Friday, December 11, 2009

The semester is over, and I've made it back in one piece (despite my travel agent's attempt at the opposite). There will be more stories. For now, I need to get over the jet lag.

Cheers.

Monday, November 30, 2009

And also, a rant I might have entitled "An Ode to Art of Interpretation."

Theoretical Establishment

I have this theory, see, it looks like a silent film
first, there’s me scribbling excitedly,
then some frames from Metropolis,
cut to you, or perhaps a chorus line of yous,
high-kicking, jabbering, and pointing
up at the drafts which have been hung
as a massive backdrop on your stage. The theatre is full,
people hoot and shout, nod in agreement,
and then cut back to me planting a bomb under the stage
walking outside, pushing a little red button, and watching
as the whole place comes down.

If I wanted it all explained, I would have asked.
If I’d wanted all the doors opened, the lights turned on,
the corners changed from small shadows to bare white
I would write about paint peeling, or American football.

Give me back my sense of wonder, idiot critics,
give me back all my mysteries.
Where would Prometheus be without the darkness
we needed fire to light? All I ask is that you leave me,
and give me the beauty of words
before your science makes them boring
and they become your subject to vivisect
your phenom to explain
formulaic pith, all bone
no marrow.
Surviving November
“I shove joy like a knife / into my own heart, over and over”
-Tony Hoagland


Let us acknowledge our inconsolable fact:
there is excruciating pain in the truth that we are human.
I can’t understand, however,
how there are so many, legions of lovers
who are making the fun scene
and the bliss scene
and dropping it like it’s hot
and smiling constantly
and laughing.

Do they not feel the weight?
or do they, upon shouldering it call some emotional Hercules
to hold it when as they shrug it off?
I want the secret to that normalcy, since that is what normal
seems to be, or at what I hope it is.
Can money buy happiness? Tell me, Warren Buffett.
Tell me, Rupert Murdoch. Have I got it all wrong?
Is this why Hemingway bit that steel barrel?
Did Faulkner drink all that hooch to calm the sizzling fire in his brain?
I can see why he would, anyway.

There is one answer I do know.
Rebellion. To hunch against ourselves and weep for it,
to bray out like donkeys being led cruelly,
or better yet burn the mule as an offering
to a God that may or may not be there, but in the act of burning
this throbbing life pulses slower and mute.

That is our love, the love of saying no
to ourselves, storing up our own defiance for winter
building it up, throwing it out
and saving it again.

Friday, November 20, 2009

A Nice Thought

You didn’t need an explanation
and neither did I
for why my eyes were green
or for why you loved those stories
written by Romans long dead.
It was easy to see the reflections of a future history there,
how we knew we’d die before we were dead.

It’s what young people talk about: love and death
we are clearly no exception–
actually, we left death out and and stuck to one another
with love, dove into bodies and decided
we liked it so much that maybe we’d just stay
skip the many years left to live
and die – that we,
the common fate
of what had been so rare
could learn together.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Today will be a quiet day.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Familiarity

The next time we pull over, you take over driving for awhile.
I will sit and sleep and dream
about many things I won’t remember
except on paper.

We’ve made this trip so many times,
Minneapolis to Chicago (and back, days later)
that I feel the dark outside the car
as friendly, the headlights somehow redundant
if you switched them off the car
would know the way itself.

That familiarity eclipses us
and even though we stopped trying 100 miles,
(or is it days?)
ago, familiarity is just a step away from memory
and here in the dark, listening to you breathe
I can’t help but want to remember.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

The rest is silence, which you speak

The rest is silence, which you speak
with words that more resemble mercury
than letters, at least that’s what you say
when you explain
that I’m lost
and don’t exist to be found.

I can be obvious as a lie
standing in a field of facts
and you no longer believe I can blend in
of course, neither do I.

I had already decided
it had to be time for you to champion
my flaws, march under a banner proclaiming my weakness
find anyone to support the petition
declaring my failure.

Even I wanted to sign up.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Drought Weather

The old women stir in the sun-drenched kitchen
and the sandy dry riverbed
crackles with the grain
of old bones.

The men wrinkle slowly on the porch,
turning brown,
like the glass bottles
that slowly become the day’s dead soldiers.
A hawk floats over.

