Why didn’t someone tell me about crying in the shower?
What a fair fine place to cry.
What a rare place to let go
And know that no one hears--
Let fall your tears which, with the rain that falls,
Appall nobody save yourself, and standing there
You wear your sadness, properly assuaged,
Your head and face massaged by storms of spring
Or, if you think it, autumn rain.
You drain yourself away to naught, the move to joy;
But sadness must come first, it must be bought.
A thirst for melancholy, then, must find a place
To stand in corners and know grief;
The last leaf on the tree may turn you there,
Or just the way the wind, with cats,
Prowls down the garden grass,
Or some boy passing on a bike,
Selling the end of summer with a shout,
Or some toy left like doubt upon a walk,
Or some girl’s smile that, heedless, cracks the heart,
Or that cold moment when each part and place and room
In all your house is empty, still,
Your children gone, their warm rooms chill,
Their summer-oven beds unyeasted, flat,
Waiting for cats to visit some half-remembered ghost
In the long fall.
So, for absolutely no good reason at all
Old oceans rise
One’s eyes are filled with salt;
Something unknown then dies and must be mourned.
Then standing beneath the shower at noon or night
Is right and proper and good--
What was not understood now comes to hand...
One’s interior land is wonderfully nourished by tears:
The years that you brought to harvest
Are properly scythed down and laid,
The games of love you played are ribboned and filed,
A whole life unlocked in your blood is thus let free, unbound.
So freely found then, know it, let it go
From out your eyes and with the sweet rains flow.
But now, good boys, strong gentlemen, take heed:
This stuff is not for women, lost, alone;
The need is yours as well as theirs.
Take women’s wisdom for your own.
Take sorrow’s loan and let your own cares free.
Christ, give it a try!
Not to learn how to weep is, lost fool,
But to learn how to die.
Stand weeping there from midnight until morn,
Then from impacted wisdom shorn, set free,
Leap forth to laugh in freshborn Children’s Hour and shout:
Oh, damn you, maids, that’s what it’s all about?!
Sweet widows with your wisdom, blast you all to hell!
Why?
Why, why, God, oh why,
Why wouldn’t someone tell me about crying in the shower?
[Ray Bradbury, 'Why Didn’t Someone Tell Me about Crying in the Shower?', from I Live By the Invisible]
4.29.2014
Before I knew words for it / I loved what was obsolete
Before I knew words for it
I loved what was obsolete
crumpled at the foot of a closet
lost in the street
left out in the rain
in its wet story
from another age
in a language that was lost
like the holes in socks
I loved the rust with its steering wheel
in midair above the forbidden
chassis and the mouths of tunnels
the eyes of dust
no floor with its pedals
that I was never to touch
because all of it was
dangerous
and the touch of it
would never come off
though I could tell that no one
really believed that
as it stood there behind
the garage that had floated to us
like an ark from the days of horses
and I stood at the corner and listened
[W. S. Merwin, 'Relics', from The Moon Before Morning]
I loved what was obsolete
crumpled at the foot of a closet
lost in the street
left out in the rain
in its wet story
from another age
in a language that was lost
like the holes in socks
I loved the rust with its steering wheel
in midair above the forbidden
chassis and the mouths of tunnels
the eyes of dust
no floor with its pedals
that I was never to touch
because all of it was
dangerous
and the touch of it
would never come off
though I could tell that no one
really believed that
as it stood there behind
the garage that had floated to us
like an ark from the days of horses
and I stood at the corner and listened
[W. S. Merwin, 'Relics', from The Moon Before Morning]
4.28.2014
more lickable than prophecy
The rain is pregnant with a shape
exactly like you, late to tell your lover
it’s over, who is late to tell you
he never loved you, also in the rain,
as wet as a goat in the rain or a statue
of rain in the rain, if there is one,
would have epaulets of rain in the rain
and be made of bronze or toffee, you are running
now in the rain, your version
of the human spirit, your very private instance
of converting sunlight when available
into vitamin D, for the energy
to believe we are more than energy, hoping
that you are wrong in the rain,
that it will never be over, as he
is hoping that he always loved you
in the rain, three blocks, two blocks, one block
to go and there his is, more lickable
than prophecy, like dew has taken human form
and put on a yellow shirt and shaved
in the rain, the rain so hard
you fuck in the rain and no one notices, the rain
fuck-shaped where you are fucking, an animal
with its mouth to your ear, and you
an animal with your mouth to its ear, everyone
on equal footing in the rain, the rain
speaking to your panting with its panting, the rain
washing away the rain
[Bob Hicok, 'Some Recent Weather', from Elegy Owed]
exactly like you, late to tell your lover
it’s over, who is late to tell you
he never loved you, also in the rain,
as wet as a goat in the rain or a statue
of rain in the rain, if there is one,
would have epaulets of rain in the rain
and be made of bronze or toffee, you are running
now in the rain, your version
of the human spirit, your very private instance
of converting sunlight when available
into vitamin D, for the energy
to believe we are more than energy, hoping
that you are wrong in the rain,
that it will never be over, as he
is hoping that he always loved you
in the rain, three blocks, two blocks, one block
to go and there his is, more lickable
than prophecy, like dew has taken human form
and put on a yellow shirt and shaved
in the rain, the rain so hard
you fuck in the rain and no one notices, the rain
fuck-shaped where you are fucking, an animal
with its mouth to your ear, and you
an animal with your mouth to its ear, everyone
on equal footing in the rain, the rain
speaking to your panting with its panting, the rain
washing away the rain
[Bob Hicok, 'Some Recent Weather', from Elegy Owed]
4.27.2014
like toddlers tied together while crossing the street
I like to say hello and goodbye.
I like to hug but not shake hands.
I prefer to wave or nod. I enjoy
the company of strangers pushed
together in elevators or subways.
I like talking to cab drivers
but not receptionists. I like
not knowing what to say.
I like talking to people I know
but care nothing about. I like
inviting anyone anywhere.
I like hearing my opinions
tumble out of my mouth
like toddlers tied together
while crossing the street,
trusting they won't be squashed
by fate. I like greeting-card clichés
but not dressing up or down.
I like being appropriate
but not all the time.
I could continue with more examples
but I'd rather give too few
than too many. The thought
of no one listening anymore--
I like that least of all.
[Philip Schultz, 'What I Like and Don't Like', from Failure: Poems]
I like to hug but not shake hands.
I prefer to wave or nod. I enjoy
the company of strangers pushed
together in elevators or subways.
I like talking to cab drivers
but not receptionists. I like
not knowing what to say.
I like talking to people I know
but care nothing about. I like
inviting anyone anywhere.
I like hearing my opinions
tumble out of my mouth
like toddlers tied together
while crossing the street,
trusting they won't be squashed
by fate. I like greeting-card clichés
but not dressing up or down.
I like being appropriate
but not all the time.
I could continue with more examples
but I'd rather give too few
than too many. The thought
of no one listening anymore--
I like that least of all.
