Asleep...tired...or it malingers

5 days since getting the wisdom teeth removed. I've gotten some reading done but nothing other than that. No writing, unfortunately. I've been so drugged out. My main goal for tomorrow since I'm improving is to revise and write write write.

I'm not going to do any poem stuff today. I'm too spent to forage my "archive" for a poem to post. I want to bring up this nonfiction piece of mine. Being restricted to mushy foods has had an interesting affect on me. I want some cool, crunchy cereal soooo badly...yet, I have lost weight, and I've forgotten how easy it is to not eat. That's a road I dare not step towards, but I've been thinking a lot about body image and food and the like. This is a piece I wrote in February when I was in a similar state of mind:

A Hunger Manifesto
02/25/10

More and more the suggestion “how to be anorexic” pops up in search engines. Obviously the person searching for such a thing is not and will never be anorectic. What the pursuer wants is the ultimate knowledge that the anorectic seems to hold. How do you get so thin…how do you not eat. The anorectic seemingly holds the key to the Western ideal of beauty, of perfection: Thin. And for every person aware that anorexia nervosa is a dangerous mental disorder, there is a person who secretly or not so secretly is envious of the anorectic’s refusal of food.

As if it could solely be about food. It would be so easy to change, to cure, to eliminate if the anorectic simply did not want to eat. Anorexia, after all, means lack of appetite in medical translation. This is what Westerners want to know. How does one suppress appetite? The anorectic, however, is the absolute wrong person to turn to with such a question.

Anorectics want to eat. They daydream of eating and write of eating. Their dreams are full of cake, pasta, bread. Food is their religion: Thin is the God but low calorie foods are the saints. Salads, fruits, vegetables, aspartame, black coffee, and water so much water. The day, the week even, is placed in the framework of food. They have appetite. There is no question of that.

But anorectics are good daughters and sons. The best friends and star students. And starvation is the ultimate act of selflessness. Here is my body on a silver platter. All my food goes to you. I don’t deserve it. I need to serve instead of gorge. They are rapturously devoted. Anorectics cannot state “good enough.” Cannot state “average.” These are alien concepts. More so, these are blasphemy.

And of course everyone prays to Thin. Thin is purity, the adherence to tradition, before food could be gotten anywhere in any quantity (keeping in mind anorexia nervosa is almost strictly a Western occurrence). Thin is upward mobility because Thin is glamorous, fashionable. The initial choice to restrict food intake is all on the anorectic but encouragement is inescapable. I wish I were skinny like you…

While anorexia nervosa can cripple men just as well as women, women are incredibly sensitive to it because of the Western perversion of youth. As soon as the female child begins to soften around the breasts and belly she is sexualized. Men drool at the mouth for her limberness, her excitability, her purity and naivety. He wants to be the first to take her so she always remembers him and at least he can be confident enough to “satisfy” a child. And as the girl grows softer and begins bleeding and feeling tightness in the lower belly around certain boys her father snarls in fear and her mother in jealousy. The girl quickly realizes that she is a new creature who can no longer relate to her father because she looks like her mother and yet cannot identify with her mother because her mother pushes her away in necessity and partly in envy, knowing her daughter will now be the subject of desire she once was.

And if the girl is subject to the most abhorrent act imaginable—sexual abuse—her new body is found an enemy. The softness not only pushed her parents away but seduced my abuser, she concludes. He touched me because I look too sexy. This is her deduction. The only way to be rid of softness is to starve it off. So starve she will.

Above everything the anorectic rejects—selfishness, aging, sexuality—there is consumer culture. Take take take buy buy buy consume consume consume. In this flurry of gluttony the anorectic holds steadfast, saying I do not want, I do not want. In hunger is the affirmation of humanity. Consumer culture dulls senses. Anorectics opt out of the dizzying modern lifestyle in favor of feeling. It is a paradox that in starvation is living, but it makes perfect sense when placed in the context of Western society. The “average” modern person falls victim to the numbing patterns of desk work, commuting, television. Anorectics do not believe in average and will do anything to be exemplary, and this means the rejection of the ultimate consumption: food. The “average” people take their on-the-go food for granted. Not me, I need to feel, says the anorectic. And of course this will result in Thin and Thin will be praised and praised until the anorectic is dying or dead.

