Bad and ugly

Old drafts that need to go somewhere other than my gmail account. Posted here mostly for posterity and to see if anything can be made out of any of them. (Eventually).

Apparently valentine's day makes me emo. Awesome. All of the below are from the enormous pity party I threw for myself on Feb 14th.

* * *

It's late on a Sunday and I should be asleep.
Resting for another week of paper shuffling.
Instead I'm watching Vivian Leigh and
Clark Gable with the lights off.
Shivering on the couch in the gray-blue light,
I'm half-asleep and already missing wood-burning stoves,
iced-over cabins, reading by candlelight,
and the steady, dependable sound
of someone else's breathing.

* * *

February Fourteenth

Shoveling snow that morning, she imagined
how things might be different if three years
earlier instead of saying "Let's hang out sometime."
She had said "I'm crazy about you."
Things may be the same. She could still
be lonely in the middle of February, shoveling snow.
Or she might be living abroad, digging wells
and teaching English. They could be
sharing a walk up apartment, backpacking
the Pacific Crest trail, fighting about who forgot to feed
the dog that morning. He could have broken up with
her years ago, or find himself perparing to purpose
over dinner. At 7:15 in the morning, shoveling
snow, the important thing was simply
that she had never been able to say anything..

* * *

I'm So Emo

I don't want to hear that I'm capable,
funny, smart. A catch. Someone anyone
would be lucky to share their life with.
I'd rather sit next to you, here on the couch,
drink this bottle of wine, and watch a movie
without a happy ending.

Tenebrae

Tenebrae

Two or three thousand
gathered in one name
surrounding fifteen guttering candles
trying desperately to repel
the impending darkness

* * *

Slowly the lights are extinguished
two by two
and the world's darkness creeps in
Then--just one candle--
wavering in the draft.

* * *

That last candle gathers strength
only to be removed
Reverently carried out of their midst.
In the cold darkness,
gratitude that this story
does not end here.

* * *

Info on Tenebrae http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenebrae

I have some new ideas for this blog. I'd like to post them and have some reactions, considering one at least depends heavily on reader involvement.

1. Revive a structured poetry "assignment." This one would require a reader to contribute a new theme or challenge every week. Poems would be written during the week and a "final" (read: not rough) draft would appear every Saturday before midnight.

2. Put the kabash on the name of the blog and turn it into a writing experiment rather than a poetry experiment. Write 500 words of the young adult novel. Posting rules same as above.

3. Attempt another round of the poetry experiment, except with poems less frequently than every day.

Strong thoughts? Let me know.

I'd appreciate feedback on the new poem if anyone has any.

Revisions

"Please?" (1st Draft)
Can we please stop this conversationright now, and pretend that it never began?I'll go outside and come back in the houseagain. You can go back to stirring the soupon the stove. Instead of telling you that I think
I'm in love with you, I'll say dinner smells good.
You'll ask me how my day was, and we'll sit down together.
We'll wash the dishes and drift into our evening reading and writing.
You'll stay the night, which is what I intended
in the first place.

Please? (Revised)

Can we just stop.
Pretend that this never began.
I'll go out and come back in again.
You, stir the pot. Add another bay leaf to the soup.
I'll come drop my keys on the table--
say dinner smells good--
You, how was your day?
Have you heard back from Duluth?
We can wash the dishes, drift into the newspaper,
then the ten o'clock news.
We'll set the alarm together and you can read to me
from the yellow backed book of poems
written for people like us.
I'll drowse off until you turn out the light,
fall asleep, then I'll whisper what
started this mess in the first place.

Finale

I wish I had a really fantastic poem to post as then final piece of this blog. Heck, I wish I had a poem to end it. In classic Kelly procrastinator/slacker fashion, I don't have anything. The conclusion of this blog was ill timed with a visit from my younger brother. Our weekend was more or less filled with bowling and goofiness, so I find myself at the end of the most structured writing project I've ever embarked on without anything profound or beautiful or even quasi-profound/beautiful to say.

Thanks for your readership and your comments. Stay posted over the next week or so. I may be back with a new writing challenge for myself.

What You Remember

As Grace has reminded me "this is a project about trying your best. trial and error is part of growing. it's highly acceptable."

* * *
What You Remember
For Grace Brogan

Sometime after one
she woke to the clang of iron on iron.
Some scuffling and the single room
flooded with light and warmth.

* * *

It was simple--
and delicate--
this casual exchange of souls.
So easily damaged by saying too much
or not quite enough.

* * *

The rasp of iron,
crackling wood again.
Murmured thanks.
Rustling across the room.

* * *

Just there--outside
the single paned window--
snowflakes break the gathering dark.
By morning their footprints will be gone.