[Philip Schultz, 'What I Like and Don't Like', from Failure: Poems]
4.26.2014
the night so deep, so profound
The few minutes of a Spring night
Are worth ten thousand pieces of gold.
The perfume of the flowers is so pure.
The shadows of the moon are so black.
In the pavilion the voices and flutes are so high and light.
In the garden a hammock rocks
In the night so deep, so profound.
[Su Dongpo, 'Spring Night', trans. by Kenneth Rexroth, from Zen Poems - Everyman's Library Pocket Poets]
Are worth ten thousand pieces of gold.
The perfume of the flowers is so pure.
The shadows of the moon are so black.
In the pavilion the voices and flutes are so high and light.
In the garden a hammock rocks
In the night so deep, so profound.
[Su Dongpo, 'Spring Night', trans. by Kenneth Rexroth, from Zen Poems - Everyman's Library Pocket Poets]
4.25.2014
take not thy tingling limbs from me
nearer:breath of my breath: take not thy tingling
limbs from me:make my pain their crazy meal
letting thy tigers of smooth sweetness steal
slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling:
deeper:blood of my blood:with upwardcringing
swiftness plunge these leopards of white dream
in the glad flesh of my fear:more neatly ream
this pith of darkness:carve an evilfringing
flower of madness on gritted lips
and on sprawling eyes squirming with light insane
chisel the killing flame that dizzily grips.
Querying greys between mouthed houses curl
thirstily. Dead stars stink. dawn. Inane,
the poetic carcass of a girl
[E.E. Cummings, 'ix', from Erotic Poems]
limbs from me:make my pain their crazy meal
letting thy tigers of smooth sweetness steal
slowly in dumb blossoms of new mingling:
deeper:blood of my blood:with upwardcringing
swiftness plunge these leopards of white dream
in the glad flesh of my fear:more neatly ream
this pith of darkness:carve an evilfringing
flower of madness on gritted lips
and on sprawling eyes squirming with light insane
chisel the killing flame that dizzily grips.
Querying greys between mouthed houses curl
thirstily. Dead stars stink. dawn. Inane,
the poetic carcass of a girl
[E.E. Cummings, 'ix', from Erotic Poems]
4.24.2014
They are demanding a full accounting of my sins for the records in their heaven
I blink and half my life is over
Yet I am still making plans
In an instant I shall blink again
My eyes are half-closed already
How heavy the vines are this year
How heady the wine of moments one consumes without paying
The ocean of wine the sea the river the trickle
The drop
In which is reflected a tower
A jungle of vines moving up its sides
Perhaps I could visit a scream
Climb the spiral staircase to its roots
And set up housekeeping in the moment before agony
Had I a longer moment
I could seek the philosopher's stone
Scraping my eyes on books every third word of which is hidden
Or I could enter love
The whirlpool kept in a velvet-lined box
But the final blink is upon me
They are demanding a full accounting of my sins for the records in their heaven
They have dispatched me to mine with its waving tendrils connected to nothing alive
Where I sit on a stone eroded by waves which are not water
For an instant which is eternity
Then surprised I look around at the smiling faces
[Pete Winslow, 'I blink and half my life is over', from City Lights: Pocket Poets Anthology]
Yet I am still making plans
In an instant I shall blink again
My eyes are half-closed already
How heavy the vines are this year
How heady the wine of moments one consumes without paying
The ocean of wine the sea the river the trickle
The drop
In which is reflected a tower
A jungle of vines moving up its sides
Perhaps I could visit a scream
Climb the spiral staircase to its roots
And set up housekeeping in the moment before agony
Had I a longer moment
I could seek the philosopher's stone
Scraping my eyes on books every third word of which is hidden
Or I could enter love
The whirlpool kept in a velvet-lined box
But the final blink is upon me
They are demanding a full accounting of my sins for the records in their heaven
They have dispatched me to mine with its waving tendrils connected to nothing alive
Where I sit on a stone eroded by waves which are not water
For an instant which is eternity
Then surprised I look around at the smiling faces
[Pete Winslow, 'I blink and half my life is over', from City Lights: Pocket Poets Anthology]
4.23.2014
reading a good long novel is in many ways like having a long and satisfying affair
I finally did it: I finished The Wise Man's Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss, which I've been reading in tinier and tinier portions for--holy crap, exactly six months today. I started reading it on October 23, 2013. I just got chills when I figured that out. Who takes six months to read a book? I mean, I've never, ever, in my entire life taken that long to read a book. And it's NOT because I didn't love it. I've had tears running down my face for the last hour, because I knew it would end and I didn't want it to be over yet.
There will be a third book in the series (The Kingkiller Chronicle), release date as yet unknown (by me). (I tend not to believe what I read online.) The first book, The Name of the Wind, was mind-blowing and amazing, too. The combination of the two, though, is...terrific.
I think I need to start over again.
They're that good. The writing, the story, the whole thing. THAT good.
[the title quotation is by Stephen King--and it makes me wonder what he'd say about reading a series?]
There will be a third book in the series (The Kingkiller Chronicle), release date as yet unknown (by me). (I tend not to believe what I read online.) The first book, The Name of the Wind, was mind-blowing and amazing, too. The combination of the two, though, is...terrific.
I think I need to start over again.
They're that good. The writing, the story, the whole thing. THAT good.
[the title quotation is by Stephen King--and it makes me wonder what he'd say about reading a series?]
You cannot look in his eyes Because your pulse must not say What must not be said
To be in love
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door-
Is not there--
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
[Gwendolyn Brooks, 'To Be in Love', from Selected Poems]
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.Suddenly you know he knows too.
A sky is blue.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door-
Is not there--
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
[Gwendolyn Brooks, 'To Be in Love', from Selected Poems]
4.22.2014
if, Deprived of solitude, you chafe, It's clear you're not the virtuous sort
When I was a child, I thought,
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
Not specially right or specially wrong,
A plentiful and obvious thing
Not at all hard to understand.
Then, after twenty, it became
At once more difficult to get
And more desired - though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.
Much better stay in company!
To love you must have someone else,
Giving requires a legatee,
Good neighbours need whole parishfuls
Of folk to do it on - in short,
Our virtues are all social; if,
Deprived of solitude, you chafe,
It's clear you're not the virtuous sort.
Viciously, then, I lock my door.
The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside
Ushers in evening rain. Once more
Uncontradicting solitude
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
[Philip Larkin, 'Best Society', from Solitude - Everyman's Library Pocket Poets]
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
Not specially right or specially wrong,
A plentiful and obvious thing
Not at all hard to understand.
Then, after twenty, it became
At once more difficult to get
And more desired - though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.
Much better stay in company!
To love you must have someone else,
Giving requires a legatee,
Good neighbours need whole parishfuls
Of folk to do it on - in short,
Our virtues are all social; if,
Deprived of solitude, you chafe,
It's clear you're not the virtuous sort.
Viciously, then, I lock my door.
The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside
Ushers in evening rain. Once more
Uncontradicting solitude
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
[Philip Larkin, 'Best Society', from Solitude - Everyman's Library Pocket Poets]
4.21.2014
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played to please the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
the minor fall, the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah!
