed it up, I edited it as I went, as well as played with form and line breaks and such. I may need to head back to that - only thing is that it takes a little longer and I'm less motivated to do so. Mixing things up is never a bad thing, and dry spells aren't the end of the world.
I have some freelance prose projects with deadlines in the near future, so I may be posting some paragraphs from those, just so it's clear I'm writing. :) It's exciting to have these jobs lined up - I just need to stop procrastinating and get to them. It may be, too, that in preparation for these, I've slowed my poetry spout to a trickle. I'm also reading fiction, so who knows where my mind will take me? I started my own novel years ago; it may be time to revisit it (though I HATE those who say they're working on a novel - gag. so many people are working on THEIR NOVELS at all levels of the word "work" and the word "novel").
So, never fear. I will return soon. Fight Resistance!
True quote of the day...
"Yet I am not silenced by the darkness, by the thick darkness that covers my face."
-Job 23:17, NIV
This is one of my favorite verses in the Bible, though I don't usually mention it to those who ask. Maybe it's my own bias, but I figure if you're asking me my favorite Bible verse, I'm not ready to shock you with this one.
Job's got it rough, man. This chapter, he's really low. He wants to come straight up to God and tell him what's what, but he can't find God. He's nowhere that Job can see. Even in his frustration, Job recognizes the sovereignty of God, though at this moment, there is no comfort in God's sovereignty. Instead, it inspires terror.
But Job is a stubborn guy, and he ends the chapter with this sentence. He's not going to give up. He's going to plead his case before God, even if it scares him, because he wants the chance for answers, even if there aren't any that are satisfying.
This verse found me during a very dark time in my life. I felt like I was in the dark, a suffocating blackness that threatened to snuff out any enjoyment of this life. I was stuck and broken and choking. But when I read Job's words, I took them for myself. I took them and said, "Yes, I am depressed and hopeless, with no noticeable way out. But I will not let it silence me." I wouldn't let the fear, the clouds, the smoke take the thing that I knew would save me in the end - words. Words are where I find God, and where He finds me, so I knew if I kept writing, kept communicating in the only way I knew how, that I would find my way back to the light.
It worked. Not saying I haven't fallen down and let that cloud overtake me, but I cling to this verse. I won't be silenced by the darkness.
-Job 23:17, NIV
This is one of my favorite verses in the Bible, though I don't usually mention it to those who ask. Maybe it's my own bias, but I figure if you're asking me my favorite Bible verse, I'm not ready to shock you with this one.
Job's got it rough, man. This chapter, he's really low. He wants to come straight up to God and tell him what's what, but he can't find God. He's nowhere that Job can see. Even in his frustration, Job recognizes the sovereignty of God, though at this moment, there is no comfort in God's sovereignty. Instead, it inspires terror.
But Job is a stubborn guy, and he ends the chapter with this sentence. He's not going to give up. He's going to plead his case before God, even if it scares him, because he wants the chance for answers, even if there aren't any that are satisfying.
This verse found me during a very dark time in my life. I felt like I was in the dark, a suffocating blackness that threatened to snuff out any enjoyment of this life. I was stuck and broken and choking. But when I read Job's words, I took them for myself. I took them and said, "Yes, I am depressed and hopeless, with no noticeable way out. But I will not let it silence me." I wouldn't let the fear, the clouds, the smoke take the thing that I knew would save me in the end - words. Words are where I find God, and where He finds me, so I knew if I kept writing, kept communicating in the only way I knew how, that I would find my way back to the light.
It worked. Not saying I haven't fallen down and let that cloud overtake me, but I cling to this verse. I won't be silenced by the darkness.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
[Poem#16] Bitter-Sweet
The tip of your tongue gathers
the sweetness, eager to taste
things with smiles, images of party
cupcakes and sunshine watermelon.
