One of the most important techniques poetry has taught me is the power of conciseness. And if there's any poem that shows that off, it's this one. I was blown away.
"Everybody" by Marie Sheppard
I stood at a bus corner
one afternoon, waiting
for the #2. An old
guy stood waiting too.
I stared at him. He
caught my stare, grinned,
gap-toothed. Will you
sign my coat? he said.
Held out a pen. He wore
a dirty canvas coat that
had signatures all over
it, hundreds, maybe
thousands.
I’m trying
to get everybody, he
said.
I signed. On a
little space on a pocket.
Sometimes I remember:
I am one of everybody.
Everybody
Stairs
Seated in sweat pants and old shoes
looking up the wooden, ratty staircase
from a spot on a jagged concrete slab,
I wonder if anyone is inside the apartment,
listening as the wind occasionally stirs the chimes.
It'd feel more homeless if it wasn't for a dorm room,
storing more things than one person should own.
But is it really that different
when I walk the stairs to sixth floor
knowing that no one is expecting me at the top?
Hell House
As I folded laundry, I started listening to the "This American Life" podcast from Oct. 25, "Devil on My Shoulder." In the first act of the show, the filmmaker of the documentary "Hell House" talks about what he saw while filming.
As he began to describe it, I remembered hearing about it. The specific one he's discussing is in Cedar Hill, Tex., although the church has sold hundreds of "start-up kits"to churches in every state and even secular organizations. Here is how the Hell House is described on the film's website:
"Inside the Hell House, tour guides dressed as demons take visitors from room to room to view depictions of school massacres, date rape, AIDS-related deaths, fatal drunk driving crashes, and botched abortions. Hell Houses have now spread to hundreds of churches worldwide. With full access to the behind-the-scenes action, HELL HOUSE follows the process from the first script meeting until the last of the 10,000 visitors passes through the Hell House doors. The movie gives a verite window into the whole process of creating this over-the-top sermon, while showing an intimate portrait of the people who fervently believe its message."
I'm tempted to watch this film. But as the podcast progressed, angry tears welled up and my lip began to quiver. I couldn't even click to watch the trailer. How is it possible that there are people who actually would go through with this, much less in the name of a God of "love"?
From the episode, I tasted only a small slice of what "Hell House" documents. The filmmaker narrating how the rooms looked, clips from the Columbine and AIDS scene, audio from the faux Oscars ceremony at the end of the season where they give out awards like "Best Abortion Girl" and "Best Rape Victim." And also, Hell House is this particular church's largest event of the year.
Beyond appalling. After just this small exposure, I could not believe my ears. I'm pretty sure they wouldn't be able to handle any more.
Flying at Night
Last night, I finished "Flying at Night" by Ted Kooser, his poems from 1965-1985. I feel in love with Kooser two summers ago when I picked up "Delights and Shadows" in the local section at Barnes. Last semester I researched him for a paper and our paths have crossed several times. He teaches at the University of Nebraska - Lincoln, and I plan to see if I could take a class from him or a poetry class in general.
So here are my favorite selections from "Flying at Night." Hope you enjoy them!
The Leaky Faucet
All through the night, the leaky faucet
searches the stillness of the house
with its radar blip: who is awake?
Who lies out there as full of worry
as a pan in the sink? Cheer up,
cheer up, the little faucet calls,
someone will help you through your life.
The Grandfather Cap
Sometimes I think that as he aged,
this cap, with the stain in its brim
like a range of dark mountains,
became the horizon to him.
He never felt right with it off.
Boarding House
The blind man draws his curtains for the night
and goes to bed, leaving a burning light
above the bathroom mirror. Through the wall,
he hears the deaf man walking down the hall
in his squeaky shoes to see if there's a light
under the blind man's door, and all is right.
The Goldfish Floats to the Top of His Life
The goldfish floats to the top of his life
and turns over, a shaving from somebody's hobby.
So it is that men die at the whims of great companies,
their neckties pulling them speechless into machines,
their wives finding them slumped in the shower,
their hearts blown open like boiler doors.
In the night, again and again these men float
to the tops of their dreams to drift back
to their desks in the morning. If you ask them,
they all would prefer to have died in their sleep.
At Midnight
Somewhere in the night,
a dog is barking,
starlight like beads of dew
along his tight chain.
No one is there
beyond the dark garden,
nothing to bark at
except, perhaps, the thoughts
of some old man
sending his memories
out for a midnight walk,
a rich cape
woven of many loves
swept recklessly
about his shoulders.