Your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof;
her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair
she broke your throne, she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!
You say I took the Name in vain;
I don't even know the name.
But if I did, well, really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word;
it doesn't matter what you heard,
the holy, or the broken Hallelujah!
I did my best; it wasn't much.
I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch.
I told the truth, I didn't come to fool you.
And even though it all went wrong,
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
with nothing on my lips but Hallelujah!
Baby, I have been here before.
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
love is not a victory march,
it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah!
There was a time when you let me know
what's really going on below
but now you never show it to me, do you?
I remember when I moved in you,
the holy dove was moving too,
and every breath we drew was Hallelujah!
Now maybe there’s a God above
but all I ever learned from love
is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
And it’s no complaint you can hear tonight,
and it’s not some pilgrim who's seen the light--
it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!
[Leonard Cohen, 'Hallelujah', from Leonard Cohen {Everyman's Library Pocket Poets}]
that David played to please the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
the minor fall, the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah!
Your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof;
her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair
she broke your throne, she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!
You say I took the Name in vain;
I don't even know the name.
But if I did, well, really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word;
it doesn't matter what you heard,
the holy, or the broken Hallelujah!
I did my best; it wasn't much.
I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch.
I told the truth, I didn't come to fool you.
And even though it all went wrong,
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
with nothing on my lips but Hallelujah!
Baby, I have been here before.
I know this room, I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
love is not a victory march,
it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah!
There was a time when you let me know
what's really going on below
but now you never show it to me, do you?
I remember when I moved in you,
the holy dove was moving too,
and every breath we drew was Hallelujah!
Now maybe there’s a God above
but all I ever learned from love
is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
And it’s no complaint you can hear tonight,
and it’s not some pilgrim who's seen the light--
it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!
[Leonard Cohen, 'Hallelujah', from Leonard Cohen {Everyman's Library Pocket Poets}]
4.20.2014
do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is the center of the world
Today was a beautiful day. Absolutely glorious, especially after the varying shades of dreadful, surprising, and middling irritating through which we've slogged for the past ten months or so. Last weekend was a doozy, with everything from the upper 60s and sun to thunderstorms and hail to snow (see below) within two days. 75 and sunny with not too much wind was just right. I spent the day reading, mostly, with a spot in the middle for repotting some plants that desperately needed it. Turned a couple of root-bound African Violets back into plants (well, turned two into eight, which is more than I really wanted or have room for, but one does what one must) and just made a couple of others happier and healthier. Ran out of potting soil and empty pots (again) in the process. How does this keep happening?!
I'm reading a very good book, and I can't recommend it highly enough. It's the sort of thing that I wish I could buy in bulk and just plop into the hands of everyone I care about, so that y'all can read it with me.
When Your Life is On Fire: What Would You Save? was written by Erik Kolbell. My review for Goodreads.com [which I write primarily for myself, as notes for what I've written, and if it's of incidental use to anyone else, so be it] follows.
The latest on the wedding front involves trying to find shoes to wear with my dress (blush-pink suede sandals are the front-runners) and negotiating via the groom-to-be for a hotel room on the night that we all arrive in The Big City. Our rental house will not be available until night number two.
It will all come together. Unless something else comes together first....
[the title quotation is by John Burroughs, from Studies in Nature and Literature]
 |
| If you look closely at the upper left side of the windshield, you'll see hail... |
 |
| ...which also shows up a little better in this photo, ... |
 |
| ...and here's some very apparent snow. |
I'm reading a very good book, and I can't recommend it highly enough. It's the sort of thing that I wish I could buy in bulk and just plop into the hands of everyone I care about, so that y'all can read it with me.
When Your Life is On Fire: What Would You Save? was written by Erik Kolbell. My review for Goodreads.com [which I write primarily for myself, as notes for what I've written, and if it's of incidental use to anyone else, so be it] follows.
Borrowed it from the library, got about a third of the way through, and returned it. Why? Because I needed to own it. Ordered it for my e-reader, because I was too impatient to wait the two days for it to arrive in print.When I bought the book for my e-reader, I started reading again at the beginning so that I could take notes and highlight, which I obviously could not do in the library's copy. I'm still making steady progress but haven't yet finished. It's just as compelling the second time through.
This is a profound book, and it's having a profound effect on me. I'm reading no more than one chapter a day and then taking time to reflect on it before moving on to the next. The thesis of the book is deceptively simple: if your life were on fire and you could save one thing, whether a physical object or something of value within yourself (e.g. an aspect of your intellect or your personality), what would you save? Each chapter comes in the form of an interview between the author (a Congregational minister with a concentration in Judaic studies) and various people--famous and "regular"--about the one thing that each of those people would save, and why. Each chapter is followed by a short group of discussion questions, which I've simply considered further topics for thought.
Is this a religion book? Sort of, but not really. There are religious aspects to it, but each of the chosen saved "objects" is certainly not from that category. The prose has a spiritual quality, in the sense that what is considered is the essential nature of a person's life. Is it a philosophy book? Sort of, but not really. It is grounded in practical reality, in what the interviewed people do on a daily basis, rather than the theoretical constructs and possibilities that most readers would consider philosophy.
It is a thoughtful, readable book that is making me reconsider some things that I thought I knew about myself and my own life, and to look at my own values in a different way. And I've already pushed it into the hands of two of my favorite reader-friends, so they can do the same.
Very highly recommended.
The latest on the wedding front involves trying to find shoes to wear with my dress (blush-pink suede sandals are the front-runners) and negotiating via the groom-to-be for a hotel room on the night that we all arrive in The Big City. Our rental house will not be available until night number two.
It will all come together. Unless something else comes together first....
[the title quotation is by John Burroughs, from Studies in Nature and Literature]
standing on a little ceremony near a little cemetery
With open arms? Cache of weapons to arrive on an onyx barge.
Like my hands retrofitted to play with a brain surgeon's hands.
I took you though you weren't with me to sit on a rock by the river.
You threw all the coins you carried in your pocket into the water.
We were standing on a little ceremony near a little cemetery though
You weren't with me. You took off your hat to salute every gravestone.
With bells & whistles? Stash of poisons transported by poor post.
Like a sifter employed in the hands of someone dreamily sifting.
I took you with me but you weren't with me as we went through the
Turnstiles in the underground tunnels. You turned to kiss me as
A door slid between us. My face was reflected on yours in blue glass.
With fanfare and feasting? Rations gone bad in some barrels.
Like your hands going through the motions of come-here-to-me.
I took you with me where you weren't going to a place by the river.
[Dara Wier, 'At Issue Were the Ways We Would Welcome Them', from You Good Thing]
Like my hands retrofitted to play with a brain surgeon's hands.
I took you though you weren't with me to sit on a rock by the river.
You threw all the coins you carried in your pocket into the water.
We were standing on a little ceremony near a little cemetery though
You weren't with me. You took off your hat to salute every gravestone.
With bells & whistles? Stash of poisons transported by poor post.