As if it could solely be about food. It would be so easy.

Anorexia nervosa is flourishing, becoming an American epidemic. The fact that obesity is an epidemic of the same proportions is no coincidence. Both anorexia nervosa and obesity cross generational, racial, and gender boundaries (albeit they are concentrated in certain demographics), more and more striking at younger ages. The obese suffocate themselves with consumer culture—buying popular, easy, manufactured food and working their sedentary job, blind to the health risks because they simply have too much to do to think about weight gain. The anorectics are hyperaware of this suffocation. They vow to sustain on as little as possible and push the physicality of their bodies despite the temptations of technology, blind to the health risks because “average” must be avoided like a rabid animal.

What is for certain is that consumer culture is here to stay until the next paradigm-shifting technological innovation. And while people are enraptured in consumption they will always bow to Thin as the holy ideal because Thin has the will power to reject modernity. Thin is pure, Thin is transcendent, Thin is youthful, Thin is perfect. And this ideal will continue killing their sons and daughters, their friends and students, because Thin is never Thin. In the mind of the anorectic, the Thinner means the greater and more pleasing, and Thinnest will occur only in death. It is the sacrifice they make to Thin and all its promises of greatness—they will finally be noticed positively by their parents and their body will be a temple instead of a tool of hedonistic desire. Anorexia nervosa is the want to sacrifice. The fact that starving to feel in a deadening culture or starving to feel accomplished results in death is known quite well by the anorectic. He or she is willing to make that sacrifice if their loved ones let them.

brief

Some more of my photography and editing. I'm thinking of investing in a camcorder but they are pricey so we'll see...

I'm going to be MIA for the next few days. I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed and will be using my recovery time to work on gifts for my grandparents' 60th anniversary.

I've made no progress in "W&P," but I did finish both "The Road" and "Brave New World". I need to read them again; both were very beautiful texts. I'm currently reading "The Plague" by Albert Camus and of course I'm in love with it because it's Camus.

Here's a stream of consciousness poem. You just write and write, never lifting the pen from the page for an allotted time. I like the content but I'm debating changing the form. I don't know if I should break it into stanzas or not.

William S. Burroughs Recommends Using Dreams to Write

I dreamed I saw Ginsberg on the campus mall with his long gray beard and khaki fedora and I approached him as old friends. He was an advisor for my thesis, which I debated either making an anthology or book of poems. I told him about how Kerouac’s death should upset me more but it didn’t because I never really knew the man despite seeing him all the time. Ginsberg was silent so I kept talking to avoid the empty space which beckons for people to say what they really mean and I could not admit to me that he was in my head. He was all I had at the moment so I kept chattering about things I didn’t really feel and that didn’t really mean anything to anybody but I had to keep talking so he wouldn’t leave me alone.

Experiments

I tried seriously working with pastels and colored pencils Tuesday. The first piece is half of Edie Sedgwick's face (I did half because I can only do profiles freehand), done with pastels and charcoal (charcoal for the eye makeup). I love pastels because they just melt onto the page and are very intense in terms of color. They are messy though! The second piece is of a Dogue de Bordeaux, or French Mastiff, done in colored pencil. I like pencils because they are easy to control, but it takes a lot of pressure to get the color to pop. I think French Mastiffs are one of the most beautiful dog breeds out there. I wish I could do their coat justice:

I normally don't use rhyme in my poems, but I'm trying to incorporate more formal elements into my free verse stuff. Here is a somewhat rhymed poem I wrote on Monday or Tuesday:

Across the Hall
To I., with much love

He collects soda cans
and he collects hair.
He’d rather collect dishes than
step out and see me there.
I still scrape fat off his pan
and wipe his cutlery with care,
with hope that soon I can say
“No matter how much you collect,
you can’t disappear.”


I don't know if I want to expand on this one or not. I'm going to mull over it.

After reading this following poem for the first time, my heart stopped. Every poem should have a shift in the ending, and this ending is just devastating. Countee Cullen belonged to the Harlem Renaissance school of poetry along with uber-famous poet Langston Hughes. I adore Cullen and my admiration for him began with this poem:

Incident

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee;
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, "Nigger."