* * *

Wild Geeseby Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

My Pontiac's Trunk

My Pontiac's Trunk

Containts two twelve packs of Fanta,
exploded from the cold.
A folder of notes from job interviews. Three
pairs of black high heels and my second
favorite mini-skirt. One hundred and forty
pounds of sand. My sleeping bag and camping chair.
A bag of rice and beans tucked inside a cast-iron skillet.
Old term papers and scratched CDs. A make-up bag.
File boxes from Office Max. Three Frisbees and
a pair of snowshoes. Somewhere near the bottom
half of a torn photograph. Me, in a tank top and skirt,
smiling, with a strong arm around my shoulders.

* * *

The Sighs One Hears In Early Morning
After Jay Hopler

The Honorable Miss Brogan

It’s almost three
And the moon now drifting through the sky is
Like the hum one hears in distant music: familiar
And strange and wonderful—
❦
Being alive is a gift—
But it’s not so grand, as presents go. It’s the only one
We will ever be forced to return.
Who’s to say how long this smudge of ash will keep?
❦
The hovering silver body has changed to gold.
The music—no, the space is dissonant.
❦
That’s me, the voice whispering in the garden with a quiet rhythm
And melody; nearer, my father’s footsteps,
Ca-lunk ca-lunk on a heavily-worn path of clay
And stone, what might have been youth once.
The wind is taking up. Mother has written TIME
In the trail’s scattered dirt.

Beibei, 2004

Beibei, 2004

On Thanksgiving day of 2004
she made one transatlantic phone call.
Her mother answered and shouted because she was so excited.
Kevin's on the cell phone, calling from Durham,
she explained. It's the first time we've heard in months.
Here, let me hold the phones up to one another
and maybe you two can shout through to each other.
The resulting static hiss was loud enough
to startle Thug, the Chinese security guard
and make her whip the phone away from her head.
Mom, what were you thinking? That wasn't going to work.
Honey, I'm sorry, I thought
it would be nice if, just this once,
you two could speak to one another on a holiday.

* * *

What's in My Journal

William Stafford

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean

Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.

But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.

Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous

discards. Space for knickknacks, and for

Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.

Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected

anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind

that takes genius. Chasms in character.

Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above

a new grave. Pages you know exist

but you can't find them. Someone's terribly

inevitable life story, maybe mine.

Rise early in the morning.
Make the coffee, drink it
looking out the window. Watching
the newspaper boy and the
fat sparrows on the power lines.
Feel the way your body moves
cautiously--sleepily--at first
through this first part of the day.
Later, when the day is at its most
hectic, do not forget that this is
what it feels like to be be alive.

* * *

Some thoughts on the project in lieu of a poem

As I'm passed the halfway point, I'm going to take a moment and reflect a little bit on the project. I meant to do this earlier--not quite so close to the conclusion--but alas, time limitations have conspired against me.

I don't think I realized how ambitious this project was when I started it. A poem a day didn't seem totally unreachable. What I didn't realize that while I said "one poem a day" what I meant secretly was "one finished poem" a day. This would have been an important distinction to make clear to myself in the beginning. Whoops.

I hate posting drafts of poems. I hate having people read things before I think they're finished, and I'm so used to only sharing that part of the project that anything even remotely in process seems like a failure.

I was/am surprised at how like an actual job this project has become. I always knew that writing was work, but always in an abstract way. I didn't realize that I could (and did!) occasionally hate it and dread it like I dread my 9-5. I've never actually had any kind of structure to writing, and when you only write when you feel it, it seems so simple. Phew.

As far as continuing the project--I'm still really unsure. Probably not in such an intense way. At least, not until after I've taken a little bit of a break. Corey has purposed a new project. We'll send one another one non-crappy poem a week and send one another written responses on Saturdays. I think that receiving that kind of feedback was what I initially wanted from this project.

Right. So. Ok. In summary:

Pros to the project:
Many drafts with which to work
Chance to show interested parties thoughts/emotions over the past weeks
Structured writing project
More that I can't think of because my Saturday brain is sleepy
Writing the occasional good poem. *pffffffft*

Cons:
"Publishing" drafts of poems
The realization (recurring) that this is hard work


Weeee.

Banoffee Pie

Banoffee Pie

At 12:30 am
I'm stealing
silently
downstairs, raiding
the refrigerator
for the last piece
of Maggie's Banoffee
Pie.
Normally, I'm not
one to take
the last piece
of anything.
Or have a
midnight snack.

This pie
is something
different.
I watched her
boil tin cans for
hours
in order to
make toffee.
And still
when she
rolled the
pie crusts.
She turned her back
to me
when she added a certain
ingredient.
When I asked
what it was she replied
love.

This pie is
full of sugar
and fat.
The kinds of things
I'm supposed to
avoid. But
I relish it
even more because
it is so bad for
me.
My fork
flashes in
and out bringing each
perfect
morsel to my mouth.