Like a sifter employed in the hands of someone dreamily sifting.
I took you with me but you weren't with me as we went through the
Turnstiles in the underground tunnels. You turned to kiss me as
A door slid between us. My face was reflected on yours in blue glass.
With fanfare and feasting? Rations gone bad in some barrels.
Like your hands going through the motions of come-here-to-me.
I took you with me where you weren't going to a place by the river.
[Dara Wier, 'At Issue Were the Ways We Would Welcome Them', from You Good Thing]
4.19.2014
drunk with its own perfume and the night
The secret drops of love run through my mind:
Midnight is filled with sounds of the full sea
That has risen softly among the rocks:
Air stirs the cedar-tree.
Somewhere a fainting sweetness is distilled:
It is the moonflower hanging in its tent
Of twisted broad-leaved branches by the stony path
That squanders the cool scent.
Pallid, long as a lily, it swings a little
As if drunk with its own perfume and the night,
Which draws its perfume out and leaves the flower
The weaker for its flight.
Detached from my desires, in an oblivion
Of this world that surrounds me, in weariness
Of all but darkness, silence, starry solitude,
I too feel that caress--
Delicate, serene and peaceful, lonely, strange
To the intellect and the imagination,
The touch with which reality wounds and ravishes
Our inmost desolation.
All being like the moonflower is dissatisfied
For the dark kiss that the night only gives,
And night gives only to the soul that waits in longing
And in that only lives.
[F.T. Prince, 'The Moonflower,' from Dark Horses: Poets on Overlooked Poems]
Midnight is filled with sounds of the full sea
That has risen softly among the rocks:
Air stirs the cedar-tree.
Somewhere a fainting sweetness is distilled:
It is the moonflower hanging in its tent
Of twisted broad-leaved branches by the stony path
That squanders the cool scent.
Pallid, long as a lily, it swings a little
As if drunk with its own perfume and the night,
Which draws its perfume out and leaves the flower
The weaker for its flight.
Detached from my desires, in an oblivion
Of this world that surrounds me, in weariness
Of all but darkness, silence, starry solitude,
I too feel that caress--
Delicate, serene and peaceful, lonely, strange
To the intellect and the imagination,
The touch with which reality wounds and ravishes
Our inmost desolation.
All being like the moonflower is dissatisfied
For the dark kiss that the night only gives,
And night gives only to the soul that waits in longing
And in that only lives.
[F.T. Prince, 'The Moonflower,' from Dark Horses: Poets on Overlooked Poems]
4.18.2014
Because you are mine, I imagine that I suffer with you.
You, Cesar Vallejo, can go to hell.
The prisons in your eyes never
give way to ladies with parasols, and
my ears ring with the clanging
of you monotonously slamming the cells closed.
I, too, am reminded of my death
every day of my life,
growing weary of the cost of
printing pages of sad poetry,
stung eternally by Existence's hornets, but I,
unlike you, Cesar Vallejo,
would suffer this exodus privately.
Somewhere, Cesar Vallejo, a guitar plays while
a girl with skin like moonlight
dances and sings. Her voice is
like a crow's, but,
because she is beautiful, we
blend her voice with
the voices of angels we
imagine she hears.
Somewhere, I find you writing
poems about yourself. I imagine
you sitting, perhaps, at
the side table in a Parisian cafe.
Because you are mine, I
imagine that I suffer with you.
Goddamn you, Cesar Vallejo.
Goddamn you, brother.
[Jason Macey, 'Love Song for Cesar Vallejo', from Best New Poets 2013]
The prisons in your eyes never
give way to ladies with parasols, and
my ears ring with the clanging
of you monotonously slamming the cells closed.
I, too, am reminded of my death
every day of my life,
growing weary of the cost of
printing pages of sad poetry,
stung eternally by Existence's hornets, but I,
unlike you, Cesar Vallejo,
would suffer this exodus privately.
Somewhere, Cesar Vallejo, a guitar plays while
a girl with skin like moonlight
dances and sings. Her voice is
like a crow's, but,
because she is beautiful, we
blend her voice with
the voices of angels we
imagine she hears.
Somewhere, I find you writing
poems about yourself. I imagine
you sitting, perhaps, at
the side table in a Parisian cafe.
Because you are mine, I
imagine that I suffer with you.
Goddamn you, Cesar Vallejo.
Goddamn you, brother.
[Jason Macey, 'Love Song for Cesar Vallejo', from Best New Poets 2013]
4.17.2014
Are you waiting for time to show you some better thoughts?
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life-–
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
[William Stafford, 'You Reading This, Be Ready' from Ask Me]
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life-–
What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
[William Stafford, 'You Reading This, Be Ready' from Ask Me]
4.16.2014
the streets all wind down to the sea
It suits me down to the ground, the idea
of living on that rock, where the grey Atlantic
meets the Med, and the streets all wind down
to the sea; where they keep a decent Guinness
and the pubs are open all day. Who would I be?
I'd be an ex-pat, a career criminal
doing time in the sun before admitting
there's nowhere left to run; I'd be a waster
selling timeshare; but mostly I would be
a twitcher, living for the spring and autumn,
when all the birds in Europe are on the move,
and we could be the stillness in the heart of
all things, me and the rock, watching the swallows
bound for where the sex-lines terminate.
[Paul Farley, 'Gilbraltar', from The Ice Age]
of living on that rock, where the grey Atlantic
meets the Med, and the streets all wind down
to the sea; where they keep a decent Guinness
and the pubs are open all day. Who would I be?
I'd be an ex-pat, a career criminal
doing time in the sun before admitting
there's nowhere left to run; I'd be a waster
selling timeshare; but mostly I would be
a twitcher, living for the spring and autumn,
when all the birds in Europe are on the move,
and we could be the stillness in the heart of
all things, me and the rock, watching the swallows
bound for where the sex-lines terminate.
[Paul Farley, 'Gilbraltar', from The Ice Age]
4.15.2014
awakened by the promise of possibility
A place, though visible, is like a ghost
of memories. Even memories one forgets
linger in the space in which they occurred.
Here within the expanse of vaulted ceilings,
doorways leading to more doors, hallways
leading to more halls, the faintest recollections
absorb over time; no act will wholly evanesce.
Wander over the carpets and marble floors,
and the echoes of bygone eras endure,
wafting through corridors
like a perfume pulsing on a woman’s neck.
What should one make of what happens
or doesn’t through a night between lovers?
And if the space awakens in a man or a woman
some thing they would not find the inner charge
to commit in their own bedroom,
should they forget? Embrace this longing?
This couple, let’s say, met last summer at a château
soiree, and they made love or they thought
about making love to each other. If they did make love,
well, they’re adults, they’ll turn to each other
in memory, forever waiting there for each other; they will
always have this place and time. If one evening
this couple, which is not really a couple,
lies together in one room while their lovers wait
upstairs or at home; if they both thought about making love
to each other, while glancing across a crowded room...
Well, why would anyone try to forget that?
Again and again, the moment is captured
in one’s mind, but try to prove it happened,
and details retreat into darkness.
