night class

Here is another poem recently published in print and now at my copyrighted electronic disposal.  I know, fine phrasing for so-called art, right?  A modern concern writ small, dilution and saturation in one fell-swoop. Be assured, though, this is not a soapbox I'm not genuinely on because: [1] soapboxes require calisthenics and I'm tired, [2] so-called artists are as indiscernible as ever from bona fide artists with respect to the beggarly-chooserly maxim, and [3] if I was an earnest purist, I'd spread my stories and songs in the wise of this old man man.

Night Class

By campfire, under the useless umbrella of embers,

Listen to the hoary man when he says,

Never confuse how much sky

you can cover

by your hand

at arm’s length

with how much

of it you can hold.

When he starts in a palsied A-minor to sing of wolves

Through cigaretted teeth, red-eyed, listen:

She was white as snow, a snow wolf, that is,

            hiding in the powdery drifts

            she sniffed and I knew I was

            a goner.

The flames will settle like restless children as the concave

Belly of space hulas in its spangled skirt.

The tree frogs will concede their limbs to sentry owls,

And the cricketing will crescendo.

The hoary man will stand, dust bark from his pants,

Pour his coffee on the fire; but before he retires,

He will hold out his hand, erect his thumb and say,

No matter where it is or how seemingly big,

            you can cover

            the moon, but

            from your eyes

            only; and you

            can never ever

            squash it.

And you should listen.

Let damp morning do its worst and listen,

Even as he snores.  

  

(First published in Bacopa Literary Review, 2013)

in advance of tomorrow

[Scene] Jonathan on a tee box with Father and a just-met-playing-partner waiting for the fairway to clear. A glorious day in early spring. Greenness on the mend. Birds, breeze, basking—the works.

Just-met-playing partner: “So, Marvin, what do you do?”

Father: “I’m in banking.”

(Jonathan turns away, practices swing, been down this road before.)

JMPP: “Oh, OK. Marketing, mortgages . . . ?”

Father: “Senior management.”

JMPP: “Oh, OK, wow. Hard times, am I right?”

Father: “Understatement.” (smiles, takes practice swing)

Jonathan: (anxiously, subject-changingly, to the group ahead, but not loud enough for them to hear) “Come on guys, drop a ball, take a stroke, this ain’t the Master’s.”

JMPP: “So, Jonathan . . .”

(Jonathan winces)

JMPP: “What is it you do?”

(Silence, stammer at best)

Father: “He’s a writer.” (proud-ish, resigned-ish)

JMPP: “Oh yeah, great. What do you write?”

Jonathan: (wishing he was dead) “Oh, lots of things . . . stories and . . . (silence, stammer at best)

(JMPP nods, smiles, as if to say ‘yes? what else?’)

(Jonathan prays for death.)

JMPP: “Anything I might know?”

Jonathan: “Extreeeeeeemely unlikely.”

(JMPP proceeds to relay anecdote about this one time he was playing golf in Florida, must have been, I don’t know ten years ago, and he asked a fellow the same question . . . had the fellow written anything he might know, and the fellow said, “I don’t know, ever heard of Along Came a Spider?)

Jonathan and Father: (duly impressed): “Oooohhhh . . .”

(Father and JMPP drive tee-shots down the screws, center-cut; Jonathan shanks one into the wilderness. Laughs at himself. Seethes.)

[End scene]

Tomorrow is the first day of National Poetry Month. Don’t check your calendars, it’s fairly esoteric as compared with, say, Black History Month or Women’s History Month; nor is it as awesome as other commemorations with which it shares the month of April—i.e. Pets Are Wonderful Month, National Soyfoods Month, Fresh Florida Tomato Month. In fact, were I not a member of the Academy of American Poets (to be read: financial contributor to the promotion of famouser people), I imagine this particular awareness would be largely un-raised in the awareness sector of my consciousness. Be that as it mayn’t . . .

Esoteric or not, at least, for a month, I can be proud of what I do. As in:

Jonathan: “I write poetry, good sir, poesy if you please. What’s that? Like Dr. Seuss? No, sir, not like Dr. Seuss. Like Shakespeeyah, good, sah. Now prithee, get gone, thou contumelious knave.”