At Nightfall
In feathers the color of dusk, a swallow,
up under the shadowy eaves of the barn,
weaves now, with skillful beak and chitter,
one bright white feather into her nest
to guide her flight home in the darkness.
It has taken a hundred thousand years
for a bird to learn this one trick with a feather,
a simple thing. And the world is alive
with such innocent progress. But to what
safe place shall any of us return
in the smoky nightfall,
when we in our madness have put the torch
to the hope in ever nest and feather?
The Sigh
You lie in your bed and sigh,
and the springs deep in the mattress
sing out with the same low note,
mocking your sadness. It's hard—
not the mattress, but life.
Life is hard. All along
you thought you could trust in
your own bed, your own sorrow.
You thought you were sleeping alone.
All through the night, the leaky faucet
searches the stillness of the house
with its radar blip: who is awake?
Who lies out there as full of worry
as a pan in the sink? Cheer up,
cheer up, the little faucet calls,
someone will help you through your life.
The Grandfather Cap
Sometimes I think that as he aged,
this cap, with the stain in its brim
like a range of dark mountains,
became the horizon to him.
He never felt right with it off.
Boarding House
The blind man draws his curtains for the night
and goes to bed, leaving a burning light
above the bathroom mirror. Through the wall,
he hears the deaf man walking down the hall
in his squeaky shoes to see if there's a light
under the blind man's door, and all is right.
The Goldfish Floats to the Top of His Life
The goldfish floats to the top of his life
and turns over, a shaving from somebody's hobby.
So it is that men die at the whims of great companies,
their neckties pulling them speechless into machines,
their wives finding them slumped in the shower,
their hearts blown open like boiler doors.
In the night, again and again these men float
to the tops of their dreams to drift back
to their desks in the morning. If you ask them,
they all would prefer to have died in their sleep.
At Midnight
Somewhere in the night,
a dog is barking,
starlight like beads of dew
along his tight chain.
No one is there
beyond the dark garden,
nothing to bark at
except, perhaps, the thoughts
of some old man
sending his memories
out for a midnight walk,
a rich cape
woven of many loves
swept recklessly
about his shoulders.
At Nightfall
In feathers the color of dusk, a swallow,
up under the shadowy eaves of the barn,
weaves now, with skillful beak and chitter,
one bright white feather into her nest
to guide her flight home in the darkness.
It has taken a hundred thousand years
for a bird to learn this one trick with a feather,
a simple thing. And the world is alive
with such innocent progress. But to what
safe place shall any of us return
in the smoky nightfall,
when we in our madness have put the torch
to the hope in ever nest and feather?
The Sigh
You lie in your bed and sigh,
and the springs deep in the mattress
sing out with the same low note,
mocking your sadness. It's hard—
not the mattress, but life.
Life is hard. All along
you thought you could trust in
your own bed, your own sorrow.
You thought you were sleeping alone.
College Priorities
Once I was busy like you
(and, arguably, still am).
But when I realized
that four years
soon will seem four months,
you instantly were more important
than tests and free time and responsibilities
that walks and dinners and movies
will easily trump later.
My GPA is a low average,
and my bank account empties
into coffee mugs and gas tanks.
Some may called it life mismanaged;
but memories will be my success.
The Vanishings
I absolutely love this poem. Similar ideas run through my mind very regularly. So happy to have found something I've wanted to write articulated much better than I ever could have.
One day it will vanish,
how you felt when you were overwhelmed
by her, soaping each other in the shower,
or when you heard the news
of his death, there in the T-Bone diner
on Queens Boulevard amid the shouts
of short-order cooks, Armenian, oblivious.
One day one thing and then a dear other
will blur and though they won't be lost
they won't mean as much,
that motorcycle ride on the dirt road
to the deserted beach near Cadiz,
the Guardia mistaking you for a drug-runner,
his machine gun in your belly—
already history now, merely your history,
which means everything to you.
You strain to bring back
your mother's face and full body
before her illness, the arc and tenor
of family dinners, the mysteries
of radio, and Charlie Collins,
eight years old, inviting you
to his house to see the largest turd
that had ever come from him, unflushed.
One day there'll be almost nothing
except what you've written down,
then only what you've written down well,
then little of that.
The march on Washington in '68
where you hoped to change the world
and meet beautiful, sensitive women
is choreography now, cops on horses,
everyone backing off, stepping forward.
The exam you stole and put back unseen
has become one of your stories,
overtold, tainted with charm.
All of it, anyway, will go the way of icebergs
come summer, the small chunks floating
in the Adriatic until they're only water,
pure, and someone taking sad pride
that he can swim in it, numbly.