Again and again, footsteps get absorbed by carpets,
so thick, so heavy...Oh, how moments call, but better senses
abate any emerging pleasure. One may even convince
the body, against the will, that such moments were made
to linger around, only awakened by the promise of possibility.
[A. Van Jordan, 'Last Year at Marienbad', from The Cineaste]
of memories. Even memories one forgets
linger in the space in which they occurred.
Here within the expanse of vaulted ceilings,
doorways leading to more doors, hallways
leading to more halls, the faintest recollections
absorb over time; no act will wholly evanesce.
Wander over the carpets and marble floors,
and the echoes of bygone eras endure,
wafting through corridors
like a perfume pulsing on a woman’s neck.
What should one make of what happens
or doesn’t through a night between lovers?
And if the space awakens in a man or a woman
some thing they would not find the inner charge
to commit in their own bedroom,
should they forget? Embrace this longing?
This couple, let’s say, met last summer at a château
soiree, and they made love or they thought
about making love to each other. If they did make love,
well, they’re adults, they’ll turn to each other
in memory, forever waiting there for each other; they will
always have this place and time. If one evening
this couple, which is not really a couple,
lies together in one room while their lovers wait
upstairs or at home; if they both thought about making love
to each other, while glancing across a crowded room...
Well, why would anyone try to forget that?
Again and again, the moment is captured
in one’s mind, but try to prove it happened,
and details retreat into darkness.
Again and again, footsteps get absorbed by carpets,
so thick, so heavy...Oh, how moments call, but better senses
abate any emerging pleasure. One may even convince
the body, against the will, that such moments were made
to linger around, only awakened by the promise of possibility.
[A. Van Jordan, 'Last Year at Marienbad', from The Cineaste]
4.14.2014
It might have mattered
A few roses were blooming
on the almost bare trellis.
Your hair was now short.
I had never seen you that way.
All morning I’d wondered
whether to wear this
or that skirt.
It might have mattered.
It was strange to see you
in a new house
shining as you sat
in a necklace of raw flowers.
And when later in the café
you were so quick to flare
at any casual thing I said
I saw how you must have flashed
for all your lovers.
[Maureen N. McLane, 'Song of the Last Meeting', from World Enough]
on the almost bare trellis.
Your hair was now short.
I had never seen you that way.
All morning I’d wondered
whether to wear this
or that skirt.
It might have mattered.
It was strange to see you
in a new house
shining as you sat
in a necklace of raw flowers.
And when later in the café
you were so quick to flare
at any casual thing I said
I saw how you must have flashed
for all your lovers.
[Maureen N. McLane, 'Song of the Last Meeting', from World Enough]
4.13.2014
all true and no help at all
This afternoon a man leans over
the hard rolls and the curled
butter, and tells me everything: two
women love him, he loves them, what
should he do?
brownish urban air. I’m going to
suffer for this: turn red, get
blisters or else cancer. I eat
asparagus with my fingers, he
plunges into description.
He’s at his wit’s end, sewed
up in his own frenzy. He has
breadcrumbs in his beard.
so my advice will be better.
I could wrinkle up my eyelids,
look wise. I could get a pet lizard.
You’re not crazy, I tell him.
Others have done this. Me, too.
Messy love is better than none,
I guess. I’m no authority
on sane living.
Which is all true
and no help at all, because
this form of love is like the pain
of childbirth: so intense
it’s hard to remember afterwards,
or what kind of screams and grimaces
it pushed you into.
The shrimp arrive on their skewers,
the courtyard trees unroll
their yellow caterpillars,
pollen powders our shoulders.
He wants them both, he relates
tortures, the coffee
arrives and altogether I am amazed
at his stupidities.
I sit looking at him
with a sort of wonder,
or is it envy?
Listen, I say to him,
you’re very lucky.
[Margaret Atwood, 'Asparagus', from Morning in the Burned House]
the hard rolls and the curled
butter, and tells me everything: two
women love him, he loves them, what
should he do?
The sunsifts down through the imperceptibly
brownish urban air. I’m going to
suffer for this: turn red, get
blisters or else cancer. I eat
asparagus with my fingers, he
plunges into description.
He’s at his wit’s end, sewed
up in his own frenzy. He has
breadcrumbs in his beard.
I wonderif I should let my hair go grey
so my advice will be better.
I could wrinkle up my eyelids,
look wise. I could get a pet lizard.
You’re not crazy, I tell him.
Others have done this. Me, too.
Messy love is better than none,
I guess. I’m no authority
on sane living.
Which is all true
and no help at all, because
this form of love is like the pain
of childbirth: so intense
it’s hard to remember afterwards,
or what kind of screams and grimaces
it pushed you into.
The shrimp arrive on their skewers,
the courtyard trees unroll
their yellow caterpillars,
pollen powders our shoulders.
He wants them both, he relates
tortures, the coffee
arrives and altogether I am amazed
at his stupidities.
I sit looking at him
with a sort of wonder,
or is it envy?
Listen, I say to him,
you’re very lucky.
[Margaret Atwood, 'Asparagus', from Morning in the Burned House]
4.12.2014
nothing blurs, nothing focuses
There is no cure for this low-grade melancholy.
Like a snake, you are never far from your shadow.
Begin as if the reader knows the past,
Has forgotten as much as you have.
How stalled and earthbound the river--
Depths filled with cloud reflections,
Shallows solid where nothing blurs, nothing focuses,
Dusty light barely yields the objects it cloaks.
To dwell in thought is to live in the interregnum
And yet, on the other side of the river,
Chestnut, piebald, dapple-gray, and black roan
Slip over the hill toward a stable you have culled from memory.
For once, let the peony be a stand-in for fullness.
The peony, opening, spills yesterday's rain.
[Eric Pankey, 'To Dwell in Thought', from Trace]
Like a snake, you are never far from your shadow.
Begin as if the reader knows the past,
Has forgotten as much as you have.
How stalled and earthbound the river--
Depths filled with cloud reflections,
Shallows solid where nothing blurs, nothing focuses,
Dusty light barely yields the objects it cloaks.
To dwell in thought is to live in the interregnum
And yet, on the other side of the river,
Chestnut, piebald, dapple-gray, and black roan
Slip over the hill toward a stable you have culled from memory.
For once, let the peony be a stand-in for fullness.
The peony, opening, spills yesterday's rain.
[Eric Pankey, 'To Dwell in Thought', from Trace]
4.11.2014
paper souvenirs of rapture
My titillations have no foot-notes
And their memorials are the phrases
Of idiosyncratic music.
The love that will not be transported
In an old, frizzled, flambeaud manner,
But muses on its eccentricity,
Is like a vivid apprehension
Of bliss beyond the mutes of plaster,
Or paper souvenirs of rapture,
Of bliss submerged beneath appearance,
In an interior ocean's rocking
Of long, capricious fugues and chorals.
[Wallace Stevens, 'Jasmine's Beautiful Thoughts Underneath The Willow', from The Collected Poems]
And their memorials are the phrases
Of idiosyncratic music.