The women speak a little,
but their hands rest, still
a triumph like growing grass.
The men say nothing
as the sun slides down into the driest piece of sky.
It is blissful red,
red as blood,
red as the blood that leaps in them.
One whispers with a voice
like an engine turning over.
The others nod for nothing in particular.
Overhead the hawk still floats,
but he will not dive here.
His fierce eyes see only the ruins
of a once-ripe beauty.
The sun suspended,
for that moment the horizon
is old, used, and empty as the clinking bottles.

But still
the hawk soars
looking for home.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Ian

And do you remember, liebchen, days with hot lunch and dinner?
Days of running in sprinklers spray up and
turning the Lone Ranger’s many gunfights down?

But since we are here with hammer and nails
chisels and pain, to do the work of our lengthy,
lengthened lives, let me work in the sun
sweat patiently in the heat
that will one day reduce me to the small cinders
which represents nothing.
In my dying fire, clothe me in that heat
as I am multiplied into ashes and light.

And you, remember to leave the window open
to hear our far-away cries
and let light in.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Halloween

London weekend was absolutely righteous. We stayed at a hostel called "The Clink" which of course led to a plethora of Hogan's Heroes jokes – shows you the kind of people that are studying on our program – and after the last week a little R & R was exactly what we needed.

But there was little rest to be had. Arriving on Friday night we found our way to a Mexican restaurant in the Euston area which IFSA had booked for a group dinner. I was, of course, immediately skeptical. This is not Mexico, nor did we have any business in Mexico, but I had an immense hankering for enchiladas which drove me to accept the invitation. The food wound up being delicious, and hot. At last, something spicy in this country which seems to have been abandoned by chili peppers of any and all varieties. The margaritas were tasty as well, a nice complement to the chicken mole, black beans, and other dishes on the buffet.

Soon, however, one had to make a decision: stay, and sample tequila, or go forth and sample the tantalizing fruits of the city at night. Tequila not being my favourite beverage, I decided to head off to Astor Hall where a good friend from high school happened to be staying. Astor is a dormitory for University College London students, and just the other week Allie and I realized that we were both in England at the same time. The stage was set: now all that remained was for Fate and her minions Alcohol and Happenstance to intervene. And did they ever.

At Astor, I meet Allie and Bryant (the boyfriend) and we make our way along with Sarah, Julian, and Zehava to an Indian restaurant. The mood is light. I talk about Latin among other things with Zehava as they eat their evening meal. I mention "Underground Rebel Bingo" and then explain the phenomenon to the group – I would do so here, but I'll save it for another entry. They finish eating, we leave, and Happenstance intervenes.

Let me start with Oliver. Oliver is a Brit, a friend of Allie's, who is going to meet us at the UCL student union (one of two). We show up about 30 minutes after speaking to him, and he is already quite drunk at which point he loudly insults Allie and doesn't even notice that I am there while we make our way back outside so Ollie can smoke. Ollie says something I can't understand and we're off to the other UCL union.

We arrive, and the place is ridiculous. There are goofy costumes, music and lights, and a bar which we all sidle up to and dive right in. The world is a good and decent place here in this moment: Ollie has cashed in some sort of token at the bar and received a large witches hat which he smashed onto his head and wears proudly. We sit about and talk for awhile, and I watch as a giant banana serves snakebites to two girls that probably don't need them. But what am I saying, of course they do. The bar is full and costumed drunks wander in and out. Halloween seems to be a multi-day affair here in Britain confined not to the 31st, but celebrated for two or three days beforehand. Soon though, a few hours have past. I walk back to Astor with Ollie, Allie, and Zehava. There's a little more chat and I eventually find my way back to Der Clink in time to slip into bed by 3:30, just ahead of Zach, my roommate, who stumbles in from bowling with several eastern Europeans just minutes later. So ended the Friday evening.

I awoke Saturday with the little hammer-men pounding on the backs of my eyeballs. Too much whiskey, clearly. I will go on to refine the recipe later that evening, but just now, I'm not exactly happy with said little men. After a small breakfast, our little clique of Americans decides to head out for Camden Market and get whatever we need for our costumes that evening. I buy a belt made out of .50 bullets, a leather jacket, and some leather hobo-gloves along with some shitty jewelery to complete my ensemble for Billy Idol. Zach purchases the gear necessary to look like a cross between Waldo and Ira Glass. We eventually agree on Waldo, as long as he talks with Ira's voice.