I saw the whole of Balimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

We could, we could crash--A Tribute to The Kills

Since I posted so much yesterday and I'll be working on more tonight, I decided to showcase one of my favorite bands today. They are not well-known here in the States and they really deserve to be. The Kills consist of two vocalists/guitarists, named Alison Mosshart (nickname VV) and Jamie Hince (nickname Hotel). Alison Mosshart is currently in another fantastic band with Jack White called The Dead Weather, but she still works with Hince regularly. Hince is engaged to Kate Moss...despite what people think, he and Mosshart are not an item. They are good friends who have been performing music since 2002. Their biggest single is "URA Fever," which has been in a few movies. Yet they remain pretty underground over here (they're a London based band). They're influenced by Patti Smith, Frank Zappa, and the Velvet Underground. The Kills also dabble in art and photography, which I'm showing here. Enjoy!













I pulled those photos from their official website and facebook. Here is a great video of them performing live. This is one of their better known songs.

Finally, some revisions! (and a new painting, too)

This Bettie Page painting took the longest of any non-written art project I've done-- 4 days! Certainly not a masterpiece (never claimed I was a skilled painter) but I'm proud of it none the less. Bettie is a little rougher around the edges than I would have liked, but oh well.

I went up to Phoenix on Saturday with my family to visit my aunt, cousin, and some of their friends. I HATE Phoenix but I love road trips. They are so good for my creativity. On the way there I worked on revising some of my poems. For some reason I always do better revisions with pen and paper. It's a more "organic" process I suppose.

I want to thank "Anonymous" for the fantastic suggestions on my last post. Unfortunately I did not read the comment before revising that poem on my trip, but I'll definitely revise it more with your suggestions in mind! I'm still not 100% happy with this version. I think the title change works better but it may not for you guys, and if not let me know! :)

Tuesday Therapy
My hands at the ostrich wheel, driving down Oracle,
reflecting upon the discoveries of the prior session.
How I’ve waded through the sea of nerves,
riding the nausea and confusing it for love.

How the addict crafts a byzantine delusion
justifying their derisive medication,
I’ve seen the slick of desire as the affection of a friend.
Passion, as it has been presented to me, in lashings
long I believed was my bitter necessity.

As tires roll across the gray at 55
my heart pulsates in its new role
as a palpitating open sore untreated.
Exposed, exposed, all I am evolved.
There is liberation to be found
in mental flaying.

I'm going to post two more revisions along with their originals. The first is "Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour," my only published poem. It's been through multiple revisions with help from my poetry class but I revised it even more on Saturday. This is revision #5 with the original (the original is after the revision). The formatting is all wonky because I cannot get it to work, my apologies:

Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”—Jack Kerouac, On the Road

I.
Greyhound stationways on the out out skirts of town. Streets littered with long skirts, short skirts, torn skirts: the souvenirs and remnants of days that I don't remember-- what is memory anyway? --Nothing if not a false sense.

Etching
"Madness"

on a bathroom stall

with a ballpoint cap (sharpened with teeth)

II.

Gonorrhea contracted on the sink, damp underwear on the floor,
liquefying bones grounding into musty carpet
burning “regret” into the line of poetry
tattooed on my right shoulder.

III.

And so I wrote it:

The tongue to the roof of my mouth
forming
the hopelessness
of a generation.

"I'll speak it and breathe it."

Memoir of a Wannabe American Troubadour
Greyhound stationways on the out out skirts of town. Streets littered with long skirts, short skirts, torn skirts: the souvenirs and remnants of days that I don't remember-- what is memory anyway? --Nothing if not a false sense.

(Amphetamine fueled crosscountrydaze)

Etching
"Madness"

on the green wall

of a bathroom stall

with a ballpoint cap (sharpened with teeth)

Gonorrhea on the sink,
carpet burn branding poetry
into my personified flesh.

Drip Drip Drip

The tongue to the roof of my mouth
forming
the hope
of a generation.

"I'll speak it and breathe it."