For you, though, loss, almost painless,
that Senior Prom at the Latin Quarter—
Count Basie and Sarah Vaughan, and you
just interested in your date's cleavage
and staying out all night at Jones Beach,
the small dune fires fueled by driftwood.
You can't remember a riff or a song,
and your date's a woman now, married,
has had sex as you have
some few thousand times, good sex
and forgettable sex, even boring sex,
oh you never could have imagined
back then with the waves crashing
what the body could erase.
It's vanishing as you speak, the soul-grit,
the story-fodder,
everything you retrieve is your past,
everything you let go
goes to memory's out-box, open on all sides,
in cahoots with thin air.
The jobs you didn't get vanish like scabs.
Her good-bye, causing the phone to slip
from your hand, doesn't hurt anymore,
too much doesn't hurt anymore,
not even that hint of your father, ghost-thumping
on your roof in Spain, hurts anymore.
You understand and therefore hate
because you hate the passivity of understanding
that your worst rage and finest
private gesture will flatten and collapse
into history, become invisible
like defeats inside houses. Then something happens
(it is happening) which won't vanish fast enough,
your voice fails, chokes to silence;
hurt (how could you have forgotten?) hurts.
Every other truth in the world, out of respect,
slides over, makes room for its superior.
Unwritten Rules of Respect
(My editorial for the most recent issue of The Clocktower.)
At first it was humorous. My friends and I were probably the oldest ones there that weren’t chaperons. We were admitted an hour before the show, pulled out our Chinese takeout (had no idea it was possible for P.F. Chang’s to be subpar), and stood at the front right of the stage.
Teenies and an occasional parent kept packing in as the first performer took stage. By the time the second opening act began, there was no personal space left. I felt like someone was going to turn around and slap me, threatening to have me arrested for violating a minor.
Enter “Blondie,” a barely 18-year-old and her three friends. At first they were on our right. Then they made a human chain and began pushing their way in front of my friend, Claudia, and me. Three feet from the stage to them apparently equates to the nosebleed section.
They weren’t nice about it, and that’s what bothered me most. They didn’t seem to notice that one of the reasons we had strategized our position was for my shorter-than-average amiga. I said, “You realize that now my friend won’t be able to see.”
“I paid the same amount she did,” Blondie responded with a shrug.
Her friends, a bit more thoughtful, convinced Blondie to let Claudia in front of them. Except now this group of rude girls separated us, exactly how one hopes to spend a three-hour concert.
I let it go with a roll of my eyes and tried to enjoy The Scene Aesthetic. And then Blondie starts dancing—and pushing. Hard. Complete with an occasional elbow jab to the girl beside her who was preventing her from becoming one with the stage. She wasn’t going to get away with this. I stepped sideways between her and the girl, giving the victim a sympathetic, apologetic look.
“Stop pushing. You’re being extremely inconsiderate,” I had to yell at Blondie over the music.
“It wasn’t me!” she countered. “I was standing still, I swear.”
This marks the first and only time I’ve wanted to slug a girl. I heard a girl a couple feet away suggest pouring water down her back. No one wanted her there. She kept “discreetly” forcing herself against me hoping to get through. Even her friends started to realize this wasn’t the best idea after one particularly powerful push that almost toppled a handful of people like dominoes.
“I’m really sorry,” one of the friends rather quietly said after we regained our balance. Blondie’s head snapped around towards her friend, shock on her face. She pushed, but this time in the other direction, towards the exit.
I looked around and there were satisfied grins on the faces of everyone around me. But I knew she would be back. And sure enough, towards the end of the set I could see her blond braid working its way back to the spot she abandoned. I had since given my spot to a couple shorter girls behind me and couldn’t really do anything but fume when she began, yet again, pushing.
Eventually she got what she wanted: a very front stage spot where she stood happily jamming out to the main performance. Unfortunately, cheaters often prosper.
The concert was still enjoyable, but didn’t meet my expectations. I couldn’t decide how much of it was Blondie’s fault. Claudia and I decided, after several minutes of perplexed discussion, that this was our most adventurous concert. We hung out backstage, got autographs, danced to the background music with the other band members (except Adam Young, the Owl City lead who we really were hoping to see).
Of course we talked a lot about Blondie and this idea of innate respect, or lack thereof. Some of us know what this means, while others either don’t know or ignore these unspoken social courtesies. Things like not touching or getting too close to art work in a gallery (or audibly criticizing the work when the artist or even other viewers are present). Keeping conversation to a minimum when in church, if not out of respect for God then for those who would be distracted or offended. Playing music over speakers or being loud in a coffee shop where others are trying to concentrate.