But there’s a pressing question here, (more than half) seriously, why am I hushed or forced to stammer when someone wants to know what I write? It’s bad enough not to have written about the comings and goings of a spider or whatever that book is about (and I guess it’s not that), but the kicker is that I spend most of my time writing purrtrey . . . WHAT’S THAT, YOU SAY? . . . purrertry. . . COME AGAIN, YOU WRITE WHAT? . . . POETRY! Ok? I write poetry. Yes, sure like Dr. Seuss. Exactly like Dr. Seuss. (With a noose. Give me a boost. Now let me loose.)

Fortunately I have friends and family (somewhere along the proud/ resigned continuum) who know that I write poetry. Some even like my work, even ask for more, even comment knowingly on its merits and short-comings. But within the world at large, I operate somewhere along the freak/ fruitcake continuum. Hence, my reluctance to avow my poetry, admit my poetness. Because within the world at large, poetry has gone the way of phones with cords and pre-post-modernism, of customer-service and fresh air. Unless you are, say, Billy Collins or Maya Angelou, or, if nothing else, someone who can point to their otherwise obscure name in the New Yorker, well . . . welcome aboard the freak/ fruitcake continuum.

I know I need to get better. I need to get over myself, my shame, my silence and stammering.

Tomorrow is the first day of National Poetry Month. Whereas, I acknowledge that pets are wonderful, I have none of my own. As for soyfoods and fresh, Florida tomatoes—I am indifferent but credulous of their appreciable qualities. So tomorrow, be aware—I am a poet. Poetry still has a pulse, it still has breath; and April is its upturned wrist, its cold, befogged mirror.

ground gears and crammed craws

Ether, good morning, how are you? I am well. You will be proud, I have borrowed from your Nothingworld. Copied and pasted from Amorphilacious-Antaginons. Facebook, as we call it. It happened like this: a Facsimilarion (FB friend in this case, real friend in all others. Thanks, Mark.) posted a link which got stuck in my craw, whatever that means, though I suspect it's related to grinding one's gears. I commented as is my wont when craw-crammed; and, being lazy by nature and indolent by nurture, I have used the exchange as a post below. How does it feel to plagiarize myself verbatim, you ask? It feels good, real good.

First things first . . . homework. Read this article.

Seriously, you have to read the article first.

Well, I suppose I can't make you read the article so here was my comment in response: [Commence potential alienation]

"Grrr. I would rather kids read something else than have nonesuched-knuckleheads tweak works of art like so much play-dough. He talks as if he's translating a foreign language into English--advisedly using updated parlance over outmoded idiom. ... But he's not. He's translating English into English--absurd in most cases, harmful in this one. The TBS example is questionable. The inoculation of strong language in The Godfather was not, I'd warrant, a function of a will to proliferate the appreciation of art to a broader audience; it was a function of TBS's subjugation to the FCC and obligation to squeamish advertisers.

"Let us read the "n" word in context. If in context, it's use is still objectionable--let us be offended. Let us put the book down or press on, suspending our distaste, pending the outcome, and make our value-judgments as mature, capable readers. Let's not revise our literary history for the sake of our guilt. Let us feel our guilt in all of its reddening force. or just read Berenstain Bears and call it a day."

Now, Ether, that I have killed two platforms with one grumpy stone, I hope I don't change my opinion on this subject. The redaction process is an arduous one--not the least bit hospitable to my lethargic noggin. May I be as stubborn as usual. That being said, I would love to consider an argument less brittle than the Godfather one.

I don't mind changing my mind, it's the effort that irritates me.

noses notwithstanding

There is something to be said (if begrudgingly) for goal setting. Recently, my son played trombone in an honors band concert. One of the guest conductors, having been filled, it seems, with the spirit, offered (no extra charge) a brief homily on the importance of music in the kids' lives. The main point was that kids engaged in the arts have purpose--as a rebuttal to the notion that such programs are useless. What struck me as a platitude at first, later sunk in as a meaningful truth.

Because what's the purpose of purpose? To simply have and hold til death come and swipe it? My cynic's brain would have it so. But the purpose of purpose is movement. The goal of a goal is impetus.

Let the ends resolve into what they will, but let the means be always churning.

Sure, there are certain goals one should strive to reach for the reward of having finished and, presumably, to have a showable product to point to; but often, in our various and plenary endeavors, the end is amorphous and possibly unreachable. It is especially in these latter cases that the importance of movement is crucial to a life worth living, or, at the least, to a purpose worth having.