This next one is titled "100." I think the revision is far better than the original; it's less redundant and wordy. I think having so many parenthetical statements might be overkill though. Once again the original is after the revision:

100
To D. and T.

How strange it is, this barrage of thorns
across the skin, an electric numbness.
This otherworldly abduction of the senses—
(This is not my body, it is a replacement)
the inexplicable ache gripping the eyes—
(I did not ask for it, please take it)
the fatigue rattling the mad hands—
(I will throw it away).

A hundred little x’s across your calf,
A hundred little droplets on your sock,
A hundred little words never spoken,
A hundred little lies told instead,
A hundred secrets engraved in skin.

(And oh, we remember all the fingers…and the hundred scar result).

You ask the scent of that water
and I know it too precisely,
the bleach and porcelain spawn.
A hundred hours wasted
watching my briny tears join sterile seas.

And we recall the esophageal minefield
that keeps us up at night.
The desperate mews into the pillow,
“No more, no more, no more.”

The bondage to our own wrists,
the external shell stapled to our musculature,
how can we revolt?

(A hundred frantic whispers.)
(A hundred pairs of deaf ears.)

When we wake from strangled sleep and meet,
donning black sleeves wrapping crusted scabs,
we talk of edges and guilt and endless flaws,
despising our bodily and intellectual captivity
(A hundred futile complaints?)

Between us there is a pool of self-pity
fed into by rivers of cynicism.
Yet when I look up from my Nile,
and take your pruned hands into mine,
I see a hundred reasons to rejoice.

100
To D. and T.

How strange it is, this barrage of thorns
across the skin, numb, a potassium drip.
This otherwordly abduction of the senses-
(This is not my body, I do not want it.)
the inexplicable ache gripping the eyes-
(I did not ask for it, please take it.)
the fatigue madly rattling the hands-
(I will throw it away.)

A hundred little x's across your calf,
a hundred little droplets on your sock,
a hundred little words never spoken,
a hundred little lies told instead,
a hundred grand regrets.

--When you see me now, all dressed and beat,
do you honestly care if it was the cat or the fall?
The plate is empty, the house is clean,
the girl is finally quiet, let her be.--

(I remember all the fingers...a hundred scars.)

The scent of that water, I know it too precisely,
the bleach and porcelain spawn.
A hundred hours wasted
watching my briny tears join the sea.

The esophageal minefield that
keeps you up at night.
The desperate mew in the pillow,
"No more, no more, no more."
The bondage to your own wrist,
the barcode on your forearm,
how can you revolt?

(A hundred tiny whispers.)
(A hundred pairs of deaf ears.)

I join you in a hazy patched slumber;
my brain unlocks a trench of filth,
a blaze of undesired memories,
an hysteric yelp into the pillow
of "No more, no more, no more."

When we awake from cursed sleep and meet,
donning black sleeves and pearl bracelets,
we talk of edges and guilt and endless flaws,
(A hundred furious tendencies.)
justify frantic impulses and "crazy sorrow,"
(A hundred futile wishes?)
despise our bodily and intellectual captivity.
(A hundred nuclear frustrations.)

Between us there is a pool of misery,
fed into by rivers of cynicism.
Weakened by hunger and life we bond
and share our dejections.
But when I look up from my clouds and skeleton
and cast my jaded eyes upon your faces,
I see a hundred reasons to rejoice.


Since I quoted Kerouac in "Memoir" and the Beat Generation is a continuing source of inspiration for me, I feel it's appropriate to feature a Beat poet (my favorite, actually). I'm crazy about Allen Ginsberg, and I'm crazy about his most famous poem "Howl." Ginsberg and "Howl" (and the Beat Generation in general) remain controversial to this day. Some believe they reinvented the way poetry is written, others believe drugs gave them their talent. Anyone who believes the latter has done zero research on Beat authors. Ginsberg was the son of a respected poet and was mentored by William Carlos Williams. He and Bob Dylan were best friends and wrote together quite a bit. The guy had chops! Granted, Beat fans are annoying, smoking American Spirits and drinking soy lattes and wearing Ray Bans on daddy's money. But the bottom line is don't disregard the Beats because they did drugs. Everyone did in the '60s.