I love Maggie
for many things, but
as I gorge myself
on bananas, homemade
toffee and whipped cream,
I love her most for this
pie. The one she made
specially
for me.

* * *

Lately I'm totally disillusoned with this project, my own abilites as a writer, fundraising, nonprofits in general, life in the city, etc. Seems like a good time to think about the things I'm not disillusioned about.

MANIFESTO: THE MAD FARMER LIBERATION FRONT
by Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay.
Want more of everything made.
Be afraid to know you neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery any more.
Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something they will call you.
When they want you to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something that won't compute.
Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace the flag.
Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.
Give you approval to all you cannot understand.
Praise ignorance,
for what man has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium.
Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion--put your ear close,
and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world.
Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable.
Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap for power,
please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head in her lap.
Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and politicos can predict the motions
of your mind, lose it.
Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn't go.
Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

For My Daughter

On her middle finger,
the old aquamarine ring
that used to belong to my mother.
Together with the low brown heels
she stole from my closet
and the dress her grandmother made
she looks like me at sixteen.
Tomorrow, for a birthday present
I'll give her a copy of The Mists of Avalon
and a glass of Glühwein to take
the sting out of a birthday during the
coldest month of the year. We share
the same character flaws. Arrogance,
mainly, and a black sense of humor.
I'm certain tomorrow she'll ask where
the milkman is, because she has to be
somebody's baby. I'll laugh and we'll
both become quiet. I hope she doesn't
miss the father she hasn't had. I just
couldn't bear to see him again.

* * *

Tomorrow's poem: Ode to My Socks: Pablo Neruda

Ode to My Socks

Oda a los calcetines
x
x
Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
knitted with her own
shepherd's hands,
two socks soft
as rabbits.
I slipped
my feet into them
as if
into
jewel cases
woven
with threads of
dusk
and sheep's wool

Audacious socks,
my feet became
two woolen
fish,
two long sharks
of lapis blue
shot
with a golden thread,
two mammoth blackbirds,
two cannons,
thus honored
were
my feet
by
these
celestial
socks.
They were
so beautiful
that for the first time
my feet seemed
unacceptable to me,
two tired old
fire fighters
not worthy
of the woven
fire
of those luminous
socks.

Nonetheless,
I resisted
the strong temptation
to save them
the way schoolboys
bottle
fireflies,
the way scholars
hoard
sacred documents.
I resisted
the wild impulse
to place them in a cage
of gold
and daily feed them
birdseed
and rosy melon flesh.
Like explorers who in the forest
surrender a rare
and tender deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stuck out my feet
and pulled on
the
handsome
socks,
and then my shoes.

So this is
the moral of my odes:
twice beautiful
is beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a case of two
woolen socks
in wintertime.

Affirmation

He was surprised, when using her bathroom
he saw the note on her bathroom mirror.
"I am smart, funny, capable, and beautiful.
Just because I'm shy does not mean that
I will die alone (and be devoured by feral cats.)"
Returning to her room, he smoothed the quilt
over her shoulder. When they met years earlier
he would have never thought that she was the type
of women who needed to write affirmations
on her bathroom mirror. The more he thought
about it, the more he realized it was her
arrogance--her self-assured walk and her secuirty
in everything she said--that made her attractive. Even during
the last few hours together, she took charge of
the situation admirably. Now he understood that
she was as vulnerable as every other woman he knew.
When she woke the next morning, he was gone.
She rose, dressed, and went to work, without bothering
to read what she had left written on the mirror weeks before.

* * *

Assignment for tomorrow: Write a poem to your daughter. Goal: Stretch beyond the usual topics of my poems.

"No Longer a Teenager"

No Longer a Teenager
my daughter, who turns twenty tomorrow,

has become truly independent.

she doesn't need her father to help her

deal with the bureaucracies of schools

,hmo's, insurance, the dmv.s

he is quite capable of handling

landlords, bosses, and auto repair shops.

also boyfriends and roommates.

and her mother.

frankly it's been a big relief.

the teenage years were often stressful.

sometimes, though, i feel a little useless.
but when she drove down from northern California

to visit us for a couple of days,

she came through the door with the
biggest, warmest hug in the world for me.

and when we all went out for lunch,

she said, affecting a little girl's voice,

"i'm going to sit next to my daddy,"and she did, and slid over close to me

so i could put my arm around her shoulder

until the food arrived.

i've been keeping busy since she's been gone,

mainly with my teaching and writing,

a little travel connected with both,

but i realized now how long it had been

since i had felt deep emotion.

when she left i said, simply,

"i love you,"

and she replied, quietly,

"i love you too."

you know it isn't always easy fora twenty-year-old to say that;

it isn't always easy for a father.
literature and opera are full of

characters who die for love:

i stay alive for her.
— Gerald Locklin

Weekend Poems

"Inquiry"
For over a week she
worried a hangnail on her
left ring-finger. Slowly
drawing blood and making the
nail bed swollen and painful.
Eventually she couldn't type
or open doors. On Sunday evening
she finally managed to free it.
She began to ice it and when
the swelling went down
she finally answered his question.