The back of your tongue welcomes
the bitterness: warmth of coffee,
roundness of olives. Opposite each other,
divided by the sour buds, they stand
at attention, not letting any taste go
unnoticed. When the sweetness overpowers,
the bitterness follows quickly. And when
the bitterness threatens to overwhelm,
the sweetness tries to cover that pain.
They work together - the bitter, the sweet -
that careful balance, and so you must depend
on both to keep life from getting too heavy.
the sweetness, eager to taste
things with smiles, images of party
cupcakes and sunshine watermelon.
The back of your tongue welcomes
the bitterness: warmth of coffee,
roundness of olives. Opposite each other,
divided by the sour buds, they stand
at attention, not letting any taste go
unnoticed. When the sweetness overpowers,
the bitterness follows quickly. And when
the bitterness threatens to overwhelm,
the sweetness tries to cover that pain.
They work together - the bitter, the sweet -
that careful balance, and so you must depend
on both to keep life from getting too heavy.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
True quote of the day...
"In an odd and poignant way these two lives, of a poet and a woman, have proved to be formidable historical editors of each other. In previous centuries, when the poet's life was an emblem for the grace and power of a society, a woman's life was often the object of his expression: in pastoral, sonnet, elegy. As the mute object of his eloquence her life could be at once addressed and silenced. By an ironic reversal, now that a woman's life is that emblem of grace and power, the democratized of our communities, of which her emergence is one aspect, makes a poet's life look suspect, can make it appear, to a wider society, elite and irrelevant all at once. Therefore, for anyone who is drawn into either of these lives, the pressure is there to betray the other: to disown or simplify, to resolve an inherent tension by making a false design from the ethical capabilities of one life or the visionary possibilities of the other."
-p. xiv, Object Lessons, Eavan Boland
There is so much in this quote. I've just started this book, and I can already see it's going to be a slow read - not because it's dull, but just because it's heavy with enormous statements. I'll have a lot to think about and chew on through this book.
It's interesting how she highlights the changing power statuses of both the woman and the poet. I see where she is coming from, saying that it's nearly as if the woman and the poet have switched roles in the last hundred years or so. And there is a tension between the woman's role and the poet's role, even in these changing times. At the most basic, a writer has to be selfish with her time, her ability, her art. A woman, especially one who is a wife and mother, is not allowed to be selfish. There is a tension. It's hard to reconcile, and as Boland implies, women tend to betray one or the other. I'm not sure I've ever put a name to that tension but I do feel it on occasion, especially when I think about my plans for the future. It'll be interesting to see how Boland discusses it throughout her book.
If it's not obvious from my scattered thoughts, I'm tired tonight. Spending all day working at a commencement when you watched those you love move past you is physically and emotionally exhausting. It was sad and beautiful all at once. Thus I don't feel like I have too much to offer, creatively. But it's fine. I'll see what I can pull out.
-p. xiv, Object Lessons, Eavan Boland
There is so much in this quote. I've just started this book, and I can already see it's going to be a slow read - not because it's dull, but just because it's heavy with enormous statements. I'll have a lot to think about and chew on through this book.
It's interesting how she highlights the changing power statuses of both the woman and the poet. I see where she is coming from, saying that it's nearly as if the woman and the poet have switched roles in the last hundred years or so. And there is a tension between the woman's role and the poet's role, even in these changing times. At the most basic, a writer has to be selfish with her time, her ability, her art. A woman, especially one who is a wife and mother, is not allowed to be selfish. There is a tension. It's hard to reconcile, and as Boland implies, women tend to betray one or the other. I'm not sure I've ever put a name to that tension but I do feel it on occasion, especially when I think about my plans for the future. It'll be interesting to see how Boland discusses it throughout her book.
If it's not obvious from my scattered thoughts, I'm tired tonight. Spending all day working at a commencement when you watched those you love move past you is physically and emotionally exhausting. It was sad and beautiful all at once. Thus I don't feel like I have too much to offer, creatively. But it's fine. I'll see what I can pull out.
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