Here is my favorite passage from "Howl." I have the "to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose" line tattooed on my shoulder.

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before
you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet
confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow
of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love
into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered
the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies
good to eat a thousand years.

Do A Dance

I have a good life-- an intact family, an education, comfortable finances. Though I am not without my bratty moments, I am grateful every day for what I have. I'm going to be traveling the next couple of days so I won't be posting, but to anyone reading, I wish nothing but good will. In these economically and socially challenging times, a smile goes a long way.

Saccharine I know, but when I have a glimmer of optimism, I embrace it. I am a pessimist by nature and am not this happy very often!

I wrote this poem last year when I was in a similar mood. I think it has a lot of potential that still needs to be brought out. I think the last three lines are really strong, but I'm fairly certain I'm going to scrap a lot of this (particularly the "A relationship meant..." and "Life can be life..." lines--they feel cliched, no?). I'm curious to see what feedback it will get since I cannot trust myself. As William S. Burroughs said, writers are terrible judges of their own work.

Exposed Horizons
My hands at the ostrich wheel, driving down Oracle,
reflecting upon the revelations of the prior session.
How I've waded through the sea of nerves,
riding the nausea and confusing it for love.
How the addict crafts a byzantine delusion
justifying their self-abuse/medication,
I have seen the slick of desire as the affection of a friend.
Passion, as it has been presented to me, in lashings and spit
long told me that it was supposed to happen.
A relationship meant being another's breath and having another's breath.

The gray area is exposed to me wide--
the tires roll across the pavement at 55
but my mind is not warped in dread.
Life can be life without emotional trenches
and friendship can be friendship without branding.
Exposed, exposed, all I am all the time,
my guard has needed this respite for a long time, poor thing.
The horizon expands the further I drive
and I can feel the past not chip away, not crumble, not bury
but rather delicately fall behind my shoulders
and nestle itself in the recesses of my skull.

The featured poem is not related to mine, except maybe that it also deals with time. It's one of my favorite poems of all time by a great female poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. I think we all have a fascination with "crazy artist," who is typically short-lived. Millay touches on that allure in this short poem, entitled "First Fig":

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

Two Lovely Ladies

I believe that physical appearance is a valuable form of artistic expression.
Hairstyle, makeup, body modification, and clothing can say more about you than any phrase. I used to be very dedicated to this philosophy. Admittedly though, college has made me quite lazy, and I've opted for adolescent band tees and jeans as my wardrobe. Before I return to Minnesota in July, I will have a closet full of more mature clothes (time to get out of the juniors department!). Being so small people tend to not take me seriously...I'm sure the torn jeans don't help.

One of my absolute favorite things to do is go thrifting on 4th Ave. Between University and Congress, 4th Ave is nothing but fantastic, offbeat little shops. One of my favorite clothing items is a 1971 Montgomery Ward black and white blouse I obtained from a 4th thrift store. I don't wear it often because it is so old (for a piece of clothing) but it was only 7 dollars and looks great.

My "style," when I dress up, is very mod-inspired. I never cared much for clothes or makeup until I saw a picture of Edie Sedgwick. Sedgwick was a 1960s model and dancer, muse to Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan. From the first picture I saw I was smitten. She had a way of dressing and moving that was extraordinary. She was a trained artist and jazz ballet dancer, which had a definite impact on the way she carried herself. She was art embodied. Dylan's album "Blonde on Blonde" was largely inspired by her (the two were good friends). Unfortunately she died of a barbiturate overdose in 1971.

Another woman who inspires me greatly is Bettie Page. I wish I had the thick hair to pull off those bangs! I think it's so admirable that in a time of such sexual repression, she embraced nudity and sexual exploration. Yet there was nothing smutty about anything she did; she was always completely comfortable and in control of herself. That is as important to me as her flawless hair and makeup. Looking at her comforts me in a time where fashion designers and pop culture are stripping women of all power, literally shrinking them into oblivion. Page not only had the best waist-to-hip ratio known to man, but she had the slim, toned physique of someone who enjoyed being active. To me she represents health, mental and physical. She passed of natural causes in 2008.