* * *

For Once
Sitting in the firelight
she tried to explain her
ecstasy.
For once, he only looked
quizzically
and didn't ask any questions.

* * *

"Please?"

Can we please stop this conversation
right now, and pretend that it never began?
I'll go outside and come back in the house
again. You can go back to stirring the soup
on the stove. Instead of telling you that I think

I'm in love with you, I'll say dinner smells good.

You'll ask me how my day was, and we'll sit down together.

We'll wash the dishes and drift into our evening reading and writing.

You'll stay the night, which is what I intended

in the first place.

The Brothers K

"The Brothers K"

It lies next to bed, pages face down
on the floor. Duct tape holds the tattered
covers together. It had ventured on silent
retreats in the woods to afternoons in Buddhist
meditation gardens. It was in her backpack when
she climbed Incan ruins in Peru, again when she
wandered gorges in Denver, and hugged trees in
Golden Gate Park. The day she was pickpocketed
in a busy Beijing market, almost all her Yuan
was crammed safely between its pages.
But she loved it most when it passed weeks
on the nightstand in Wisconsin
and they would read a little to each other while
the afternoon faded away and she made excuses to stay.

* * *

No poems this weekend. I'll be out of internet range for the remainder of the weekend. The poems for Saturday and Sunday are "A Supermarket in California" (narrative and imagery) and some bits from Robert Lax's "Twenty-Five Episodes" (God). I can only hope for something like Ginsburg's imagery and Lax's clarity (and beauty).

Enjoy these. They're good ones.

* * *

"Supermarket in Califronia"

Allen Ginsburg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neonfruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket andfeel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shadet o shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

* * *

i.

Robert Lax

i.

he sat

on the edge of his bed

all night

day came & he continued to sit there

he thought he would never be able

to understand

what had happened

xi.

Robert Lax

xi.

the angel came to him & said

I’m sorry, mac, but

we talked it over

in heaven

& you’re going to have to live

a thousand years

Ruts

Two poems today. Neither titled. Neither good. I'm in somewhat of a rut lately and need something new and exciting to shake me out of it.

I don't want to hear that I'm capable,
funny, smart. A catch. Someone anyone
would be lucky to share their life with.
I'd rather sit next to you, here on the couch,
drink this bottle of wine, and watch a movie
without a happy ending.

* * *
Hidden columns exist.
Or so my database tells me
right before there's a critical error
and my computer shuts down before
saving any of half a day's work.
Rebooting, I wonder if my database
has a weird, existentially twisted
sense of humor. Of course hidden
columns exist. If they didn't
how could they be hidden?
Beginning to rebuild my work
I realize what a long night it's going to be.
Full of musings on hidden columns and
that same old tree in the forest
that no one ever seems to hear.

* * *

Tomorrow's poem: Take a concrete object and use it as a launch pad for memory

Because You Left Me A Handful of Daffodils

Max Garland

I suddenly thought of Brenda Hatfield, queen

of the 5th grade, Concord Elementary.

A very thin, shy girl, almost

as tall as Audrey Hepburn,but blond.

She wore a dress based upon the principle of the daffodil: puffed sleeves,

inflated bodice, profusion

of frills along the shoulder blades

and hemline.

A dress based upon the principle of girl

as flower; everything unfolding, spilling

outward and downward: ribbon, stole, corsage, sash.

It was the only thing I was ever

Elected.

A very short king.

I wore a bow tie, and felt

Like a third-grader.

Even the scent of daffodils you left

reminds me. It was a spring night.

And escorting her down the runway was a losing battle, trying to march

down among the full, thick folds

of crinoline, into the barrage of her father's flashbulbs, wading

the backwash of her mother's perfume: scared, smiling, tiny, down at the end

of that long, thin, Audrey Hepburn arm,

where I was king.

Adjectives

"Adjectives"
Describing herself to a friend
she used the words intellectually arrogant, fidgety,
superiority complex, smartass, mildly neurotic,
and above all, insecure and shy.
There were these, but also
(although she never admitted it aloud)
a quick wit, contagious laugh, a
certain agreeability, and a secret
charm that others felt, but couldn't describe.
Most often, when she cared enough to look up
from her book or stop tapping her fingers,
she would smile. And you could see all
these things lingering there.

* * *

Apologies for the sub-par poems this week. Even Mags hasn't been able to find nice things to say about them. Ugh.

Let's see if an actual assignement can get me back on track. Tomorrow's poem is "The Unsaid" by Stephen Dunn (*pffffffft*). The assignment. Look for something you leave "unsaid" in your day and find a way to say it.

