[poems 29&30] Poetry Experiences: Billy Collins, Slam Poetry

This past week, I had the opportunity to experience two very different types of live poetry. I can barely describe either of them, but they were pretty stellar events, ones I'm not sure I'll ever experience the like of again. One involved former US poet laureate and all-around poet extraordinaire Billy Collins reading at Willamette University. The other was the spoken word event The Poetry Revival at Reed College. Words cannot describe how different they were - just look at the venues, for example. Anyone from this area would guffaw to think about the range of different students with whom I experienced poetry over the span of 50 hours. For example, at one place, a young man awkwardly accused my umbrella of getting water on his poster. At the other, a group of young men were drinking wine out of a bottle while sitting in chapel pews. Anyway, here's an example of one piece of poetry about each. Both rough - be gentle, dear friends.

Driving to See Billy Collins

I snuck away from work early, and drove
fifty miles, through the hardest rain we've had
all year just to hear your voice. Blinded

by water splattering down in sheets, I thought
about death and how it lurks on highways
when headlights aren't bright enough

and someone is going too fast. And I wondered
if you would write a poem about me if I died
coming to hear your words from your mouth,

a poem about how I risked life for love of art and desire
for brilliance. A mournful beginning, but at the end,
you would, undoubtedly, bring in a dog -

maybe my boxer Gracie - to keep the darkness gray.
You could make it sparkle, laugh, and warm the hearts
of those still here. I would know somehow, my flesh

in the ground, my soul away, that people would
remember me as the one who died. Not a sad thought,
as I held hope of a college English class studying me.

Drenched but alive, I arrived. Your voice wasn't special,
nor was how you pushed your glasses up onto your round
head between poems, fluffing the gray cloudy tufts above

your ears. But it was worth risking immortality
on this failing planet to see you bow so slightly
as we applauded your words and your ability
to make poetry hospitable to us all.



Poetry Revival,
Or Spoken-Word

The fires of revival flamed in chapels
like this, when Edwards thundered among
the pillars and the Awakening woke people to fear.

This 1935 chapel is only modeled after the classics,
and the students don't bother to pretend,
using the wooden pews to hide open wine bottles

while waiting for the poetry revival to start, named
by three scruffy men in red jackets who seek
a generation fidgeting because of smartphones

and dumb luck. These men do not walk like rock stars,
but, at the microphone, the fire burns in their eyes
as they speak to us sinners. Their poetry is not meant

for the page, but in the air it tumbles and weaves,
revealing, then ridiculing and obscuring, as we lean
forward to hear the rise and fall, the yes and no, the fast

and slow that is the rhythm of the poet, who makes
us laugh like children with the anesthetic of silliness,
before cutting open our chests to see if we'll cry

as our hearts, our souls, our lungs are pushed aside
to make room for their words to settle inside.
And if we do not cry, it is fine, as long as they can

sit with us, framed by the pipe organ as they tell us in words
rushing and soothing that extinguish the fires of hell
that God is not angry with us as we had feared.

[poem #28] and one terrible poem...(bereft)

Here. I know you didn't beg, but I feel like it was written so it should be posted. Even though this is how I feel about it --> blegh! It's been a while since I've attempted poetry and I feel that everything Bill taught me has been lost (which literally makes me want to cry and/or go back to last year at this time and beg myself to record every lecture he gave in that class). So this is terrible, and I'm sorry.

Bereft

It is the little things, like how pieces
of his hair reflect the manufactured light
in the lecture hall, curling over his collar
with unconscious ease. The faded green
of his buttoned shirt, new to him after
being new to four others. His slouch, where
his neck touches the chair back, his feet touch
the chair, his knees rise to his chin, and his
posture belies his intense focus.
They make me bereft, these things, as does
the wry humor of the professor, his own
posture hunched over the podium, stroking his
beard that is more stars than night these days.
The smell of the classroom in the early light,
as it pours through the windows near the ceiling,
a yellowing tree’s leaves just visible
as we talk about Yeats and Browning
or Steinbeck and Kerouac, wistfully
wishing for fall air to float through,
to take us from this. But then we leave.
My books are closed and my mind is alone
and his hair still curls over his collar.

Two good poems...

not by me. I'm sharing them instead of something I've written because tonight, I feel bereft. Bereft is one of my favorite words, because it sounds so warm, so sweetly sad, like a blanket of loss that is wrapped around your shoulders. I think, implicit in its sound is the hope for newness, even while carrying on without. Regardless, I don't feel solid enough to write something tonight, breaking my goal only four days into the month. Perhaps I will write, but not post. Who knows what will come out of tonight.