As a writer, this is a monumental revelation. And then some for a little fish, big pond writer like myself. It is easy to become lax, go limp, forfeit, take a nap, get on Facebook, make a blogpost when the inspiration whimpers-out. Easier still when the inspiration never yawps-in to begin with. I need hardly admit that these maladies of indolence afflict me regularly. But I admit, anyway. For the record.

Over the last week or so, I have been writing a blank-verse treatment of young Charles Darwin's adventures on board the Beagle. The idea came to me while listening to a lecture which touched on the history of phrenology and physiognomy. As a point of amusing interest, the lecturer relayed an anecdote from Darwin's introduction to Captain FitzRoy of the Beagle. It seems D was applying for the job of the vessel's Naturalist and FitzRoy, a dabbler in the "science" of phrenology, almost withheld the position on account of Darwin's "squashy nose." Indicative of a lack of resolve, not a good trait for a long journey.

The rest of the lecture was a blur. I was absorbed in the notion of a naturalist's nose. How Darwin lacked one. How such an arbitrary presumption nearly altered the course of history. Sure there were other naturalists well on their way to completing evolutionary theories, but would the proliferation of those theories have been so wide-spread? These were my thoughts as the lecture wore on.

And then the next thought.

I will write a story about that. An alternate ending. The repercussions of not being hired. Darwin left behind to trifle with beetles. Oh how brilliant it will be, my story. How worthy of the man himself. To say nothing of the ironies. Brilliant.

As I said, my treatment is a poem, not a short-story. Furthermore, I did not end up following the alternate route. I took a stricter approach historically, taking my liberties in the form of poetic devices and fanciful asides. But the point is . . . I had a goal. The means of reaching it morphed and vacillated, but it kept me going days on end, plodding line of pentameter after plodding line of pentameter. And now, it is finished.

It is what it became, not what it was meant to be.

Goals can be illusions even delusions but what they must be are infusions of purpose. Momentum is the key. In states of inertia no music is made, dreamed of perhaps, but not tromboned.

[Stay tuned for excerpts from "Snapshots of a Voyage: 1831-1836"]

having to do with the weight of words

So here is the bundle of grief. (As opposed to joy.) The Gist of Elijah--tangible, tactile. The pith and the pulp of it. Three pounds of dead tree. Three hundred and one pages of ink-stained copy-paper printed by the good folks at FedEx Kinkos for a fair market price and then shipped (via ground, so the heft of the manuscript can crawl like a tortoise--carapace heavy and plastron thick) to the sublime clime of Vermont where it will be unboxed and flipped through. Where later, the ink-stains will be Rorschach-ed and Cap'n Crunch Decoder-ringed and evaluated for relative merits against conceivably a thousand other novels.

There went my little bundle, my offsprung germ of literature, mayhaps to burrow into a judge's skull, infest and foment, bubble and deliquesce, suffuse the glials and neurons, and win a first novel contest.

Godspeed my grief. Fare thee well. May we meet again on happier, yonder shores. St. Elmo and St. Christopher guide and keep you. Bon voyage, you bulk of many hours, you girth of lost hair, you joyous, joyful, grief. Adieu.

to whom it may concern

It has come to my attention that there are those who would rather get Oprah Winfrey tattoos on their eyeballs than read poetry. Or have better luck understanding the tax laws than a few lines of verse. Do not fret or feel ashamed. Nay, neither forfeit nor scream. You are not alone. As a matter of fact, lean in . . . I have a secret.

I am not the world's biggest fan of reading poetry, either. In college, I avoided it like Lohan avoids rehab. Like Sasquatch avoids telephoto lenses. Like publishing opportunities avoid me. In short, be assured, you are not alone. But be also of good cheer. I bear middling news of reasonable tidings. It's really not that bad. Once you get used to it. It took me a long, looooooooooooooong time to figure this out so perhaps my experience can save you from further heartache. Here are some simple tips to make poetry reading more enjoyable for the resistant and averse.

1] Relax. They are just words. Words that relay thoughts and express feeling. You do this all the time. We are surrounded by, full of, bombarded with, moved through words. The advantage of poetry is that these words are carefully chosen and wrought with meaning. Which is to say, in most cases though not always (I'm looking at you Lewis Carrol), poems can be more sensible than everyday yammering if only we could just relax.

2] Take it slowly. Just as the words were carefully chosen, you can carefully read them. They are not going anywhere (oh gorgeous aspect of ink and paper) so take a deep breath and begin. Line one . . . "This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels," ("Seascape"--Elizabeth Bishop) ahh . . . so nice.