* * *

I've had a monster amount of positive reactions to the poem "Ice Scraper." Surprising, given that I wasn't particularly excited about it when I finished it. Thank you.

* * *

The Unsaid

Stephen Dunn

One night they both needed different things

of a similar kind; she, solace; he, to be consoled.

So after a wine-deepened dinner

when they arrived at their house seperately

in the same car, each already had been failing

the other with what seemed

an unbearable delay of what felt due.

What solace meant to her was being understood

so well you'd give it to her before she asked.

To him, consolation was a network

of agreements: say what you will

as long as you acknowledge what I mean.

In the bedroom they undressed and dressed

and got into bed. The silence was what fills

a tunnel after a locomotive passes through.

Days later the one most needy finally spoke.

"What's on TV tonight?" he said this time

,and she answered, and they were okay again.

Each, forever, would remember the failure

to give solace, the failure to be consoled.

And many, many future nights

would find them turning to their respective sides

of the bed, terribly awake and twisting up

the covers, or, just as likely, moving closer

and sleeping forgetfully the night long.

Kierans

"Kierans"
When it begins, the first round is
always intense and mildly pretentious.
Lost of profanity, most about George Bush
or how Capitalist America doesn't allow room
for professional aesthetes. That's all well
and fine. What I really hate about
poetry slams is the second round.
When some woman gets up and tells
about her adventures and conquests.
How she likes to be tied up, and the different
whips and handcuffs she keeps under her bed.
Inevitably, my male friend gives her a perfect
ten. And I wonder if that's all it takes
to get his attention.

* * *

Failure to launch on the poem for yesterday. Rhyming poetry always puts a gigantic block in my path. So here's the poem for today without an assignment. Anyone with thoughts on assignments/poems should drop me an email.

* * *

Tomorrow's poem:
I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone

I Am Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone

Rainer Maria Rilke

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

Ways to Reduce the Heating Bill

"Ways to Reduce the Heating Bill"

It's time to add another quilt to the seven already on the bed. I'll re-plastic all the windows and you can dig out the box of old sweaters. We'll keep the thermostat at sixty degrees and can fill hot water bottles and put them between the cold sheets. After we move the electric teapot and tomato soup next to the bed we'll stuff towels into the crack underneath the door. Then we'll pile on sweaters and long underwear, get under the covers, and read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes to one another. Although, we're probably more likely to slip out of our sweaters, crawl between the covers, and find other ways to keep warm.

* * *

I didn't set a goal for myself today. I spent most of the day with a fuzzy brain, watching black and white movies and shaking off last night's poor decisions. Whoops. I was looking for something that would be a fun poem to write on a Sunday evening.

As tomorrow is Monday, it's back to the grindstone with a lovely little poem by Elizabeth Bishop. Goals for tomorrow: more attempts at rhyme. Practice transitions. By the bye, I would greatly appreciate any direction I can receive on aspects of my poems that I need to work on/poems for the coming weeks.

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Bloom

"Bloom"

Her mother called on a Sunday morning.
She wanted to make sure that she was warm enough
that the car was still turning over,
and that today, at least, she would stay inside.
Then they chatted about spring bulbs,
A Streetcar Named Desire, and snowshoeing.
As they were about to hang up, her mother
asked her if her crocuses were blooming.
It's negative twenty-five degrees here, she replied.
I know, but there was something in the paper today
about how some crocuses in Minnesota
are already beginning to bloom.

* * *

Yesterday's poem about happiness. Krista and a pitcher of grainbelt conspired against me.

* * *

Today's poem: The State of the Economy Louis Jenkins

The State of the Economy

There might be some change on top of the dresser at the back, and we should check the washer and the dryer. Check under the floor mats of the car. The couch cushions. I have some books and CDs I could sell, and there are a couple big bags of aluminum cans in the basement, only trouble is that there isn't enough gas in the car to get around the block. I'm expecting a check sometime next week, which, if we are careful,will get us through to payday. In the meantime with your one—dollar rebate check and a few coins we have enough to walk to the store and buy a quart of milk and a newspaper. On second thought, forget the newspaper.

Friends of the Library

"Friends of the Library"
Truthfully, I didn't know what
I was losing. Common sense
said that despite our love of radio quiz shows,
Jane Austen, and Friends of the Library sales,
the distance between my youthful exuberance
and your graying hair was too far to bridge.
I learned simply to enjoy the sticky July afternoons
where Scrabble games blended to evening rendezvous
and you counted the freckles on my back. On the last day,
when you beat me with "atonement" and later
pronounced the final count, I convinced myself
that I could emerge unscathed. Leaving, that afternoon
you kissed my palm and wished me good luck.
I left the apartment as calm and collected as I could wish.
Convinced that I would be the one without regret.