Above are my two favorite pictures of them. Look at Edie's stunning eye makeup! Bettie's stunning physique! No trace of lifelessness, starvation, or silicon in either of them.

It's something else to see these ladies in action. The first video is of Edie. There's not much surviving footage of Edie (Warhol was an intentionally bad camera man), but the video's creator did a great job of using her photoshoots to create a stop motion. I've been looking all over for a silver dress akin to the one in 0:45-0:57 but no dice.

The second video is footage of Bettie Page dancing edited to "Can't Seem to Make You Mine" by The Seeds, one of my favorite 1960s-era bands. Her facial expressions show that she is having a blast. The thing she does with her hips at 1:34 is beyond adorable.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Br4KSSbO7Ag&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifQK_86Nk-A&playnext_from=TL&videos=Gjly5Z5tS7o

I wrote a poem inspired by Edie but it needs some editing before I'm confident enough to post it. Instead, I've chosen the Poem of the Day to be "Edie Sedgwick (1943-1971)" by another favorite woman of mine, poet/musician Patti Smith.

I don't know how she did it. Fire
She was shaking all over. It took
her hours to put her make-up on.
But she did it. Even the false eye-lashes.
She ordered gin with triple
limes. Then a limousine. Everyone
knew she was the real heroine of
Blonde on Blonde.
oh it isn't fair
oh it isn't fair
how her ermine hair
turned men around
she was white on white
so blonde on blonde
and her long long legs
how I used to beg
to dance with her
but I never had
a chance with her
oh it isn't fair
how her ermine hair
used to swing so nice
used to cut the air
how all the men
used to dance with her
I never got a chance with her
though I really asked her
down deep
where you do
really dream
in the mind
reading love
I'd get
inside
her move
and we'd
turn around
and she'd
turn around
and turn the head
of everyone in town
her shaking shaking
glittering bones
second blonde child
after brian jones
oh it isn't fair

how I dreamed of her
and she slept
and she slept
forever
and I'll never dance
with her no never
she broke down
like a baby
like a baby girl
like a lady
with ermine hair
oh it isn't fair
and I'd like to see
her rise again
her white white bones
with baby brian jones
baby brian jones
like blushing
baby dolls

I am I because

Above are some of my photographs/edits. In order to do the pigment editing, I used a program called befunky.com. When I used it frequently it was free, but unfortunately now only select options are free. I know most of the pictures are of myself--I'm too embarrassed to ask anyone to "model" for me until I'm more proficient with a camera.

The lazy boiling Tucson summer days are getting to me...I just want to sleep all the time. Or watch "River Monsters." I have the itch to fish again because of that show.

I returned "The Naked and the Dead." I'm never proud of giving up a book, but I just could not do it. I borrowed Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World" and Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" from David. I'm so excited for these two--I've wanted to read BNW since I was 13, thanks to Jim Morrison ("The Doors of Perception"). I'm about 500 pages into "War and Peace"--I admittedly skim over the battle scenes, but I'm diligent about the rest. I think its essential to read books twice, but given the sheer volume of W&P that will occur only later in my life.

Since I just returned from David's house, it would be appropriate for me to post one of my less serious poems. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not fond of cats, but David's roommate Tom has a cat named Sir Deimos who is lovely. Like all cats, she thinks she's the boss, but she has a great personality.

An Ode to Sir Deimos, Ruler of the Household

The small black cat
toys
with defenseless boxes.

She makes plastic bags
subservient
with one swat.

Her eyes gleam
menacing
when she springs up.

Her tail coils
serpentine
in murderous pleasure.

Her flat face is
unforgiving
and her claws express.

We love her
and she loves us occasionally.

I love animals, especially dogs, and one of my favorite lines is by Gertrude Stein: "I am I because my little dog knows me." Stein is one of the most complex, dense poets of the 20th Century but she. is. fantastic. It would take five or more posts to even begin analyzing her work (I did a rhetorical analysis on her last semester--I know) but I'm going to post a fraction of her poem "Identity A Poem." She uses the little dog line in much of her work, but its most prominent in this poem. This is just a section of it:

PART IV

The question of identity.

A PLAY

I am I because my little dog knows me.
Which is he.
No which is he.
Say it with tears, no which is he.
I am I why.
So there.
I am I where.