It comes to this. You aren’t the only one in this world. As children, we hadn’t yet developed the ability to see life from someone else’s side. But now we have. And if we don’t analyze the way our actions affect others, we’re going to end up a big jerk that no one likes at a concert.
Back Alley
When looking closely
at a place you know well,
you question:
Did these bricks
always look so weathered?
Do those palates
move from beside that dumpster?
Don't these steps
ever get wet from rain?
Did they spell
"Shipping & Receiving" right?
Yup, they did.
These Days Are Rare Indeed
It's unexpected. It's rare. It's indescribable. But I'm going to try. It's 3:20 a.m. and I am wide awake. Alive, in fact. Pictures from tonight are uploading to my laptop. "Fresh Feeling" by The Eels is on my iTunes. It's a good night to be in love. So many days I try to make myself love this thing called life, but most of us know that forced affection is oxymoronic. But right now there is no part of me that is trying. There is nothing inside me but joy.
Today wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a mellow end to the week. Instead, there was the haircut my non-prefered stylist gave me. The pointless drive with a friend to the DMV. The subpar P.F. Chang's takeout (yes it's possible). The Owl City concert where pushy "Blondie" almost ruined the whole thing and I met every performer except the one I went to see. The drive back that I thought my tired body would use to sleep. The cold weather that brought snow.
But my short cut looks great. The trip to the DMV was relaxing. The Chinese take out was still P.F. Chang's, and the appetizer was free. The concert ended up being the most adventurous of any other, and I got autographs for a friend who couldn't get a ticket. The drive back consisted of great conversation and more sweet tunes. And even the snow looks so perfect!
The planets and stars must have come to a rare alignment. It's day that I'll use to remind myself that life is so damn good. I know, I know. Things aren't perfect. No need to tell myself. But right now I'm going to sort through some pictures, maybe write a poem or read some, drag out my coffeemaker or make tea, and simply enjoy that which only the God I know is out there gave me.
Good, Great, Unbelievable, Hard, Cruel, So Beautiful
Today was a good day. Isn't it great to be able to say that? I didn't get any homework done (maybe that was part of it), but I got a lot of miscellaneous items accomplished. Here's a little run down of my day:
- 8 a.m. — Woke up.
- 12:30 p.m. — Woke up for real.
- 1:30 p.m. — Went to The Mill. Organized my planner, called my parents and a friend, sent my dad a check for my car insurance along with a three-page letter, checked PostSecret, the usual Facebook and Blogger checking, read comics.
- 3:30 p.m. — Returned to room. Watched Law & Order: Criminal Intent (the only one that was on) while doing some cleaning and sorting through clothes.
- 6:00 p.m. — Started laundry.
- 6:30 p.m. — Went to Noodles & Co. with a friend for supper. Came back and put laundry in dryer.
- 8:00 p.m. — Hung out with Renee in Prescott until dryer finished.
- 9:00 p.m. — Started folding laundry and listened to This American Life. The episode was titled, "The Book That Changed Your Life." It was marvelous to say the least. The last act even had a Midwest theme that further put the beauty of Nebraska and, get this, even winter into a more positive perspective.
- 10:00 p.m. — Moved my car (got a freaking front row spot!) and called my brother.
What I mainly began this post for was the phone call with my brother. We talk a lot, both over the phone and text message. If you had known us growing up, you never would have expected that we would be communicating this closely as "adults." This past week was his first year of college. We've dialoged a lot about that. It was pretty frustrating for him at first, but he's adjusting fast. I'm sure he'll be completely acclimated in a few weeks.
As I was browsing Blockbuster for a movie to use my monthly freebie coupon on (I ended up with "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly"), I spotted "Grind." An avid skateboarder teenager, my brother naturally gravitated to this overhyped, ridiculous comedy. We watched it together, and, oddly, I loved it. Mentioning it to him, we decided to watch it at home over Thanksgiving break along with "Mrs. Doubtfire" and a night of the complete Star Wars original trilogy (let's be honest, they're the only ones that matter anyway...it might take us a while to find the VHS series in the boxes of movies my parents have packed away).
While browsing Goodwill this weekend for my Almost Anything Goes (class night, basically), I found a CD of the Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." When I was young, I borrowed the movie from a family at our church. I liked it so much, I played the whole thing into a cassette tape so I could listen to it afterwards.