(Revised on 02.09.2008 after comments from Corey)

* * *

Well, in the face of Neruda's love poem, this feels like tacky, sentimental crap. However, onward and upward (hopefully). Tomorrow's theme? Plain and simple--happiness. February is the month I hate the most, and I've been dealing too much in gloom and doom lately. Time for some happiness.

Happiness

by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters

,and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.

It's early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

Ice Scraper

Ice Scraper

In the hours since we parted,
I dreamed of not needing you again.
I hoped to be able to depend on myself
to leave this morning.
Instead, I rose to find things obscured
again. Sighing, I grasp you one
last time. We work together, silently.
I realize that I only depend on you
when things are cold, dark, and lonely.
I long for better days. When, smiling,
I'll rise, start the car, and slip inside.
Leaving you, forgotten somewhere
behind me.

* * *

There you are. My feelings about my ice scraper. I hate scraping my windows. There we go.

Tomorrow's poem makes my heart explode. I'm not sure what the assignment is on this one. I think it will be to write about deep emotion, loss, and longing. Heads up--tomorrow's poem may be late. Krista and Taize prayer trump.

As a note to anyone who reads this and loves poetry. Do yourself a favor this Feb. 14th and buy Pablo Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair. Simply, it's one of the best volumes of poetry I've ever read.

* * *

Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered

and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.

Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.

The Truth About Snow

The Truth About Snow

Is that it's never convenient and almost
always unwanted. Except for kids who
would rather spend the day drinking hot chocolate
and sledding down hills into traffic.
Or lovers who want an excuse to remain
with one another for just a little longer.
Too soon, it loses its glamour and its purity.
Kids begin to think of summer and water balloons.
Lovers long for beaches or someone new.
Dirty, unwanted, and forgotten,
it waits in the gutter for spring.
When it washes rubbish to the river
or provides puddles to jump in,
it may regain some usefulness.

* * *
All right. There's the poem for today. Good bits and bad bits. Overall grade of C. For tomorrow, let's work on something a little more concrete. Tomorrow's goal: Personification. Tomorrow's poem: Because I Could Not Stop For Death: Emily Dickinson

"Because I Could Not Stop for Death
Emily Dickinson

BECAUSE I could not stop for Death--
He kindly stopped for me--
The Carriage held but just Ourselves--
And Immortality.

We slowly drove--He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labour and my leisure too,
For His Civility--

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess--in the Ring--
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--
We passed the Setting Sun--

Or rather--He passed Us--
The Dews drew quivering and chill--
For only Gossamer, my Gown--
My Tippet--only Tulle--

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground--
The Roof was scarcely visible--
The Cornice--in the Ground--

Since then--'tis Centuries--and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses Heads
Were toward Eternity--

Tears

"Tears"

He sat beside the bed and held her hand
For years they had waited for this moment
the IV dripped chemicals from its stand
finally each had made their atonement.
He sang to her and stroked her long fingers
She begged him to remain until the end.
In his mind her her last look would always linger.
He knew he no longer had to pretend.
She had absolved him completely; that was true.
He clutched her hand and begged her stay.
His last avowal was long overdue.
When at last her face began to gray.
and her shuddering breath finally did end
he knew on her he could no longer depend.

* * *

Today's title comes not from the poem itself, but from the fact that I wanted to cry the entire time I was writing it. I hate, hate, HATE writing in any kind of a strict form. Did you know that English rhyming poetry is held in such high regard because the English language has so few rhymes? I have so much more respecte for people who churned out I don't know, say ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY SONNETS when I attempt to write one lousy one for myself. If it's in iambic pentameter, it's because I'm lucky. Grade: unsuccessful, but a useful exercise nonetheless. I never want to look at that poem again.

* * *

And now, journeying onward from strict cold form into the loving embrace of self-indulgence. Tomorrow's poem is "A Clear Midnight" by Walt Whitman (per a request for some Whitman). The goal: Combine two big, big things (like the soul and the night sky) use them to reflect on the Truth of one another.

A Clear Midnight

by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Note

Note

In the event that you
find this, somewhere,
I want you to remember
the first time you rode the city bus.
Wanting to press your head
against the grimy glass.
Until you realized
the scum already there.

Looking out the window that day,
you saw the park, the cyclists,
the dog-walkers. And there,
too, the black bag
and dark puddle. Making
you uneasy.
For the first time.

* * *

A poem directed toward the reader was more difficult than I expected (can you sense the mantra for this blog?) I don't know if I can actually evaluate how well this one succeeded, because I wrote it and can't read it without having some part of it affect (effect? Why can't I remember that rule?) me. So, poop.

* * *

For tomorrow, an exercise in form:

Sonnet #29

William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Sunday Afternoon

Seed poem:

Ordinary Life
Barbara Crooker

This was a day when nothing happened, the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.

* * *

Kelly's Attempt

"Sunday Afternoon"

An icy sidewalk. Cold, now, but not like it has been.