After our Camden adventure we go back to Der Clink to lick our physical and financial wounds and prepare for the evening's festivities. The hour draws nigh and I don a wifebeater, the bullet belt, and gel my hair to look ridiculous. I now regret not bleaching it, but the choice has been made. I feel like a complete pussy.

After a little pre-gaming we ride the tube to Tower Bridge, the location of our party. We're taken up an elevator by the security guards and step out into the bridge itself. The view is ludicrous: London at night is beautiful, but when the lights stretch out in such a way, it is breathtaking. We enjoy a reception before dinner, figuring out who everyone else is dressed up as, and then make our way to dinner. Braised chicken with an onion-shallot something I don't know on a bed of mashed leeks, with a gravy I can't really explain. Very good. We then proceeded to dance/karaoke with the best of them, my own offering being a startlingly good rendition of "Danger! High Voltage!" which others seemed to enjoy. I would have done "Rebel Yell" but there was no Billy Idol in the karaoke machine. Miffed, I was.

The party at Tower Bridge ended around 10:30, so I found my way back to Astor for what was nothing short of a drunken war zone. I will not attempt to elaborate in this medium, as I will not do any of it justice. I stumbled home late. Thus ended Saturday.

Sunday started rainy. We got soaked walking from the hostel to the hotel for brunch, but brunch was tasty. The train came on time, we boarded, and headed home.

Now I transcribe the poems for tomorrow's tutorial, update on my machinations in England, and eventually hit the hay. More to come, and hopefully some photos of the Halloween madness. Enjoy the week.

-M

Monday, October 26, 2009

So Clarke liked my Lear essay - I essentially described him as an existential hero in Camus' estimation. We had a really excellent conversation, and now I'm onto my next play: Hamlet. Going to have a lot of fun with it.

Things are starting to speed up. We're over a quarter done with our time here, and I barely feel like I've started. But the poems keep rolling off the pen. Met some wonderful people so far as well, been going to Poetry Soc. And I'll be making a few humble submissions to "The Folio" which is an Oxford poetry journal.

Have a good week, all.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Busy week here. Read Lear. Writing essay tomorrow on Lear. Not sure what about.

But it'll be, interesting.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Well, it's been a productive week here, despite some challenges: I wrote 9 poems for John Ballam, which I need to type into the computer-machine and edit by Monday. Also, I'm working my way through "King Lear" at the moment for Shakespeare. I'm hoping I think up an essay topic soon.

The challenges were mostly of a physical nature. I've been quite ill all week, functioning with the help of dayquil and a lot of tea. My respiratory tract is all messed up, I think I have a sinus infection, and to top it all off, I woke up this morning with conjuctivitis. Pink-eye. So I'm finding out where the closest clinic is. I suppose it wouldn't have been a trip to England without some sort of brush with the NHS.

Today I go to sing a concert, though I'm not really sure for whom or why. I've gotten emails from some dude who's recruiting singers for today event. There's only 16 of us, and we're doing a bunch of stuff I've never heard of before (though it is VERY British). Stanford's Magnificat for double choir and his "Eight Partsongs", "Songs in Honor of Queen Victoria" by Stanford, Stainer, and Parry, and Parry's "Songs of Farewell". We rehearse for two hours this morning, three hours this afternoon, and perform tonight. We're about to find out just how well I sight-read. Wish me luck, I'm a little concerned about my ability to sing while I'm this sick. But whatever. "The spirit is willing..." and all that garbage.

More poetry to come when I finally get this week's crop typed in. I haven't been taking many photos, mostly because I prefer night photography and the town itself has amazingly poor lighting for such an enterprise. But I'll see what I can do.

Enjoy the weekend. Cheers.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

A Painted House

He still wear the paint on his nails
the little bits in cracks and curves
wanting to be up on the ladder
with work that the boards of him drink in
work that coats a hundred-year house with love
something more human coating the worn boards
quieting the soul of the owner with ample rest.

Scraping at the worn chips and crocodile skin of the old paint
and hearing the throaty ripping
followed by the ring of the blade as it tears away the puckered latex
and he lays on the new
the new coat
or is it a new life?

Yet every conversation leads back to that old office
that old place where you painted the boards that shored up younger souls
and when you were found guilty of treason
to a law not worth living, Thaddeus, you flew
and now build a new home.