Try not to think too much about it. In order to enjoy Stein, you have to let go of some sense. The benefit is in the simplicity.

Poetry on Poetry

I'm not going to do much today--I don't feel all that well. My poem for today is "'Tis an Art," which I wrote in either my junior or senior year of high school. During those years I slightly lost my mind...I applied myself to all the wrong things. I find that many talented people destroy themselves, which I suppose inspired this piece.

‘Tis an Art
On my body crawls raging stings,
starting from my abdomen up to my scalp:
tingle, tingle
and it feels so well.
I almost made the etches from head to toe,
peeling off the thickened layers of flesh.
Here I am, a sculpture all on my own.
A pink carved pumpkin,
and ‘tis an art.

The calcium column reflected in the cabinet mirror,
follow its path downward:
curved lanes towards the bones of my own design.
The elastic dip of empty lining, the
sharp southern peaks poking out of denim.
And there is no redemption in this craft.
Reminding the unruly physical that it’s mine
to cut away at will.
And ‘tis an art.

Misplaced creativity.
And ‘tis an art.

Billy Collins is probably the most popular American poet since Allen Ginsberg. He served as US Poet Laureate until a couple of years ago. He's known for his colloquial style, which I quite enjoy. I respect the elevated style of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, but thoroughly relate to and enjoy more "understated" poets like Collins. I believe it's harder to say something meaningful in colloquial language than in academic language. This poem of his deals with the process of literary analysis, which many MANY people overdo. Though a poem always contains more than what is on the page, many students look for what is simply not there (a girl in my Intro to Honors English class last semester saw democracy in "The Red Wheelbarrow"...) Anyway, here's his hilarious (and frustrating) poem on interpretation, "Introduction to Poetry."

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

I went through my notebook...

and refined some poems. Here they are (still pretty rough):

Can I Thank You?

Can I thank you
for your enduring spirit?
for your tenderness,
unmatched by any one creature?
for your shy chuckle,
the way the wind greets your hair?

Or perhaps I can thank you
for being you
and never even a shadow
of anyone who’s not,

and your boundless loyalty
and your strong hands
and your clownlike soul
and your deep, relentless talent
for loving me
without losing yourself
in me.

Yes, I think I shall thank you for that.


I hide away, your ghost in mind

I hide away, your ghost in mind
as I cross my legs in a dim Best Western room
in an ushanka, beer in hand.

Vision blurred, I can see you behind my eyes.
Your silhouette, far ahead, sauntering
through raindrops, with dog close by.

A glimpse outside reveals
a flickering McDonald’s arch
and the disappearance
of your drizzled silhouette.

No sweat entangled between us tonight.

But still as I sit, head in knees,
blood cells constricting in rye,
there is your apparition
on the curb
dog leash in hand
glancing back at me
waiting.

This one is an Elizabethan sonnet I wrote for my poetry class last semester. An Elizabethan sonnet is 14 lines long, written in iambic pentameter, and follows an alternating rhyme pattern, ending in a couplet. I'm pretty happy with this one, especially because formal verse can be challenging for me, but I feel the title is a bit pompous. "He Do the Police in Different Voices" was the original title of Eliot's masterpiece "The Waste Land," which I was reading at the time I wrote this. Soooo...though my piece is post-apocalyptic, like "The Waste Land," it's definitely below Eliot. Regardless, here it is:

He Do the Police in Different Voices

Title credit to T.S. Eliot

Wheels crushed the parched bits of Navajo stone
as the sun, a pomegranate fist, smashed
through the raw sky of sugar glass. No bone
was protected from the remnants of clashed
celestial bodies, blood ran sweet from
the sky’s legs below to the carcasses.
And the land could not weep. And the wild drum
rose and greeted the clouds made molasses,
soaking up the sky’s marred virgin remains.
Upon the fatal collision the beasts
stirred, navigating the thicket of stains.
Their claws struggled to the meals that had ceased
to be. Cactus blossoms shriveled from view
and, unlike us, continued to renew.

Alternative title suggestions...?