No need for a ski mask this time. Runners pushing strollers,

walking dogs, singing under their breath. At first, anxiety

about work, the new apartment, the new doctor.

Will she need pills, or can she beat it on her own?

After awhile, simply noticing birds in the bushes or

that the sun is out longer now. Then it's all deep breathing

and warm muscles, none of the panic that passes

for thought these days. Just one foot in front of the other.

Carrying her to complete forgetfulness.

* * *

My object for today was to write a poem about something totally ordinary that I overlook in the fuss of every day. I meant to try to take that thing and revist it. I wanted to somehow make it less ordinary and more. . .who knows. I've been pretty down lately, mainly about work. Unfortunately, when I get into a funk I tend to stay there. I took a long run today and while I was running I noticed that all of my anxiety and apprehension about the coming week quickly began to melt away. After awhile, I wasn't even thinking anymore, simply placing one foot in front of the other and breathing in and out. That was my gift for the day. The ordinary Sunday run that became something else.

Not very happy with this poem. It has some good bits, but overall, there's something missing. I don't feel like there's any zip to it.

* * *

Backtracking to the haikus. They were super fun to write. One literally came to me at the breakfast table (thanks to Maggie's inspiring food). For someone who makes a living in deliberate obfuscation (name that poem), it was nice to try to be concise and meaningful. I think I succeeded to some degree.

* * *

Mediation on the whole project: I think I'm far more likely to come out with 30 drafts of poems than 30 completed poems. I think I've known this all along.

* * *

Looking forward: Tomorrow's poem: "To a Reader" by Robert Hass. The exercise: write a poem to the reader. Try to reel 'em in emotionally. Evoke a vivid mental image to pull them in to the poem. Rely on standard images but give them an air of the surreal.

"To a Reader"

Robert Hass

I've watched memory wound you.

I felt nothing but envy.

Having slept in wet meadows,

I was not through desiring.

Imagine January and the beach,

a bleached sky, gulls. And

look seaward: what is not there

is there, isn't it, the huge

biard of the first light

arched above first waters

beyond our touching or intention

or the reasonable shore.

Haiku

Eggs, toast, and bacon.
Fresh coffee
Maggie says good morning.

Tilted mattress,
tangled blankets, exhaustion.
He must love her.

Dreary afternoon, snow,
sleet, wind.
Warm patchwork quilt.

* * *

Debriefing tomorrow. Right now, exhaustion trumps.

Masked

"Masked"

The first time is the worst for everyone.
The sudden, shocking reality that it isn't
smooth and easy. A push,
a grab, slap, cry, bundle of blankets,
and radiant smiles.

You almost never hear about
the screaming, blood, and struggle to breathe.
Or that nearly everyone moves their bowels on the table.
No, instead it's all pictures afterward,
brushed hair and clean skin.

Once in awhile, though, sweating from the sheer work of it,
she'll hold your gaze. And you'll think
that if you wait just long enough,
you'll be able to see her
as beautiful as she was
in the moment that this all began.

* * *

Today's poem (based on "Blue) was meant to re-examine preconceptions about something. I interviewed my mother for a class with Mara about birth, and she said it was the single most intense experience of her life. She said that one of the most amazing things about it was the fact that you forgot about all the craziness of it and just remembered the good parts afterward. I've often wondered what it would be like to be an OB and experience all kinds of births and see women in an intimate and frankly, kind of gruesome way. I wonder what it would be like to imagine women nine (ten?) months before in a situation where they were obviously beautiful in some capacity. I feell pretty good about reexamining a preconception. About the last line as the strongest? Arguable, but I'm pretty content with it.

* * *

Tomorrow's poems. Adventures in Haiku. I'm trying for three.

Bush clover in blossom waves

Without spilling

A drop of dew.

-Basho

Hitch-hiked a thousand

miles and brought

you wine.

-Jack Kerouac

Sleep on horseback,

The far moon in a continuing dream,

Steam of roasting tea.

-Basho

The object? Lots of truth/emotion in very few words.

Thanks for reading.

The Sound of Silence

"The Sound of Silence"

The only lines I can remember to the
Simon and Garfunkle song
that never really leaves my mind.
Usually, humming it at inappropriate moments.


Like walking along Hennepin Avenue
during the first snowstorm of the year, watching
police cars line up outside the Basilica.
Pausing for a moment in the cold doorway
and watching a thousand officers
listen to steady silence of a funeral mass.
Discovering, for the first time, that the silence wasn't from
the funeral rites, but from the people themselves.


I realized then why my mother
didn't cry at her brother's graveside,
and hasn't cried at a funeral since.
Because the silence of a church, a snowstorm
a sick room, the garden the morning, blots out
everything else.


I'd like to be my mother
and never cry at a graveside, a birth, a favorite song.
Instead, to wait for the moment after the chatter and tears
and sit with the silence. When it alone
is deep enough, then the grief, the despair,
the unbridled joy, no longer matter.

