#657

I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors -

(Emily Dickinson)

~~J

*Photo taken at the 160+ year-old Georgia "State Lunatic, Idiot, and Epileptic Asylum" in Milledgeville, May 2011*

The Surgeon at 2 A.M.

Over one bed in the ward, a small blue light
Announces a new soul. The bed is blue.
Tonight, for this person, blue is a beautiful color.
The angels of morphia have borne him up.
He floats an inch from the ceiling,
Smelling the dawn drafts.

(Sylvia Plath)

~~J

*Photo taken at the 160+ year-old Georgia "State Lunatic, Idiot, and Epileptic Asylum" in Milledgeville, May 2011*

The Ivy Green

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!


Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.


The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:


And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.


Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

(Charles Dickens)

*All photos taken at the 160+ year-old Georgia "State Lunatic, Idiot, and Epileptic Asylum" in Milledgeville, May 2011*

"...O that Shakespeherian Rag--"

Because I've already used parts from my favorite Eliot poem ("The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"), I present just a snippet (lines 121-138) of his masterwork. I mean, it's so involved he included his own footnotes...

Enjoy!

The Wasteland
by T.S. Eliot

'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

(1888-1965)

(Poetry Month!)
~~J

"Because you are the way you are."

Dorothy Parker wore many hats: Poet. Satirist. Screenwriter. Feminist.

Although familiar with her as "an important woman" I did't read her poetry until recently (when I bought a used copy of her complete works).

(Within the company of others of the Algonquin Round Table)

Her poetry is sarcastic and beautiful. It's strong and classical, but modern at the same time. I decided to share one of her more critical of the opposite sex pieces. But she knew them well, men. So even her criticisms have a certain aspect of truth--which really makes them all the more honest.

Men
by Dorothy Parker

They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They'd make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.

(1893-1967)


(Poetry Month!)
~~J

My Introduction to Poetry.

I discovered poetry as a child through the world of Shel Silverstein. I distinctly remember listening to a recording of Shel and his guitar singing poems from WHERE THE SIDEWALK ENDS.

(from the cover of the 1974 book)

Not only were the the words silly and fun, the book contained fantastic drawings/sketching that illustrated the action within the poems perfectly.

Boa Constrictor
by Shel Silverstein

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,
It's up to my knee.
Oh my,
It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . .

(Poetry Month!)
~~J

"where would they carry me?"

(Self-Portrait by William Carlos William)

"Summer Song"

by William Carlos William

Wanderer moon

smiling a

faintly ironical smile

at this

brilliant, dew-moistened

summer morning,—

a detached

sleepily indifferent smile,

a wanderer's smile,—

if I should

buy a shirt

your color and

put on a necktie

sky-blue

where would they carry me?

(Poetry Month!)
~~J

"...& all things folded in half"

I must admit I know this writer. Happily I met her this semester when she visited campus for a reading. You could say she is at least a double threat because her CNF (creative nonfiction) is amazing as well.

"Parts of Speech" by Julie Marie Wade

1) Cantaloupe; serendipitous selection; deep green of the vigorous rind

2) Salutation; coming or going, a wave is always the same

3) Curfew: I want you home with me, in bed

4) Helix, Entendre, & all things folded in half

5) Television; if you look hard enough, there’s a mirror inside

6) Circumcision, & other pilferings of the body

7) Polygon, encompassing an indeterminate number of sides

8) Sunrise: conversation piece & practical light

9) Euphemism—the one they forgot—the reason for two chairs at this table
---------------

(Poetry Month!)
~~J

"Dear love, I am that girl."

I actually used parts of this poem for my undergraduate graduation invitations. Seriously. I love it that much.

The Black Art
by Anne Sexton

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.


(Poetry Month!)
--J

Way Ahead of Her Time.

(short lines, slant rhymes, use of the dash...I have two copies of her complete collection--be sure to look for the one that retains HER own use of punctuation, a lot of the reprints use old, incorrect edits of her work)

(listed as poem 917)

Love — is anterior to Life —

Posterior — to Death —

Initial of Creation, and

The Exponent of Earth —

EMILY DICKINSON

(December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886)

(Poetry Month!)

~~J

"wishing for the present tense--"

Another poem introducted to me by one of those creative, beautiful people I'm surrounded by (Melissa, if you're nasty).

A Noun Sentence
by Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Fady Joudah

A noun sentence, no verb
to it or in it: to the sea the scent of the bed
after making love ... a salty perfume
or a sour one. A noun sentence: my wounded joy
like the sunset at your strange windows.
My flower green like the phoenix. My heart exceeding
my need, hesitant between two doors:
entry a joke, and exit
a labyrinth. Where is my shadow—my guide amid
the crowdedness on the road to judgment day? And I
as an ancient stone of two dark colors in the city wall,
chestnut and black, a protruding insensitivity
toward my visitors and the interpretation of shadows. Wishing
for the present tense a foothold for walking behind me
or ahead of me, barefoot. Where
is my second road to the staircase of expanse? Where
is futility? Where is the road to the road?
And where are we, the marching on the footpath of the present
tense, where are we? Our talk a predicate
and a subject before the sea, and the elusive foam
of speech the dots on the letters,
wishing for the present tense a foothold.

(Poetry Month!)
~~J

"--the longing that begins, and begins..."

I'm surround by a whole bushel of creative, beautiful people. And one of them made me aware of the following poem last month. Thanks Elizabeth!