My parents didn't approve of it (they aren't big on theatre in general). Some thing about it being sacrilegious. And I can kind of see it. The play doesn't exactly have any references to God being part of the story. But I don't think it's very harmful. It doesn't mock religion, just tells the story in a different way, mixing current culture into it. For example, in "Pharaoh Story" there's a line that goes, "No one had rights or a vote, but the king / In fact you might say he was fairly right-wing." I never caught that before, but it cracks me up. It don't criticize my parents' view looking back. They didn't make a big deal about it or prevent me from watching it, just was a discussion we had. That's healthy.
I don't have some strong conclusion to end with. The sentiment that comes with looking back just made my day and weekend. It's one of those days where I was able to look at my past, present, and future all at the same time and say firmly, "Life is good."
(P.S. If you didn't catch the reference made in the title, it's an old LFO song called "Unbelievable." Look it up. Go '90s pop!)
English Flavors
Much thanks to Hannah, my amazing poet friend, for this find. I am infatuated!
I love to lick English the way I licked the hard
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.
Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’,
or my new word: ‘lasciviousness,’ stain my tongue,
thicken my saliva, sweet as those sticks — black
and slick with every lick it took to make daggers
out of them: sticky spikes I brandished straight up
to the ebony crucifix in the dorm, with the pride
of a child more often punished than praised.
‘Amuck,’ ‘awkward,’ or ‘knuckles,’ have jaw-
breaker flavors; there’s honey in ‘hunter’s moon,’
hot pepper in ‘hunk,’ and ‘mellifluous’ has aromas
of almonds and milk . Those tastes of recompense
still bitter-sweet today as I roll, bend and shape
English in my mouth, repeating its syllables
like acts of contrition, then sticking out my new tongue —
flavored and sharp — to the ambiguities of meaning.
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.
Love it when ‘plethora’, ‘indolence’, ‘damask’,
or my new word: ‘lasciviousness,’ stain my tongue,
thicken my saliva, sweet as those sticks — black
and slick with every lick it took to make daggers
out of them: sticky spikes I brandished straight up
to the ebony crucifix in the dorm, with the pride
of a child more often punished than praised.
‘Amuck,’ ‘awkward,’ or ‘knuckles,’ have jaw-
breaker flavors; there’s honey in ‘hunter’s moon,’
hot pepper in ‘hunk,’ and ‘mellifluous’ has aromas
of almonds and milk . Those tastes of recompense
still bitter-sweet today as I roll, bend and shape
English in my mouth, repeating its syllables
like acts of contrition, then sticking out my new tongue —
flavored and sharp — to the ambiguities of meaning.
Reaction to Subpar Days
If I let myself, I could be annoyed constantly for the rest of my life. Before my junior year of high school, I can't remember getting that bent out of shape about things (except for the fact that I was still home schooled). Things are different now, and I have to work really hard not to let people and situations bother me. But there's one that I can't let go.
1) When people insist there's something I'm not saying.
2) When people insist that I'm upset or unhappy with them or a situation.
With the first. Shortly, it's not always a good thing to always say what's on your mind. But apparently I often wear some sort of look that screams, "There's something I want to say." And being told that over and over and over is frustrating. If I have something to say, I'll say it if I deem it appropriate. Let me decide. And if I insist back that "I really don't have anything on my mind," please believe me.
Second. I have good days and bad days. I'm upfront when things aren't going right. Usually I'll at least give a general reason why. Often on bad days, I'm not sociable. I'm not going to want to hang out. I'm going to want to sleep, clean, read, mellow—by myself. This may translate as curt, upset, distant. But this is how my off days go.
If I haven't taken time to explain these things to important people in my life, I should. I think I probably have already, though. And having done that, it's annoying to keep revisiting this explanation.
The Other Early Morning
Last night, utterly exhausted, I went to bed at 8 p.m. and woke up at 6 a.m. For most of my high school and college life, I've been a night owl, loving being awake into the early morning when few others are conscious. But today I realized that there are just as few people awake in the early morning as late at night.
After waking, I leisurely got ready for the day while listening to Bob & Tom on the radio. Showered, ate bowl of cheerios, brushed teeth, ordered coffee at The Mill, finished a 60-page reading assignment. And now a short blog! Half an hour left until work. I'll have time to relax, go through my planner, maybe read a chapter out of a new book, "Why Poetry Matters" by Jay Parini.
I've been more productive than an other night when I've been up until 2 a.m. And I have energy. I am happy. My grandpa was the first to tell me the maxim, "Early to bed, early to rise, makes the man healthy, wealthy, and wise." He lives by it, and I'm positive there's something to it.
A Project in Progress
At the beginning of May, I'll march with my classmates signifying the end of college. After a three-week summer class, I'll officially have my degree. Sitting in my room here on sixth floor, it really doesn't seem like four years have passed since I was a freshman in the room my suite mates live in now.
