For Professor Eliot from your solid B+ student, with deep appreciation and profound admiration. Oh, would it be possible to have another week on the paper? I lost my thumb drive. My throat has a tickle. I can't find my car keys. My cat has a hairball...
Never date a quiet girl. But Terri, she likes still waters, the depth. Isn't she a dolphin after all? We spend a day at the beach with Tad and Kim, lost in the fog at Point Reyes while the sand crabs do their shoreline thing, sandpipers dodge waves and feast, pelicans' wings touch the waves, and in the chill of the evening we retreat to Kim's parents' condo. Tad and Kim, he of the ambiguous name, drink themselves unconscious. Terri and I make sweet love in the comfort of our little home away from home. Funny how a shy girl can let loose when the right buttons are pushed (I wanted to write: fuck like a porn star, but thought better of it), then turn into every mother's daughter in the cold light of day, though no mother wants this kind of daughter, but I figure we're all a little wanton given a chance, we all decant under the right circumstances, and we all have our histories to overcome . . . "They fuck you up, your mum and dad" . . .
~~~
Back in the real world Professor Eliot has us reading Delmore Schwartz: "My heart beating, my blood running, the light brimming, my mind moving, the ground burning, my eyes blinking, the air flowing, the clock's quick ticking, time moving, time dying . . ." and Kerouac's mad lines couldn't have said it better, and Professor Eliot, in his quiet way, is telling us that the dead lines we read are really bits of someone's heart, secrets revealed, passions exposed—sure as sure is sure. But be careful, he cautions. No one one wants to know YOUR secrets. What they want is THEIR secrets revealed by YOUR words, by the anonymous poet; and does Plath not say it best for the self-absorbed, and does not Frost say it for the woodsman, and Eliot for the academic, Milton for the spiritual, Snyder for the hipster, Bishop for the likes of me, Angelou for the sisters, Baraka for the brothers, Larkin for the uptight, the Brownings for the lovers, Dickinson for the sensitive, Laozi for the philosophical, Li Po for those who prefer brevity, Shakespeare for all of us; and then there's the quiet girl sitting next you trying to say what she feels in a way that you'll understand, so that for one brief moment two hearts beat as one?
~~~
Aren't the ordinary days the best days? But the more ordinary the day, the more difficult to put into words. Easy enough to write about dolphins and the ripples that come at night. What about curiosity or longing? An ordinary day: seventh grade, I have a crush on Debbie. I want to ask my mom questions about getting wet, and the C word. When I do she shoves a bar of Ivory soap in my mouth so fast I gag. Sigh. As for the rest, I can't imagine. I haven't a clue. I could have used a brother. At least I could have SEEN one, caught a glimpse, instead of staring at Michelangelo's David, trying to figure out how it fits, and trying equally hard not to stare in the locker room after gym class. Why can't someone explain this to me? My friends say the most absurd things. Why doesn't my mother sit me down and "have a talk?" Why do the wrong things make me feel funny . . . down there? Things like the glimpse of Debbi's bra in the gap between buttons in her white, Peter Pan collared, sleeveless blouse. I have no VOCABULARY. You can see how difficult it is to put these ordinary thoughts into words, and why, now, when Professor Eliot has us deciphering Piers Plowman, and I'm yawning, I sneak peaks at Sappho, and why the words of Rosalia de Castro: "You're in all. Are all. Marooning me in myself," cause me to almost perish with longing for Terri. Sigh.
~~~
I admire the poets, envy their ability to pare it down to the essence, not something within my C.V. My general befuddlement about all things sexual explains, in toto, ipso facto, why, when I see Terri from across the room for the first time, and she turns her head and looks into my eyes, I KNOW. It all comes together in that instant. All my questions are answered. I've said too much on the subject already, I fall hard, but this is the event which is the precursor to the words, and a lot of them. It explains this cross-culture of action and word, action become words, words unite poet and reader. When I FINALLY have Terri stretched before me in all her natural glory, I understand the mysteries that connect us. It is the mind (as seen through the glint in her unblinking eyes), and the body (her gorgeous body). Her ability to give and take become the words that become the poetry; the action that become the words; and the DIVISION between artist and non-artist, be it poet, painter, musician, lover, between those who are cognizant of the moment, and those who are not, is ABSOLUTE. Which explains the need for the poet. The question becomes: should the poet be the objective or subjective? I am of the latter school, but I am no poet. I am young and in love, and this is only the beginning, this baby step on the road to bliss.
~~~
The words are just beginning to form. Perhaps objectivity comes with time. From this perspective it's very confusing, all of it, love and life and everything within and without. I understand so little of it. I UNDERSTAND the significance of Piers Plowman, but struggle to care. I FEEL the beating heart of Rosalia de Castro (and I do care). I struggle with the conflict between what I understand and what I feel, knowing they can be, and usually are, very different. I understand, now, me. I feel like me, finally. I understand how I am perceived, and feel at a loss as to why. I understand that our way isn't the usual way. I feel wonder that it isn't. I understand that my words make some shudder. I feel my words are only expressive. I understand that it's difficult to explain, that biology is involved. I feel there's more to it. The poet sees both sides and doesn't choose; or, maybe he does, but he understands the conflict and struggles to form it into words. Maybe that is poetry.
~~~
For so long I didn't understand what I felt. Now I do. The question begs to be asked. Who cares? The next question is, given my nature, which is to love Terri and not Tommy, and to have words form on the matter, without guile, what to say, if anything? The words form. So? Who wants to read them? Why does the poet write? Is the motive historical or emotive? What motivated William Langland or Rosalia de Castro? Is it a communicative need, explanatory, informative, persuasive? It is art? Psychology? Is it an oral tradition evolving? I don't know. Do some NOT have words form? It's hard for me to imagine such a void. Are the words that come from minds such as Feynman's or Hawking's less poetic, and the conceits less poetic, than those of John Clare or Lady Gaga? Oh, I am a rambler. I get like this way sometimes. I understand nothing, least of all myself. I think I'll take a bath.