"Onset"
by Kim Addonizio

Watching that frenzy of insects above the bush of white flowers,
bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of
is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications.
Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing.
And the wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups in the grocery, lately
I can’t stand them, the shelves of canned beans and soups, freezers
of identical dinners; then the snowflake-diamond-snowflake of the rug
beneath my chair, rows of books turning their backs,
even my two feet, how they mirror each other oppresses me,
the way they fit so perfectly together, how I can nestle one big toe into the other
like little continents that have drifted; my God the unity of everything,
my hands and eyes, yours; doesn’t that frighten you sometimes, remembering
the pleasure of nakedness in fresh sheets, all the lovers there before you,
beside you, crowding you out? And the scouring griefs,
don’t look at them all or they’ll kill you, you can barely encompass your own;
I’m saying I know all about you, whoever you are, it’s spring
and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.


(Poetry Month!)
~~J

April is POETRY Month!

GOALS (from the Academy of American Poets):*Highlight the extraordinary legacy and ongoing achievement of American poets*Introduce more Americans to the pleasures of reading poetry Bring poets and poetry to the public in immediate and innovative ways *Make poetry a more important part of the school curriculum*Increase the attention paid to poetry by national and local media *Encourage increased publication, distribution, and sales of poetry books *Increase public and private philanthropic support for poets and poetry

How are YOU celebrating? I'm going to do so by posting snippets from my favorite poems/poets. And I figured it would be best to start with one of American's most "infamous" poems--written by Allen Gingsberg in 1955. Although I consider myself a lover and student of poetry, I didn't fall in love with this one until I saw the recent movie.

From the first part of "Howl"

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
.....
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
and dash of consciousness together jumping
with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to say
in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
suffering of America's naked mind for love into
an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years. (Allen Ginsberg)

So begins April.

~~J

Just Breathe...

(a partial list of my undergraduate work)

Even though I stayed "an extra" day in Memphis, I only spent a few hours outside of the house, not including time spent reading on the back porch.

(I did manage to cry when I found "Walking in Memphis" on the radio while out and about)

I've gathered another "box load" of books to carry to Milledgeville, figures.

While going through paperwork in my office, I found a notebook from my last semester as an undergraduate. That's where the photo up there came from...

Did those classes get me ready for these classes? Apparently they did on paper.

I've been scanning enough Composition Theory to make a normal person's eyes bleed, but I know the work for that class is far from over.

Then I was constructing a "fake" syllabus for an imaginary class (Teaching Creative Writing) and I have a feeling I've gone overboard. WAY overboard. I need to reel it in. I have essentially combined two classes (Poetry Writing + Forms of Poetry) from my own undergraduate career--focusing on the one class I shouldn't be focusing on even.

Lest not forget the other work I need to worry about...there should be a graduate seminar on time management, plain and simple. And mandatory "chill pills."

Thankfully the belly full of home cookin' (German food) helps right now.

~~J

Coy Mistress--

.
.
.
I don't know who she is...but I can feel the (perceived) thoughts frozen on her face.

The hand-coloring someone did makes her seem melancholy--stuck in a world that doesn't understand.

She's emo circa 60 years ago, before "emo" was even a term. (OED places it as first being used in 1993)

What she's feeling has nothing to do with music, I dare say. Emotional works.

Tom may have just said,

"Janice, give us your best wistful face."

But I don't know Tom or Janice. It's a guess. She (my Janice) makes me think of Sylvia Plath.
.

.

.
Not the "just about to put my head in the oven" girl we all know and love--but the laughing, fun one at Smith College or visiting Paris as chronicled in her "unabridged journals."

Sylvia was a hell of a journal writer.

So Janice here, stately and strong on a pier--maybe on holiday with Tom. In Spain or Chicago or whatever place they were able to sneak away to...is like Sylvia, a journal writer too.

I bet Tom was NOT the first boy she ever kissed either. I can just tell.

See how all of that is thrown together in my head?

"Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power."

(Andrew Marvell)

~~J

The Composing Place--

(April 2010)

"THERE will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions..."

(T S Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")

Way Past Last Call--

(Huey's Midtown)

"LET us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit."

(T S Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")

"Something" in my Pocket--

In celebration of National Poetry Month in April, New York City is hosting the 8th annual Poem In Your Pocket day on Thursday, April 29, 2010.

Join in the excitement TOMORROW by carrying a poem in your pocket.

You can write your own poem or borrow one from your favorite poet; just make sure to share it with your friends, family, and colleagues.

.
.
.
So if you get "poem-ed," it might be from me!

~~J

Act II:

(or the college years)

Miranda (The Tempest)
John William Waterhouse, 1916

I considered myself enough of a fan to take a upper division Shakespeare class relatively early in my very long college "career." I (in keeping with tradition) still have the syllabus and I'm embarrassed to say that I do not remember reading ALL of those plays.

Romeo & Juliet? Yes.
Othello? Yes.
The Tempest? Yes.
Midsummer Night's Dream? Yes.

The others? No. Especially none of the "Histories"...We read one of the Richards? Okay.

So Dr. Black (this was before he was at Amherst) was a great professor. He was practical and humorous (from what I can remember).

He taught me never to discount the sex in Shakespeare, because it is there. I wrote an innocent "reading" of Act 3, Scene 2 from Romeo & Juliet (sans modern translation) and although I hit upon many of the themes, I forgot a big one.

Hello, maidenhood.

My second major lesson upon Shakespeare was in the sonnet form via Dr. Phillips. We went through several of them (alongside learning the history and for whom they were possibly written).

Dark Lady? I'm sure you've heard of her--an older woman, but William on had a few of his sonnets for her...whoever she may be. the bulk of his poetry is written for a man. A younger man. A younger, more beautiful man.

I mention this NOT for its "shock value," (as it does shock some--and well, I am not in the category)--but it is interesting to here the murmurs in class when this is revealed.

And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.

His sonnet cycle is quite interesting and pushes the envelope.

Mail

boxes
are
happy
when
they
are
full
of
mail.

So
my
mail
box
is
very
very
very
sad.

~~J