So what'll be next?
No idea. But I'm starting to plan. I'm doing some career planning with my advisor. His big question is, "If you could get paid to do anything, what would that be?" My answer: "Get paid to find poetry." I'm good at it. Admittedly, although my sense are tuned to what I like, not necessarily others, many of my friends have appreciated pieces I have found.
As my advisor and I were talking, I mentioned that I could see myself possibly teaching one day. To do that, I know I would have to go back to school, but it just seems like something I'll want to do. Of course I would probably teach along the lines of English, literature, or poetry, and then my advisor asked, "What level do you see yourself teaching at?" I responded most likely high school or college. There is a certain level of deepness in literature and poetry that younger kids would have a more difficult time grasping.
"Not necessarily," he said, and loaned me a copy of "Rose, how did you get that red?" by Kenneth Koch. I've recently been going through it, and it's an instructional book of how to teach great poetry to children along with lots of examples directly from his classroom. One could basically mimic what he did using the book.
While I thought it was interesting, it didn't really go beyond that. Kids aren't my thing. They're rowdy, illogically, and disrespectful. Ok, that trend extends to many high schoolers and college students, but I feel like I can connect easier with older students.
This summer, Joan, a woman from a local bookstore, emailed me about an idea they were working on in a couple lower economic elementary schools. There are clubs that the students can sign up for as part of after-school activities, and Joan wanted to get a newspaper group going. We emailed a bit, it sounded interesting, and I told her I'd get in touch when I was back in town.
It took me a few weeks, but we finally met to talk. Unfortunately, I didn't have that time frame open thanks to my class schedule. That wasn't the end of the world because they already had something scheduled for this semester. But Joan's ideas weren't limited to this one idea. I told her about my passion for poetry, and she got a bit excited. Not a big poetry buff herself, she still sees the importance of it and was very enthusiastic that I had this interest. I fed off her excitement, and we started discussing ideas for bringing poetry into the mix. The ideas were rough, but I told her I'd think about it.
I left feeling on top of the world. College has taken up a lot of my time, but I've always been interested in volunteering somehow in the community. There could be no other perfect way than this opportunity that had come up.
So sitting at The Mill going through Koch's book, I started to get ideas of my own. I wouldn't be able to do anything as extensive as he did, but I got an idea for an abbreviated version that might use some of his material. Joan said that if I couldn't do something regular, doing a workshop over a break might work. I liked that and came up with some categories I could cover. Here they are:
- Feelings
- Family and Friends
- Future
- Fiction and Fables
- Favorites
- Familiar Places
This is only tentative. Depending on the time frame, I might only cover three or four. We'll cross that bridge later. I might take some relevant poems from Koch's book or find my own that would be good examples of those categories. My focus would be to get them writing about things that are familiar to them and that they care about.
So that's an idea for now. I really hope there will be a time when I can execute it. And cross my fingers really hard that it would actually work and not flop.
What I'd Want
This weekend has begun slow and dreary. I honestly don't think there could be a better way.
On my blog list is one called, "And I'm Not Lying." I can't exactly remember how I found it. I think it might have been from a friend who found some cool art or graffiti images on his page, but if that's right, I can't find them.
His "About" section reads as follows:
"Life for me, especially in New York, is this constant river of sensations that usually make absolutely no sense at all. It just blasts past, washing over me like a giant garden hose squirting from the hand of an indifferent God. Sometimes it knocks me flat, sometimes it bends me backwards, but most of all when I can get my head up above this constant river I can see how it sparkles in the sun, feel how it’s helping me grow.
"That squirting hose, the dirt, all the dandelions and blades of grass around me, they’re all stories. And as you well know, the best stories are fertilized with a pinch of some amazing shit that always starts with “And I am NOT lying.”
I haven't read much of his blog, but I went back a couple posts and found this (Daro's Wisdom). I really hope you take a look, it's not long.
First off in the clip, you got to love his grandmother. She seems like the type that you just could sit and talk to for hours.
Second, I really connected to his writing about losing close family. I've never lost anyone close to me, friend or family. Back when I was in maybe eight grade, I remember my parents leaving me and my brother at home. I don't know when it was that they started leaving us by ourselves, but it was well before then. But I thought after they left, Why did they worry so much before? I came to the conclusion that it was mostly out of worry for what could happen when they were gone. More than us getting into trouble, like there was much chance of that living in East Texas country, it was our safety.