I'm contemplating doing a "Poem A Day" feature, in which I would showcase the poems of my favorite poets as well as the poems of contemporary poets who deserve exposure. I probably will for my sake, but I hope anyone reading will enjoy them as well. I may occasionally do "mini-papers" where I present interpretations of the poem, including my own analysis, for a paragraph or two. Perhaps my fellow literature aficionados can debate with me.

If I follow through with the "Poem A Day" plan, this is the first. It's by Denise Levertov, a 20th Century British-American poet highly influenced by William Carlos Williams. She's the master of compression, saying an infinite amount in so little space. Here she remarks on grief and regret in 8 lines. It's incredible.

Intrusion

by Denise Levertov

After I had cut off my hands
and grown new ones

something my former hands had longed for
came and asked to be rocked.

After my plucked out eyes
had withered, and new ones grown

something my former eyes had wept for
came asking to be pitied.

Never Was a Cornflake Girl

I've never considered myself an artist outside of the writing mediums, but I've always enjoyed sketching and painting. I'm painting more and more and really enjoy it. I did a watercolor inspired by my dear friend Tina a couple nights ago:





My apologies, the picture quality sucks (I didn't use lighting very well). I'm not good with drawing people so the portrait is underwhelming, but I like the overall painting. "Cornflake Girl" is a terrific song by Tori Amos that stirs me every time. The lyrics implemented in the painting are "She's putin' on her string bean love" and "And the man with the golden gun thinks he knows so much."

I have a summer reading list that I'm making slow progress on. I'm currently reading "War and Peace" by Leo Tolstoy (or лио толстой) and "The Naked and the Dead" by Norman Mailer. Both are war novels-- the first dealing with the Napoleonic Wars and the second with WWII. "W&P" is an epic, tracing characters' lives through a decade of war (amounting to about 1500 pages). However, Tolstoy's focus is on emotion and imagery rather than plot--and I like it. Drenched plots bore me, which is why I have a hard time with journey or "quest" books like Tolkien's stuff or "A Passage to India" (uuuuuuggggghhhh that book.) However, I'm struggling with "The Naked and the Dead." It's just not drawing me in; the imagery is pretty dull--all you get of the characters are their hair color and age (maybe that's the point?). I'm going to give it a few more chapters but if continues to draw on I'll move to the next on my list.

I entered a poetry contest hosted by the UA's Poetry Center. I didn't win anything, but my poetry teacher Sarah Kortemeier and David's poetry teacher Sean Rys both did and I'm very happy about that. Sarah is fantastic with rhythm, evident here: http://poetrycenter.arizona.edu/enewsletter/september2009/enews0909_solar.shtml

I'll post more of my writing tomorrow or Sunday. Until then, au revoir!

New Blog--For Real

I've tried blogging for a while but have never stuck with it. However, with me having much free time this summer I thought I would start. One of my projects for the next few months is to revise my poems and try to get them as much exposure as possible (open mic night, David. It WILL happen). And hopefully you guys can help with that process.

I'll also be posting stupid/amazing things I find on the Internet and doing album reviews and such...so, I hope I'm interesting enough to keep you guys reading.

Since Bob Dylan's 69th birthday was May 24th, I thought I'd post one already revised poem:

Thru the town of Zimmerman, MN

I've walked your iron grounds
and saw the pits swallowing dark blonde Lithuanians
like you and me,
and I've ridden on your Northbound highway
with all blue signs pointing to holy Duluth--
the city with the refreshing frosty air of birth,
I've touched the reeds of stony Superior
and saw Pound and Eliot in the captain's tower
with Rimbaud smoking opium onlooking terribly;
I've used a rhyming dictionary and enrolled in scroll writing
then bent my mind with a marijuana tambourine man,
skipping along Oklahoma dust roads with a harmonica.
I’ve gotten so lonesome I could cry, but the tears
did not become a Hard Rain, they stirred in the pools
of my sunken cheeks and were absorbed by the skin.
And I’ve worn black glasses to deny others judgment—
your audience gapes in wonder, acolytes to an enigma;
my audience dissects me en masse and never wonders.

This art is all yours, Dylan.
No one can approach your ability to create endlessly
and never answer.
This is the brand of beauty that you own.