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.
Monday, November 30, 2009
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)