At the moment you'd most like to speak,
pause an instant longer
and listen for the sound of it.

* * *

Well, there we are. My very first attempt in this endeavour. I think that this is easily one of the hardest poems I've ever written. Rather than wait around for the the pome to "come" to me, so to speak, I sat down and tried to pull together disperate experienes in to one coheisive whole. Eeep. This was difficult, and I find myself unable to revise much, because I don't like it in the first place. However, I wanted to begin with something difficult, and I certainly did. Note to self, if you want to have an easy first go at something, don't try to emulate something with which you are already totally in love. You won't live up to it.

So, was it successful? It was challenging, and a good way to start. I think that I have a better idea about how well this project is going to go than when I conceived it awhile ago. I'm glad I set the bar high in the beginning, even if I didn't quite achieve exactly what I wanted.

All right, so the poem for tomorrow: "Blue" by Ron Koertge. Why: Whenever I reccomend this poem to someone they are astounded that I like it. I love the fact that it turns piles and piles of preconceptions on their head and makes you reconsider something different. The last line is the strongest in the poem, and I want to work on having killer last lines. The Goal: take preconceptions I have and try to re-view them. Make the last line the strongest in the poem.

* * *

"Blue"
Ron Koertge
The director changes the sheets
himself, tucks in a fitted bottom,
turns back the top one, and sighs.

"This is a threesome," he says, "so
it's you over here, Suzanne. You down
there, Bob. And Meg, wherever, okay?"

It's pretty early, but we try hard.
Once it was cops and jail time. Now it's
Aids and all that stuff.

But if you're careful it pays the bills
and then some. It's almost never as
sick as the stuff you see on TV,

and every now and then it's really
lovely, one of those kindnesses
nobody understands.

Genesis

To begin, credit where credit is due. John actually used this title as the title to the very first post in another blog in which he and I particpated. I liked it so much that stole it. Thank you, John.



Well, here's my project for the next month (and maybe beyond.) I intend to write a poem a day. This struch me as a good idea for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is I need to get into a disciplined habit of writing. S. Mara once said that the way to learn about a poet you love is to try to write like them. Another writing professor (Jim) said that the only way to learn to write by discovering how the writers you love write. Hence the following rules to the game:

1. Each day will begin with the poem from the day before. Author commentary will follow, describing why the prompt was selected, what the poet hoped to achieve by emulating the seed poem, whether or not they felt as though they were successful


2. The poem prompt for the next day will follow. (Suggestions from readers are encouraged)


3. The poem must be posted in whatever form it is in by 10:30 PM CST

If anyone is at all interested in particpating, even if it's just on the occassional day when the seed poem strikes your fancy, please drop me a note and let me know. I'd be glad to make this a communal project.

Feedback is always appreciated.

The Poem for tomorrow is "Light, At Thirty-Two," a poem with which I've been mildly obsessed since December. The reasons for choosing it:

I like the idea of starting with someone else's words and following them through reflection. I like the structure of the poem: Abstract-ish idea, explanation of that idea, memory, conclusion about the reality of the abstract, conclusion of the poem.

I really, really like the idea of struggling to make something abstract and personal into a reality which the poet can share with the reader. I want to start the project with something that's outside my comfort zone stylistically (longer than I'm used to) and at the same time dealing with the concrete and the abstract in one wonderous ball of complexity.

Without further ado:

Light, at Thirty-Two
Michael Blumenthal

It is the first thing God speaks of

when we meet Him, in the good bookof Genesis. And now, I think

I see it all in terms of light:

How, the other day at dusk

on Ossabaw Island, the marsh grass

was the color of the most beautiful hairI had ever seen, or how—years ago

in the early-dawn light of Montrose Park—I saw the most ravishing woman

in the world, only to find, hours later

over drinks in a dark bar, that itwasn’t she who was ravishing,

but the light: how it filtered

through the leaves of the magnolia

onto her cheeks, how it turned

her cotton dress to silk, her walk

to a tour-jeté.

And I understood, finally,what my friend John meant,

twenty years ago, when he said: Love

is keeping the lights on. And I understood

why Matisse and Bonnard and Gauguin

and Cézanne all followed the light:

Because they knew all lovers are equal

in the dark, that light defines beauty

the way longing defines desire, that

everything depends on how light falls

on a seashell, a mouth … a broken bottle.

And now, I’d like to learn

to follow light wherever it leads me,

never again to say to a woman, YOU

are beautiful, but rather to whisper:

Darling, the way light fell on your hair

this morning when we woke—God,

it was beautiful. Because, if the light is right,

then the day and the body and the faint pleasures

waiting at the window … they too are right.

All things lovely there.

As that first poet wrote,

in his first book of poems: Let there be light.

and there is.