The love that will not be transported
In an old, frizzled, flambeaud manner,
But muses on its eccentricity,
Is like a vivid apprehension
Of bliss beyond the mutes of plaster,
Or paper souvenirs of rapture,
Of bliss submerged beneath appearance,
In an interior ocean's rocking
Of long, capricious fugues and chorals.
[Wallace Stevens, 'Jasmine's Beautiful Thoughts Underneath The Willow', from The Collected Poems]
4.10.2014
if you knew what time it really was, you would not Ask for anything again
It was the beginning of a chair;
It was the gray couch; it was the walls,
The garden, the gravel road; it was the way
The ruined moonlight fell across her hair.
It was that, and it was more. It was the wind that tore
At the trees; it was the fuss and clutter of clouds, the shore
Littered with stars. It was the hour which seemed to say
That if you knew what time it really was, you would not
Ask for anything again. It was that. It was certainly that.
It was also what never happened--a moment so full
That when it went, as it had to, no grief was large enough
To contain it. It was the room that appeared unchanged
After so many years. It was that. It was the hat
She'd forgotten to take, the pen she left on the table.
It was the sun on my hand. It was the sun's heat. It was the way
I sat, the way I waited for hours, for days. It was that. Just that.
[Mark Strand, 'II', from "What it Was", in Blizzard of One: Poems]
It was the gray couch; it was the walls,
The garden, the gravel road; it was the way
The ruined moonlight fell across her hair.
It was that, and it was more. It was the wind that tore
At the trees; it was the fuss and clutter of clouds, the shore
Littered with stars. It was the hour which seemed to say
That if you knew what time it really was, you would not
Ask for anything again. It was that. It was certainly that.
It was also what never happened--a moment so full
That when it went, as it had to, no grief was large enough
To contain it. It was the room that appeared unchanged
After so many years. It was that. It was the hat
She'd forgotten to take, the pen she left on the table.
It was the sun on my hand. It was the sun's heat. It was the way
I sat, the way I waited for hours, for days. It was that. Just that.
[Mark Strand, 'II', from "What it Was", in Blizzard of One: Poems]
4.09.2014
Sometimes it's as if I cannot see you. Then love breaks me.
I hear birds in the field
They are singing a long silence
It's a winter without guns
Once I stood at the edge of the field
Where the trucks pass
Perhaps you will come in the afternoon
When light is long and silence quickens
What will love do to us?
No one can answer this.
I watch you in the distance
Strolling through winter trees
Some of which have fallen,
White pine and balsam
Toppling onto each other.
This has been going on for a long time.
Slow scrape of trees
Where water hardens,
Icicles snapping at the doorpost.
Sometimes it's as if I cannot see you.
Then love breaks me.
If I cry out, will you come to me?
[Meena Alexander, '1. Afternoon' from Quickly Changing River]
They are singing a long silence
It's a winter without guns
Once I stood at the edge of the field
Where the trucks pass
Perhaps you will come in the afternoon
When light is long and silence quickens
What will love do to us?
No one can answer this.
I watch you in the distance
Strolling through winter trees
Some of which have fallen,
White pine and balsam
Toppling onto each other.
This has been going on for a long time.
Slow scrape of trees
Where water hardens,
Icicles snapping at the doorpost.
Sometimes it's as if I cannot see you.
Then love breaks me.
If I cry out, will you come to me?
[Meena Alexander, '1. Afternoon' from Quickly Changing River]
4.08.2014
a whole new self-possession
In his slenderness was the very bow,
near fully drawn, that no woman could break,
and sometimes, no longer shunning his brow,
an inclination of his face seemed to take
to someone passing by, whose manner
sealed a peculiar and ancient sign--
he smiled. He was no longer the whiner,
slinking off into darkness to pine.
And while a whole new self-possession
had consoled and almost spoiled him lately,
he earnestly bore the full gaze of women,
and they adored him and moved him greatly.
[Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Don Juan's Childhood', from Rilke: New Poems (Joseph Cadora, trans.)]
near fully drawn, that no woman could break,
and sometimes, no longer shunning his brow,
an inclination of his face seemed to take
to someone passing by, whose manner
sealed a peculiar and ancient sign--
he smiled. He was no longer the whiner,
slinking off into darkness to pine.
And while a whole new self-possession
had consoled and almost spoiled him lately,
he earnestly bore the full gaze of women,
and they adored him and moved him greatly.
[Rainer Maria Rilke, 'Don Juan's Childhood', from Rilke: New Poems (Joseph Cadora, trans.)]
4.07.2014
yours I have feared most
I
To love is to suffer--did I
know this when first
I asked you for your love?
I did not. And yet until
I knew, I could not know what
I asked, or gave. I gave
a suffering that I took: yours
and mine, mine when yours;
and yours I have feared most.
II
What can bring us past
this knowledge, so that you
will never wish our life
undone? For if ever you
wish it so, then I must wish
so too, and lovers yet unborn,
whom we are reaching toward
with love, will turn to this
page, and find it blank.
[Wendell Berry, from 'Duality', in Entries]
To love is to suffer--did I
know this when first
I asked you for your love?
I did not. And yet until
I knew, I could not know what
I asked, or gave. I gave
a suffering that I took: yours
and mine, mine when yours;
and yours I have feared most.
II
What can bring us past
this knowledge, so that you
will never wish our life
undone? For if ever you
wish it so, then I must wish
so too, and lovers yet unborn,
whom we are reaching toward
with love, will turn to this
page, and find it blank.
[Wendell Berry, from 'Duality', in Entries]
4.06.2014
I hate how I don't feel real enough unless people are watching
[the title quotation is by Chuck Palahniuk, from Invisible Monsters]
let's say it's true that loving makes a place for love, opens you to the frightening possibilities of joy
Let's say the place where you wish to belong
won't have you, and the nights turn
charcoal, the heat they once engendered
just a darkness now, an absence really,
and you can only talk to your friends
about privation, which means
gradually they won't want you either--
if it came to this, would you
turn away to mope and snivel, or continue
to imagine conversations getting exciting,
sometimes even fiery and brilliant
in the place that won't have you?
And if there's a middle ground
between the actual and the desirable,
can someone like you find it,
and if you could would you consider
it, by definition, bland, dreamless,
and therefore one of those clubs
you wouldn't enter because it accepted you?
And let's say it's true that loving
makes a place for love, opens you
to the frightening possibilities of joy,
and you also know that most romances
are fraught with failure, would you walk
down that aisle anyway? Or would you
continue to live as if there's always
a better elsewhere, a more dazzling partner?
What logic, if logic is to be followed,
would you follow? Will a cold cup of worry
and a spoonful of dread give you more
comfort, better ease you into evening?
[Stephen Dunn, 'Letter to the Man I Once Was', from Lines of Defense: Poems]
won't have you, and the nights turn
charcoal, the heat they once engendered
just a darkness now, an absence really,
and you can only talk to your friends
about privation, which means
gradually they won't want you either--
if it came to this, would you
turn away to mope and snivel, or continue
to imagine conversations getting exciting,
sometimes even fiery and brilliant
in the place that won't have you?