Then I thought about something. What about their safety? There was a more likely chance that something would happen to THEM than to us. Ever since then, I've worried about my parents traveling. Who knows what might happen one day, all I do know is that I would be devastated. It's going to be rough when something happens to a grandparent, but I pray to God nothing ever happens to my parents.
Being 12 hours away at school where I only see them several times out of a year, I can start to worry, Will something happen before I see them again? I don't know how I could handle that. As cheesy as it sounds, I always tell my parents I love them before I hang up, sometimes multiple times. If something were to happen, at least I'd have that.
If you didn't read the post, he's talking with his grandma over supper. The phone rings, and somehow he knows it's his mom calling to tell him of the passing of his great-grandma. He puts it off, continuing to talk with his grandma, and after he finally calls back and gets the bad news, his 95-year-old grandma holds him silently for a while then says, "You'll always your grandmother's grandchild."
If something ever happened to my close family, that's what I'd want to hear.
On Watching the Space Station and Shuttle
When my dad rang, I answered,
Can I call you later?
When's later?
(something's up)
Thirty minutes?
Where will you be in an hour?
Not sure, why?
Watch the sky!
I hung up and smirked,
That's my dad.
Didn't plan to, but an hour later
I climbed the dam at the park
to watch two bright lights
chase across the Northern sky.
Which is the brighter one?
I dialed home to ask.
The line was busy.
Where are they going?
A minute later they were gone,
leaving the rest of us behind.
At least a few lone starts and the city lights
still hung around.
Feelings Don't Fade
My editorial for the upcoming issue of The Clocktower, written at about 4 a.m.:
I like fire. No, I don’t assemble homemade explosives or flamethrowers, but I could spend hours sticking matches or flicking a lighter just to watch the flame. As I was sitting in my room playing with a lighter I considered what would happen if I flicked it inside my hoodie pocket. How long would it take for the material to begin to burn? How big of a hole would it make?
Clothes are expensive, and I’m really not a pyro so I didn’t try it. I just think hypothetically of these things. I do have brains. Suddenly I thought, Wait, don’t I already have a hoodie with a small, burn hole in the pocket? I had to think a minute, but then I remembered.
In high school, I had a grey, pullover sweatshirt that had the letters “U.C.A.” on the front (Upper Columbia Academy), and my name printed on the back in bold, capitol letters. “DR. STEINGAS.” Quite a few classmates had hoodies like this with either their last name or a nickname on the back.
At that point in time, I wanted to be a doctor. Possibly a radiologist, I didn’t exactly know. I have to admit, I really liked the titled of “Doctor.” Admittedly it was part pride, but also part ambition. To my knowledge, no one on my dad’s side has ever gotten their doctorate, and I wanted to be the first. But coming into college, I decided the long-term academic road was not for me. Doesn’t mean it still can’t happen.
During the beginning of senior year I lost that sweatshirt in Pendleton, Ore. I took it off in a barber shop before I got my hair cut and forgot to take it with me. I got a similar sweatshirt later that year, but it wasn’t the same. It fit differently. I didn’t have the faint smell of campfire from the canoe campout on at Upper Priest Lake during junior year. Or the burn hole created by a large, stray ember.
Since I don’t remember things well, I collect mementos. Banquet tickets, notes passed in class, receipts from road trips or meals with friends. And I might not always remember exactly what happened or what was said, but as Maya Angelou said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Once a questionnaire asked, “There is a fire, and you can only save two books. Which ones would you choose?” I tried hard to think of some book with sentimental. Although I mark up every book I read, they all can be replaced. But then it hit me. My high school yearbooks. Both my junior and senior ones are filled to the max with notes and signatures.
Interestingly, none of my college yearbooks are signed anywhere close to that. I’m starting to regret that. I have photos. I have random items of memorabilia. But no notes in my yearbooks.
Well, it’s my senior year. And I can promise you that this year’s is getting marked up.
As for the sweatshirt? As of tonight in the East Oregon Craigslist listing of “lost & found” is the title “Lost Sweatshirt.” I’m pretty sure I won’t get it back, but that’s fine. I still remember how the smoke smelled and the burn hole felt.
Seriously Considering...
From this summer at camp:
If it were up to me, I'd abandon this lonely campfire bench and chase the sunset. I wouldn't look up directions, and the map in the backseat would stay there. I wouldn't come back. I could live in my car, find odd jobs in towns I went through. Others can function on less.
But here I sit, rooted by responsibility and commitment. Next year will be my last of set plans. I've yet to make any, and I'm unsure if I want to.