3] Trust the poet. I have found that folks don't trust poets to write in comprehensible ways. Perhaps due to the fact that many poets do not write thusly. You will know within a few lines if a particular poet is writing for you. If not, dust off your feet and move on, there is likely little there for your enjoyment or edification anyway. I am of the opinion that poets should almost always be writing for you. But a "you" that is prepared to trust her and also follow tips 1 and 2. So take Bishop's line--what are we looking at? what is she showing us? It's no trick, it's a seascape. Read the rest of the poem. No tricks . . .trees, fish, lighthouses . . . all above board and honest and, best of all, oh gorgeous aspect, is the magnificent way we are being treated to the poet's view.

4] Open your mind. So we have let the poet speak to us in slightly different (poetic) ways yet she has not battered us with snarky language or left us to sink on our own. And now, having spread out the panorama, having allowed us and even compelled us to behold the scene, now she will add meaning to beauty. In this case, Bishop has led us to a lighthouse and given it a metaphorical twist. Relax--metaphors are your friend. All she has done is personify the lighthouse for the better conveyance of the poem's meaning or, because meaning is such a heavy word and largely unfigurable, call it the point--that which the poet would like us to see or that moment at which she is probably good with us seeing whatever we happen to, to reach a point of our own. With an open mind, one or the other point is bound to resolve.

5] Ignore the sense of dumbfoundedness. A poem read calmly and without fear will never have been a futile exercise. You entered a work of art. You felt your way around. You saw interesting things described in unique ways. So you think you still missed the point. That's just fine. Most of us do. (Only some of us have made careers or dedicated obnoxious hours to squeezing meaning from words like so much sourness from a beer-sopped bar-rag.) Besides, in many cases, the purpose of poetry is to open-up possibilities, to raise questions, to incite thought. This seems to be the case with Bishop's poem. Because where do we end? Our personified lighthouse is in a state of uncertainty. He is a bit dumbfounded himself. He knows what heaven is NOT like, but as for what it IS like he can only figure in vague terms: "something to do with blackness and a strong glare" and it will not be until he actually enters that darkness that "he will remember something strongly worded to say about the subject." [Italics my own.]

6] Rinse and repeat. You've read a poem and it was not that bad. But still, a dull ache is pulsing behind one of your eyes and there are dishes to do and litter to scoop and plans to be made and now the pulsing ache is behind both eyes and you're out of Tylenol. So shake it off. Cleanse the old palate. Walk away. Clear your mind. Then read it again. Not now but later. With a more careful eye, a more attuned ear. Perhaps next time around substitute "heaven" with "poetry." Perhaps poetry is not what you expected it to be, maybe it's "something" on the tip of your tongue, "something" not just yet but soon, if you relax, take it slow, trust the poet, and open your mind, you will be able to understand, to put into words--something you knew all along but only "remember[ed]" just now.

[No representation is made that the reading of this poem or any of the implications drawn from such reading are the readings of other readers specifically though not limited to those: with higher degrees, with better poetic sensibilities, who know Bishop meant nothing close to what has been here stated. So there.]

tottering

In which the main character, Justin Latterly, has been confronted by his employer's seventy year old wife (presumably), Gloria Grace Stenson, with a series of double-edged questions, the answers to which all seem like traps. The excerpt is the culmination of that scene. (Gloria Grace is one of my favorite characters and perhaps the novel's most compelling.)

Her eyes watered—on the verge of hysterical laughter or hysterical tears. I had seen the look before but in younger, simpler eyes. But just then, with two lustrous welts clinging tight to her lower eyelids, the woman tugged at my soul, seemingly hungry for all of it, to satisfy what craving I could not imagine. We were on the brink. Time, for all of its usual calculability, whether figured in terms of every memorable moment or as the weight of all such moments crashing into you, was completely non-essential. Not so much standing still as standing on its head, simply killing itself until that moment passed. That anguished moment. On the brink, on the verge, tottering above the foggy abyss. And the real question was not any of the ones previously asked—neither hypothetical nor rhetorical nor to do with Gloria Grace Stenson at all but exclusively, unbearably, and incomprehensibly to do with Justin Michael Latterly— or, rather, the person by that name.

I kissed her lips.

The moment passed. Time resumed.

She laughed hysterically—two tears like pink quartz on her youthful, red cheeks.