All Saints

Paul Willis

November dawns the cool side of sunny,
and I walk to class thinking what I might suggest
to the eight young writers around the long, dark table.
I could point out once again that the walls in our room
are made of windows, that mountains are trying to get in.

Or I might say, “The soccer coach greeted me
in the parking lot in high spirits. His team is going
to the playoffs; his father, however, is dying of cancer.”
Or I might say, “The Filipino maintenance man
asked me this morning what I am teaching.

‘Shakespeare,’ I told him. ‘Is Shakespeare in the arts?’
he asked. ‘Does he write opera? Is he an American?’”
Or perhaps I could share my sorrow about the Korean
pitcher who lost a World Series game in Yankee Stadium
last night. It was midnight, Halloween, there in

Yankee Stadium, but for all of his countrymen
in Korea, it was two o’clock in the afternoon.
In Korea, it had been November for a long time
when the ball sailed into the stands and the pitcher
placed his black glove like a dark flower upon his face.

(via http://www.sbpoetry.net/SB%20POETS%20READ/PaulWillis.html)

Reach hither thy finger

William Jolliff

Maybe the wound still oozed, or maybe
it had healed over with scars like golden coins.
Thomas might have noticed, but I doubt it.

True, he placed his finger in the Lord’s hand,
and his hand in the Lord’s side,
and then, we presume, he held his heart

in the bleeding heart. I like to think that.
And I like to think that years later he was still
radiant with holy light. My unholy hunch, though,

is that within a week he learned to doubt
his eyes or his touch, maybe both, maybe
whether he’d really been in the room or not,

or if again the elders had sent him out
for bread or fish, anything to keep his mouth
out of earshot. He wasn’t the type to suffer

his loss in silence, and the more he wondered,
the more they doubted, too. That’s my guess.
And that may be why only John, the youngest

of the bunch, the mystic, the beloved, the mad,
recalled the very day, and cared enough
about belief to recall the shame of doubt.

(via http://www.christiancentury.org/contributor/william-jolliff)

[poem#27] The Vulnerability of Garage Sales

A garage is not necessary. All
you need are folding tables, round
colored stickers, a box or two, some
rolls of quarters for making change.

And you need the things that you
are willing to bid farewell: the outgrown
t-shirts, the dirty toys, the forgotten
books, the ignored elliptical, the extra
furniture.

Also you must say goodbye to the memories
of popsicle stains after a walk to the park,
the train left outside in the rain once the drizzling
starts, the books left facedown on the coffeetable
so their spines are ruined.

You must sit and watch as strangers paw through
what was yours and what is no longer,
as things leave for 25 cents, a dollar, taking
with them the past free of charge.

But its worse to be left behind, for then it's sighs
reevaluation, and finally black plastic bags
dropped off at the nearest Goodwill drop site.
So we sit and wait and hope everything
and nothing is bought.

(there's something here. it's not here yet. but it's coming.)

[poem#26] Apology

I read that this year the ground cracked,
rumbled and burped, ate whole buildings
and families, threw cars, swallowed trees
and threw a poor nation into despondency.

Also, a cap flew off,
I hear, in the ocean, causing crude oil to cruise
along the ocean's tides, not refined enough
to leave the pelicans and dolphins, fish
and seaweed alone.

And today I sit
at my small octagonal breakfast table, hot tea
securely warming my hand, reading
while eating whole-grain toast, its goodness
drenched in sweet butter.

Today I am happy. For this, I apologize.

[poem#25] Dreamcatcher.

Today I followed a red Honda
from Bonita to Durham. It was moving
under the suggested speed of the road,

and curt speech slipped out from under
my tongue. It was an older model,
dirty from the roads it has traveled,

two old and obese passengers driving -
or was it driving them? Human and metal
seemed passive. Around the review mirror

showing what was behind was a dream-
catcher. A woven circular net made by the first
lovers of this land to keep the dreams of demons

and loneliness far from the sleep of the small
and dreams of drought and stampede
from the heads of their warriors.

Made to catch the fears that sneak in through
ears overnight, it swung from the mirror,
foreign yet complacent. How many dreams

did it catch in the scalding light of day? How many
fears did it let through with the confusion of the dawn?
Did it work in the daylight's warmth
or did its power only press through the night?