I worked in that building. Gave little bits of me
that the wood still wears
and hope that somehow
the love placed there
still shines, ever so lightly
in the cracks and curves
of your new future

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Smash Palace

where you can break anything
take the shingles off the roof
put a foot through a window,
shatter the pane.

Take a door by the lintel,
tear out the frame
break and break and break
until the knuckles open into a lattice
that gleams
and the fingers
toes chest lungs and breathing body
are a
Smash Palace.

Make something new of it.
Place pieces in
inconsistent places.
Put the door into the windowframe
hinges erased.
Make foot
prints
in the dust
covering a floor
composed of a wrinkled glass sheet.
Here, where shingles complete countertops
and bedboards make basementfloors
here
begin building
a new heart.
So sorry for taking forever with this post, but things have been a little hectic here, what with all the parties, and the essays coming in, and the whole cultural adjustment thing.

This past week is what Oxford students call "Freshers Week", which is exactly what it sounds like. The JCR (Junior Common Room) leadership, sort of a student council-esque group, put on events all week long to help freshers get to know each other, the older students, and generally have a good time. There is some sort of themed party in the bar every night, and discounted nightclub tickets were sold to allow students to go out on the town. Needless to say, this is slightly different from GAC. I do believe the Ohle administration would shit itself at the idea of a bunch of 18-year-olds being not only encouraged but practically required to drink copious amounts of alcohol on a nightly basis. But this is not Gustavus. This is Oxford.

The truly beautiful thing about the afore-mentioned bar is that the English government subsidizes all of the alcohol and food we consume. The British taxpayer buys approximately half of every pint and drink, and I eat lunch for around £1.85 every day. That's about $3.50. Dinner is £3.43, and involves a grand nightly affair in which we are all seated in the Hall here at Catz and served a three-course meal. This meal is aptly referred to as "Hall". For those on the run, "Scaff" is served starting at 6 PM, and is more along the lines of a regular cafeteria-style dinner. Everything served is delicious: last night we had a curry soup for the first course, curried beef over rice with roasted vegetables for the second, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. Not bad.

All in all, the adjustment has gone very well and I never want to leave. With just seven short weeks to go, however, I am diving in as much as possible. I've written my first essay and have another to write today, in addition to singing with a choir of my choosing later today. I need to decide, and quickly. Lincoln, Keble, or Pembroke. Problem being Pembroke hasn't actually told me whether or not I've gotten in at this point. It'll all work out, I'm sure.

With all that said, I'm off. Need to get started on that essay. Ta.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

So I made it safely. I will put up a long post with pictures when I am not restriced to expensive hotel internet.

All I can say is that tea at the Poetry Cafe is as good as ever, and The Crown still serves up the best beer I've had in all the world. I do miss the Joyce Crew, but I am getting over it. Finding a new crew. It's a small world after all.

More to come, rest assured.

Cheers.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

http://www.ohio.com/news/62456962.html

I just have to post this article before I go. He's a fascinating man.






Warren's house. There's the dormer I painted, though it isn't quite finished yet, and the full front and back as well as one of the great stained glass windows.

Leaving at 4:30 tomorrow morning. Next post, I should be in Oxford.

Finally.

Sweet Ruin

My time at Warren's is done, as of today. It's a little sad, but there's much to do before leaving. No poem this evening, but one or two tomorrow. And pictures of Warren's place, hopefully.

Hot Toddys all round. Goodnight.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Sinterklaus
Jerry Sinterklaus knows:
when his family gathers
facts remain unstated.
Grandma has been dead years.
Aunt Margaret just had botox,
smiling with too-white teeth at
nobody in particular.
Uncle Martin didn’t show–
he still hasn’t paid his taxes in over a year.
Jerry’s got an ugly sweater, a bad haircut,
and a hangover.

Since there’s no more beer in the fridge,
Jerry gets out his canteen and sits
among the nutmeg and coffee smells
of cooking and drinks,
drinks
drinks
drinks
and slouches in his chair while the buzz hits
because Grandma used to slouch, too.
Jerry used to sit and trade pulls with Grandma
from her tarnished canteen while
they talked in hushed tones the way
soldiers do in deep brush.