Nightmare Revisited
When I was younger, I used to have this nightmare that would come back every month or two. A car would drive up to our house, and three or four guys would get out and come up to the front door, try to look inside and taunt us. Sometimes I was by myself, with my brother or even when mom and dad were home. There was never any actual violence as I recall, but I think what creeped me out the most was that it was always the same guys in the same car. Maybe this is why I'm not too sad that I don't dream often anymore.
Moments ago, I was out on the driveway taking in the night. To the right, the sky was clear; to the left, the sky was cloudy which blended with the fog as my gaze leveled out. I began to think of how I didn't linger outside much at night back in the day. Granted, the coyote howls in the distance will give me a brief chill and wondering the property across the street is something I still save for daylight hours, but the driveway is comfortable.
Walking back into the house, I started scoffing some of the things that used to bother my younger self. Then I remembered the nightmare. So right now, I'm piddling around the internet and will maybe read or listen to a podcast in a minute. All in hopes that I can ward off the chance of the dream coming back tonight.
Home Alone
First item of business
after driving twelve hours home:
give brother a buzz cut.
He's talked about it since grade school.
With the parents out of town
he finally did it. No, I did it!
After American Pie
we end up outside at the end of the driveway
discussing his girl, future plans,
and the past contained in the house behind us.
I hope one of us grows old right here
with the other just across the street.
Green-Striped Melons
A good magician never reveals his tricks. And likewise, I'm tempted not to share where I find some of these poems because you might check my blog as much. But it'd be wrong not fill you in about American Life in Poetry. It's a program that Ted Kooser when he was the U.S. Poet Laureate. It's a short, weekly column containing a poem that's syndicated free to newspapers. You can also get them emailed to you, just visit www.americanlifeinpoetry.org. Or come back to my blog for the best of them.
Here is last weeks that I just read. It's so short and deep. Drink it in:
"Green-Striped Melons" by Jane Hirshfield
They lie
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field.
Under sun.
Some people
are like this as well--
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.
An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.
Up Past Curfew
7-24-09
For to finish some days requires
an out-of-bed experience
like sipping tea on an empty porch
watching the night fall asleep.
Two days off. Two poems.
Two untitled poems I wrote during my day off today and last week. Comment if you wish!
7-8-09
The Eastern Kansas road stretches out
then abruptly twists—left then right, repeat.
Oddly there's no rush or pressure
of people to see, places to go.
So down with the bass; up with the treble.
Under the speed limit instead of over.
Thumbs up to the bicyclist I just passed
instead of the finger.
What a different way to live!
7-15-09
Is it really so odd
that one day is warm
while the next brings snow?
That rain and clear skies
can swap spots in minutes?
Why berate the poor weatherman
when no one in the world
can predict my change of mood?
Maginalia
Because I love books, because I mark notes and symbols in the margins, because I too am wondering about my old self:
"Marginalia" by Deborah Warren
Finding an old book on a basement shelf--
gray, spine bent--and reading it again,
I met my former, unfamiliar, self,
some of her notes and scrawls so alien
that, though I tried, I couldn't get (behind
this gloss or that) back to the time she wrote
to guess what experiences she had in mind,
the living context of some scribbled note;
or see the girl beneath the purple ink
who chose this phrase or that to underline,
the mood, the boy, that lay behind her thinking--
but they were thoughts I recognized as mine;
and though there were words I couldn't even read,
blobs and cross-outs; and though not a jot
remained of her old existence--I agreed
with the young annotator's every thought:
A clever girl. So what would she see fit
to comment on--and what would she have to say
about the years that she and I have written
since--before we put the book away?
The Last REAL Summer
Even though Union let out at the beginning of the month, I took a stats class (my first and last college math course) that crammed a whole semester of material into three weeks. But today I finished! All five tests are over, and my homework has been handed in. I'm ecstatic. I don't think I'll know what to do with myself until June 10 when I leave to work at camp.
Actually, I do know. Work on cleaning my room and my office, finish Alias, catch up on TIME, hang out with friends, get my teeth cleaned, start packing up again, go to a wedding and my brother's high school graduation, write some poetry, wash my car, get my camera fixed, schedule gallery exhibits for the rest of the summer. And while that's a pretty decent-sized list, I don't care because school isn't in the mix anymore! I love summer.
In the middle of it all, I need time to think. I have a lot I want to figure out, and I need to make it a priority. So many questions are begging answers, and I need pay attention to them instead of covering them up with busyness.
But all that will come. For now it's sleep. It's weird thinking that this is my last, true summer. Next year around this time I'll have graduated and summer will be a thing of the past just as homeleaves are to me now. Believe me, I'm living this one up!
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