And if there's a middle ground
between the actual and the desirable,
can someone like you find it,
and if you could would you consider
it, by definition, bland, dreamless,
and therefore one of those clubs
you wouldn't enter because it accepted you?
And let's say it's true that loving
makes a place for love, opens you
to the frightening possibilities of joy,
and you also know that most romances
are fraught with failure, would you walk
down that aisle anyway? Or would you
continue to live as if there's always
a better elsewhere, a more dazzling partner?
What logic, if logic is to be followed,
would you follow? Will a cold cup of worry
and a spoonful of dread give you more
comfort, better ease you into evening?
[Stephen Dunn, 'Letter to the Man I Once Was', from Lines of Defense: Poems]
wherever I am / I am what is missing
My uncle passed away yesterday. The service is a week from tomorrow; I'll be traveling again for the worst reason. It will be good to see family, though, and of course to get away for a little while.
I've settled on the 'Meet at the Museum' dress from Modcloth (use one of the search functions to find it on the blog if necessary - it's in a previous post) for my friend's son's wedding in May. It doesn't fit yet, but it will by the time I need it. This is such a female concept that I expect any males reading this to be shaking their heads right now and any females to be nodding at least in recognition if not agreement with my assessment. It's also a pretty dumb time to be gobbling chocolate-covered almonds while I write, but it's been a pretty shitty weekend and I'm indulging.
You win some: my vacation time off application for the wedding weekend was endorsed. This is...not always the case. To put it mildly.
And my checkbook balanced on the first try.
You lose some: migraine, two+ days so far.
And those taxes don't seem to be filing themselves.
Soon.
[the title quotation is by Mark Strand]
I've settled on the 'Meet at the Museum' dress from Modcloth (use one of the search functions to find it on the blog if necessary - it's in a previous post) for my friend's son's wedding in May. It doesn't fit yet, but it will by the time I need it. This is such a female concept that I expect any males reading this to be shaking their heads right now and any females to be nodding at least in recognition if not agreement with my assessment. It's also a pretty dumb time to be gobbling chocolate-covered almonds while I write, but it's been a pretty shitty weekend and I'm indulging.
You win some: my vacation time off application for the wedding weekend was endorsed. This is...not always the case. To put it mildly.
And my checkbook balanced on the first try.
You lose some: migraine, two+ days so far.
And those taxes don't seem to be filing themselves.
Soon.
[the title quotation is by Mark Strand]
4.05.2014
a kind of listening
Often writing is a kind of listening,
a form of deep attention.
Tuning the stations, fingering the dial.
From whence does that voice arise,
a spring in which foothills?
What will it say next?
The feeling of exhaustion
as one falls back upon the bed,
the sensation of thirst as water passes the lips--
are these forms of attention?
No.
These are forms of fulfillment.
[Campbell McGrath, 'Forms of Attention', from Seven Notebooks]
a form of deep attention.
Tuning the stations, fingering the dial.
From whence does that voice arise,
a spring in which foothills?
What will it say next?
The feeling of exhaustion
as one falls back upon the bed,
the sensation of thirst as water passes the lips--
are these forms of attention?
No.
These are forms of fulfillment.
[Campbell McGrath, 'Forms of Attention', from Seven Notebooks]
4.04.2014
a dirty secret
Life is a dirty secret
that literature exalts.
For instance,
I am not wearing pants,
but that's not all:
I never do
when I'm alone
and thinking of you.
It's up to the poem
to set this right,
and not only that:
to make it seem grand.
[Aaron Belz, 'Life is a Dirty Secret', from The Bird Hoverer]
that literature exalts.
For instance,
I am not wearing pants,
but that's not all:
I never do
when I'm alone
and thinking of you.
It's up to the poem
to set this right,
and not only that:
to make it seem grand.
[Aaron Belz, 'Life is a Dirty Secret', from The Bird Hoverer]
4.03.2014
this much, at least, try to do
And even if you cannot make your life the way you want it,
this much, at least, try to do
as much as you can: don’t cheapen it
with too much intercourse with society,
with too much movement and conversation.
Don’t cheapen it by taking it about,
making the rounds with it, exposing it
to the everyday inanity
of relations and connections,
so it becomes like a stranger, burdensome.
[C.P. Cavafy, 'As Much As You Can', from Poems]
this much, at least, try to do
as much as you can: don’t cheapen it
with too much intercourse with society,
with too much movement and conversation.
Don’t cheapen it by taking it about,
making the rounds with it, exposing it
to the everyday inanity
of relations and connections,
so it becomes like a stranger, burdensome.
[C.P. Cavafy, 'As Much As You Can', from Poems]
4.02.2014
of all base passions, fear is the most accursed
- What did you dissect in high school?
only the behavior and motivation of myself and selected classmates--I went the Chemistry/Physics route and bypassed Biology entirely - In what non-bathroom places have you relieved yourself?
woods. Fields. A golf course. (Oh, don't freak out.) The river. Not all that far off a highway. - When you first understood the concept of sexual intercourse, what did you think of it?
that's assuming that I understand it even now, and some days, I'm not certain that I've wrapped my brain around the entirety of it - If you're a neat person, what's something you're messy about? If you're a messy person, what's something you're neat about?
I'm sure I'm just the right combination of tidy and relaxed, so this is both easy and pointless to answer. My desk looks disastrous but I can usually find what I need in a moment. My bedroom (a.k.a. my home) would present a nightmarish challenge to anyone else attempting to make sense of it, but I could describe to the millimeter where anything is inside it. And my car is just plain sparse. - What did you like best about high school geometry (the subject, not the teacher, classmates, or whatever)?
proofs. It's the only thing about math that ever made sense to me. I loved it, and if I could've gone on to do nothing but that for the rest of my educational life, I'd have been happy as a pig in slop. - What item at a salad bar gets you the most excited?
thick-sliced hard-boiled egg - Do some brands of bottled water taste better than others?
meh. I typically buy the same brand, but only because it fits nicely in the cup-holder of my car. - If you could be employed in one of the technical jobs in film-making, what would you choose?
script-writing/editing/whatever - How do you feel about couples (married or dating) having joint email accounts or joint Facebook accounts?
people in relationships do things like that for a variety of reasons, sometimes technological (they don't initially "get it"), sometimes practical (it just seems easier), and sometimes emotional (to keep an eye on each others' activities). I'm sure there are a dozen other reasons that I'm not even considering. Do I think that some of that is weird? Well, sure. But is it preferable to emotional cheating, clueless social networking, or other potentially damaging actions? Definitely. - Which character from The Wizard of Oz do you best relate to?
lately, it's all about the lion--damn it
- What's on your toilet tank?
a toothbrush holder with eyeliner, etc. poked through the little holders, and a decorative cup with a toothpaste tube standing up inside - What's on the dashboard of your car?
a wooden pig with a hole drilled through his...back? - What's on top of your fridge?