John, the pimply nephew ferrets over
to ask if he’d like to play hide-and-seek.
Jerry mumbles a rainbow of language,
and Margaret’s smile teeters on the precipice
ready to fall off. Her teeth stay shining, though.
So white, whiteness that betrays
every gleaming indecency.

Grandma’s gone
and Jerry, slouched alone and a little drunk
pulls again to navigate the pitfalls and barbed wire
of his relative relatives
and the hidden knives
of nativity.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Grandmother

I came out from shaving
after a late shower
my cheeks dry and warm
new without whiskers to decorate them

I came out from shaving
after a late shower
my cheeks dry and warm
new without whiskers to decorate them–
knowing that she could not remember,
that she would not know why I was there,
knowing that she would recognize me,
but not be able to know why

I was standing there with a towel around my waist
a thousand miles from home
pondering if mayonnaise or mustard
would be best with the roast beef
that I was thinking of putting on her sandwich
for lunch
wondering if she would remember which she preferred
wondering if she would remember that she liked two pickles.

I came out from shaving after late shower
my cheeks were dry and warm, new without whiskers
to decorate them
sleek without growth
like her mind
all the branches there, unbroken,
but without the lights to hang on the tree
without the tinsel to celebrate
a holiday with a name she knows,
but with grandchildren she doesn’t, and never will.

I came out from shaving after a late shower
and knew when I looked into her eyes
that I could never be a child again
and never wanted to grow old.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Dawn
Upon waking, January 26 2009

Finding a way to wake
isn’t always simple
when reasons to sleep
have all but fled
a bitten nail,
ragged edge and damaged bed
is a mind kept company
constantly
thoughts, then
are fog on a cold window
they become dew &
disappear

Perhaps the old knows
their weakness is a gift,
not curse–
one more misconception
that too-young grown ones make.
Wrinkles and jowls,
sags of skin and broken teeth
are not the signals of an ending
but a promise
that sleep might be everlasting
that there is a chance still
of some back door
we may yet
slip through

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Shadowplay

some nights, I’m all hands.
I wander over
breasts,
curved back,
curled lips.

a puppet show–
shadowplay, all hands
slidingfingersbent,
a flicker-show of
odd shapes, animal shapes
hot shapes that scramble silently,
bubbled up, unbuttoned shadows
they fly into corners
they fall still.

Shadow oceans build up,
a shadow beach,
shadow figures play
in the sub-substantial spray.

there is a closed door
but open shadows,
working shadows that slip
apart and together
stood up, or rolling around

flickering hands
that move together and separate–

hands move.
They cast shadows
rushed together
on opposite walls

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Worse and Better

Worse and better,
the urge to take your shoulders
and push them against a hard shape
and take your breath in my mouth
only to return it again, my own.

Worse and better,
the desire to hold you
in motionless motion
and not say anything
at all.

Worse and better–
myself at you
without a question
except for where
and when
and in how many ways how.

It is worse and better
this need to let the rust
developing on body’s heart
crush off as the words
words words words
make their dash
towards the end of the arm
towards the tip of the pen
towards your eyes
It is worse
because it is as deep as you
where you lie beside me, all angles ablaze.

It is better
because I know that I am more endless
not only deep, but without depth
full of fathoms
I will yet
add infinity to

John Ballam's Charge

First assignment today:

1000-word poetic manifesto.
A collection of poems that I like,
and why I like them.

Excellent.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Given that last post, I feel obligated to explain a few things:

1: this is designed to be a blog for my time in Oxford. It will be eccentric, it will feature whatever I feel it should, but the vast majority of the content will be my own poetry and photos.

2: Feel free to comment. I'd love to hear from whomever happens to enjoy what exists here.

3: I have to cite Adrian Louis for providing me the title for the blog.

Thanks for reading, anyone and everyone.

-M
The Hill

–Where we might have decided to climb ourselves, were it not for
this blindness we all seemed to suffer
the hill, the hill
we implicated every day with inhibitions that only dripped suffering blood
blood so thin we lost any calculation of how fast it fell out


it is where we wounded ourselves, how we decided to turn back
on the long climb past the relics of our future, the stone wreckage shaped into
empty beds, or full ones, empty bottles or full ones
while the prairie grass sliced at our climbing feet


We have run out of all the chances we gave us, all the glimpses of morning glory
we would have spied–except we didn’t want that
never sure what we wanted, if there were even chances at all.