[Poem#24] Winter Walks

I would hear the second step creak
as 6:30 came to life. A split second with sleep

in my eyes, a decision. Somedays, I ignored
his whisper at my door, though the squeaky

old hinge announced his arrival with a high-
pitched whine. Then he tromped back down,

as quiet as he could on wooden floors with a bad
leg, an uneven pattering down the stairs.

Other days, somehow, I rolled off the sheets,
grabbed a sweatshirt and socks, not speaking to him

as I followed him to the entryway, damp
still with muddy, melting boots, and listless

mittens. I grabbed the heaviest jacket and driest
gloves, dallying just a moment in the heat

of the indoors. Outside, the air cracked
with the before-glow of the anticipated sunrise

and the foggy coldness that created smoke
in our mouths. The chain jingled around her big head,

her coat equal to the challenge of the Alps or
the South Dakota drifts. All three, we walked in silence

down a road paved with gravel - at least I recall
no conversation - the horizon stretching to infinity,

not impeded by mountains or hills. I covet those frigid
mornings where I couldn't wait to return from a

walk with my father. I swear I wouldn't
take them for granted now.

[Poem#23] Eva

I said, "No problemo," and turned to return
the file to its proper placement. He,

former Spanish major, corrected me,
"It's problema." As it happens, problems

in Spanish are feminine. He chuckled,
deflecting, "I didn't say it" and turned back

to his computer. I think back to dear
Eva, the world's first mujer, the cause

of problems being female, or so history
has painted. Could it be her fault

when all she wanted was a fruit
that would taste like heaven
in a garden not built to last?


(first [hopefully!] in a series about every [maybe?] woman i come across in the Bible)

doesn't even count as a numbered poem

In most every coming of age
movie, involving a young girl
on the cusp of womanhood,
especially a period piece, say, set
in the 1940s or 1960s, there tends
to always be a strong woman who
challenges her assumptions,
her ideals, her morals, the path
that the young one is on. This
woman is educated, usually wearing
pants and/or glasses. She reads,
has a dry wit, enjoys music and
art. She is often poor, finding literature
to be of her greatest value. And, not
to give it away, but in the end, she
is the savior of the young girl, pulling
out that potential that was there all
along. This woman also is marked
by her singleness, that is, her living
alone, her lack of husband, the sense
of being solo. And she is the strong
brave one who tells every girl that
they can survive without men, yes,
they can, while young protagonist
starts making out with her romantic
lead, even while retaining her head
smarts. And this trope is a truism,
those single women who taught us how
to be feminists, to be fierce and
confident in our own muscles, blood,
and brains.

(UNFINISHED...but i wanted to prove i wrote something)

[RevisedPoem#10] Migration

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.

[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.

[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.

[poem#20] Shoveling Snow with Abe

(older poem from Writing Poetry class. Written very quickly. Just for fun.)

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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[Poem#15] My Mother's Sunglasses

I found them when I was cleaning out the old teal
Ford Explorer, handed down to me when I left home
for college and now waiting for the tow truck to be taken
to that final resting place - the salvage yard - due
to a cracked radiator hose and a faulty transmission.

While leaning across the driver's and passenger's seat
to the small pocket on the door, I pulled out old pens
from insurance companies in South Dakota, a pad of paper
from a funeral home in Washington, receipts from gas
in Oregon, remnants of travels taken and life lived.

They were at the bottom of the pocket, tucked behind a map
of Montana. Brown specs, rounded, tortoiseshell,
a little too outdated to be new, a little too late 80s to be retro.
When I put them on, I saw her: brown hair wavy and unruly,
short and stylishly unfashionable, her kind eyes hidden

in the mirrored lenses that warded off the Minnesota sun
that glinted off the white snow. For a second, her eyes
were mine, and I loved that 22-year-old version of herself,
edgy and lively, and I loved the 22-year-old version of myself,
because we were the same behind my mother's sunglasses.

[Poem#14] As You Go

Real life, my dears, is only a stone's throw
from where you already walk. This time
spent embracing your mind has not divorced

you from life outside the ivy halls. You
have not been hiding, I hope, from the pain
and suffering just off your beaten path:

pain down darkened alleyways of your city,
in hospital beds in your town, in streets paved with dirt
on the other side of the world. That is the real life

that you have touched briefly, and now
it will be your reality. So throw that stone
to hear it bounce in the path ahead, and know

that just as one section of the traveling ends,
with its familiar landscape, another one begins,
with a horizon always just out of reach.
Your striving is the journey.