1/8 box Honey Nut Cheerios and a box of peanut butter-stuffed chocolate bears - What's on your front porch?
lawn chairs and a grill - What's on your bathroom sink?
liquid soap, for messy children who can't operate standard soap - How have you personalized your space at work?
there's a plastic duck on my scanner. And, of course, a razor blade in the paper envelope on the edge of my monitor. - What's the most you've spent on one meal out, and was it worth it?
Close to $200/person. It was worth it. - What's the greatest height you've looked down from?
Sears Tower in Chicago - What animal have you seen in the wild that most people see only in books, in other visual media, or in zoos?
weird question. I've never really thought about it that way. I've seen a fox running through a suburb while driving to a mall near here. I nearly hit a moose, or prehaps an elk, while driving (to clear my head when incredibly pissed off at the individual who would later be my spouse) several years ago. My bonehead niece used to have a Pygmy hedgehog as a pet. - Among songs in your iTunes, how many contain the word "eye" or "eyes," and which is your favorite?
133 hits. I'm going to have to give a top three. "You Can Close Your Eyes" by James Taylor. "World in My Eyes" by Depeche Mode. "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel.
- Who looks nice but is actually mean?
me, or so I've heard - Who looks mean but is actually nice?
Dwayne The Rock Johnson, maybe? - What are your thoughts on red velvet cake, or on the plethora of red-velvet-flavored stuff out there nowadays?
trendytrendytrendy turns me off - What's the most ridiculous name you've ever heard for an actual band?
I'm not a fan of symbols - Who in your life seems to be great at everything except romantic relationships?
he shall remain nameless, but knows who he is. If he reads this, he will recognize himself in that he knows what not to do by whether or not he'll want to tell me about it after he's done it. - What's a really appetizing sound?
oh, I'm sorry--I'm laughing too hard to answer this sincerely - Who in your life has a voice you really had to get used to?
one of my colleagues has a profoundly whiny voice, and a totally fake throat-clearing "cough" that still, years later, makes me want to punch her in the neck - What's a sound you hear in your neighborhood that would puzzle newcomers but which you barely even notice anymore?
every Tuesday morning at 10:AM, the local Powers That Be test the emergency sirens, with zero warning. Seriously? When you move into town you might think that there's, say, an EMERGENCY. And every Goddamned Tuesday?! WTFE. - A dentist's drill make a sound that most of us can barely tolerate, but it means something is being done for someone's well-being. What's another sound like that?
see above. - Of the sounds you hear when out on a walk, what's the best?
absolutely. nothing. In case I'm not making it clear, I'm not a fan of noise. Period.
- What was the name of your college's sports teams, and what did you think of that name?
Warriors, Hurons/Eagles, Huskies. The Huskies are the "cutest", for whatever that's worth. - What was your favorite thing about your college specifically?
the guys - What was your least favorite thing about your college specifically?
fundraising efforts after graduation. Sick to death of being hounded by them. - Where was the best place on your college campus (or near campus) to get lunch?
it's a toss-up between liquid lunch at Shorty's and chili-n-sticks at Happy Chef - Where was the best place on your college campus to spend time alone with someone?
the back stairs behind the school newspaper office - Which of your college sports teams was the most competitive? Which was the least?
Warrior basketball doesn't suck. Eagle track and field always puts out some Olympians, as does their swimming. Huskies football does pretty well for a MAC school, too. - What organizations did you belong to on your college campus, or what campus jobs did you have?
I worked in the AV department for all 4 years - What was the best thing you could get from a vending machine on your college campus?
Coke and Snickers: breakfast of champions - What’s something you did in college that your parents would have disapproved of?
there was quite a bit more illicit fornication (not that I would ever have engaged in such a thing!) than anybody's parent would have liked - If you HAD to pick one, which of your college instructors was the hottest?
Uncle Neil by a mile
was I not baffled
What He Said
O did I not think of you?
and thinking of you,
did I not think and think again of you?
and even as I thought of you
was I not baffled
by the world's demands
that held me to my work?
O love, did I not think of you,
and think of you till I wished
I were here to sate my passion
till this flood of desire
that once wet the branch of the tall tree
would thin
till I can bend and scoop a drink of water
with my hands?
[from The Interior Landscape: Classical Tamil Love Poems, trans. by A.K. Ramanujan]
O did I not think of you?
and thinking of you,
did I not think and think again of you?
and even as I thought of you
was I not baffled
by the world's demands
that held me to my work?
O love, did I not think of you,
and think of you till I wished
I were here to sate my passion
till this flood of desire
that once wet the branch of the tall tree
would thin
till I can bend and scoop a drink of water
with my hands?
Auvaiyār
Kuṟ 99
[from The Interior Landscape: Classical Tamil Love Poems, trans. by A.K. Ramanujan]
4.01.2014
I think I'm running out of things to confess.
I drink a lot of skimmed milk.
I use Lysol Spray in the bathroom.
I stare long and hard at pretty faces.
I'm afraid to ask for the real price of my work.
I write poems, high, after midnight, well after.
I stay home alone on Saturday nights.
I have laid in a good supply of Tucks.
I've gotten fat to ward off AIDS.
I've used diet pills to help me work--and think.
I don't exercise anymore, except coming up the stairs.
I was bored by A Clockwork Orange, the movie.
I pore over the National Enquirer.
I've read about 30 pages of Proust's novel(s).
I like Peggy Lee better than Ella Fitzgerald.
Doesn't that say something about me?
My parlor palm is dying, frond by yellowing frond.
I think I'm running out of things to confess.
I'm no Augustine, or even Christina Crawford.
I usually feel like an ass-hole.
I say "Hi, guys!" to dogs tethered on the street.
I write art criticism faster than I can read it.
I don't always enjoy Henry James.
Maybe Geraldine Page is my favorite movie star,
If I could just think of a few movies she starred in.
I hope I am very ambitious.
[Gerrit Henry, 'The Confessions of Gerrit', from The Best American Poetry 1988]
I use Lysol Spray in the bathroom.
I stare long and hard at pretty faces.
I'm afraid to ask for the real price of my work.
I write poems, high, after midnight, well after.
I stay home alone on Saturday nights.
I have laid in a good supply of Tucks.
I've gotten fat to ward off AIDS.
I've used diet pills to help me work--and think.
I don't exercise anymore, except coming up the stairs.
I was bored by A Clockwork Orange, the movie.
I pore over the National Enquirer.
I've read about 30 pages of Proust's novel(s).
I like Peggy Lee better than Ella Fitzgerald.
Doesn't that say something about me?
My parlor palm is dying, frond by yellowing frond.
I think I'm running out of things to confess.
I'm no Augustine, or even Christina Crawford.
I usually feel like an ass-hole.
I say "Hi, guys!" to dogs tethered on the street.
I write art criticism faster than I can read it.
I don't always enjoy Henry James.
Maybe Geraldine Page is my favorite movie star,
If I could just think of a few movies she starred in.
I hope I am very ambitious.
[Gerrit Henry, 'The Confessions of Gerrit', from The Best American Poetry 1988]
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