~~~
In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne,
I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were . . .
~~~
Terri takes me to the football field. We lie on our backs on the fifty-yard line and stare into the blue. We hold hands. I love her. She loves me. I thought I'd tell you. It's pretty simple.
~~~
Quotes:
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad,"
~"This Be Verse," Philip Larkin
"You're in all. Are all. Marooning
me in myself,"
~"Black Mood," Rosalia de Castro (translated by John Fredrick Nims)
"In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne,
I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were . . ."
~"The Vision of Piers Plowman," Wm. Langland
Poetry by one trick pony
Read 855 times
Written on 2015-01-05 at 15:27
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Thoughts While Reading Piers Plowman
Never date a quiet girl. But Terri, she likes still waters, the depth. Isn't she a dolphin after all? We spend a day at the beach with Tad and Kim, lost in the fog at Point Reyes while the sand crabs do their shoreline thing, sandpipers dodge waves and feast, pelicans' wings touch the waves, and in the chill of the evening we retreat to Kim's parents' condo. Tad and Kim, he of the ambiguous name, drink themselves unconscious. Terri and I make sweet love in the comfort of our little home away from home. Funny how a shy girl can let loose when the right buttons are pushed (I wanted to write: fuck like a porn star, but thought better of it), then turn into every mother's daughter in the cold light of day, though no mother wants this kind of daughter, but I figure we're all a little wanton given a chance, we all decant under the right circumstances, and we all have our histories to overcome . . . "They fuck you up, your mum and dad" . . .
~~~
Back in the real world Professor Eliot has us reading Delmore Schwartz: "My heart beating, my blood running, the light brimming, my mind moving, the ground burning, my eyes blinking, the air flowing, the clock's quick ticking, time moving, time dying . . ." and Kerouac's mad lines couldn't have said it better, and Professor Eliot, in his quiet way, is telling us that the dead lines we read are really bits of someone's heart, secrets revealed, passions exposed—sure as sure is sure. But be careful, he cautions. No one one wants to know YOUR secrets. What they want is THEIR secrets revealed by YOUR words, by the anonymous poet; and does Plath not say it best for the self-absorbed, and does not Frost say it for the woodsman, and Eliot for the academic, Milton for the spiritual, Snyder for the hipster, Bishop for the likes of me, Angelou for the sisters, Baraka for the brothers, Larkin for the uptight, the Brownings for the lovers, Dickinson for the sensitive, Laozi for the philosophical, Li Po for those who prefer brevity, Shakespeare for all of us; and then there's the quiet girl sitting next you trying to say what she feels in a way that you'll understand, so that for one brief moment two hearts beat as one?
~~~
Aren't the ordinary days the best days? But the more ordinary the day, the more difficult to put into words. Easy enough to write about dolphins and the ripples that come at night. What about curiosity or longing? An ordinary day: seventh grade, I have a crush on Debbie. I want to ask my mom questions about getting wet, and the C word. When I do she shoves a bar of Ivory soap in my mouth so fast I gag. Sigh. As for the rest, I can't imagine. I haven't a clue. I could have used a brother. At least I could have SEEN one, caught a glimpse, instead of staring at Michelangelo's David, trying to figure out how it fits, and trying equally hard not to stare in the locker room after gym class. Why can't someone explain this to me? My friends say the most absurd things. Why doesn't my mother sit me down and "have a talk?" Why do the wrong things make me feel funny . . . down there? Things like the glimpse of Debbi's bra in the gap between buttons in her white, Peter Pan collared, sleeveless blouse. I have no VOCABULARY. You can see how difficult it is to put these ordinary thoughts into words, and why, now, when Professor Eliot has us deciphering Piers Plowman, and I'm yawning, I sneak peaks at Sappho, and why the words of Rosalia de Castro: "You're in all. Are all. Marooning me in myself," cause me to almost perish with longing for Terri. Sigh.
~~~
I admire the poets, envy their ability to pare it down to the essence, not something within my C.V. My general befuddlement about all things sexual explains, in toto, ipso facto, why, when I see Terri from across the room for the first time, and she turns her head and looks into my eyes, I KNOW. It all comes together in that instant. All my questions are answered. I've said too much on the subject already, I fall hard, but this is the event which is the precursor to the words, and a lot of them. It explains this cross-culture of action and word, action become words, words unite poet and reader. When I FINALLY have Terri stretched before me in all her natural glory, I understand the mysteries that connect us. It is the mind (as seen through the glint in her unblinking eyes), and the body (her gorgeous body). Her ability to give and take become the words that become the poetry; the action that become the words; and the DIVISION between artist and non-artist, be it poet, painter, musician, lover, between those who are cognizant of the moment, and those who are not, is ABSOLUTE. Which explains the need for the poet. The question becomes: should the poet be the objective or subjective? I am of the latter school, but I am no poet. I am young and in love, and this is only the beginning, this baby step on the road to bliss.
~~~
The words are just beginning to form. Perhaps objectivity comes with time. From this perspective it's very confusing, all of it, love and life and everything within and without. I understand so little of it. I UNDERSTAND the significance of Piers Plowman, but struggle to care. I FEEL the beating heart of Rosalia de Castro (and I do care). I struggle with the conflict between what I understand and what I feel, knowing they can be, and usually are, very different. I understand, now, me. I feel like me, finally. I understand how I am perceived, and feel at a loss as to why. I understand that our way isn't the usual way. I feel wonder that it isn't. I understand that my words make some shudder. I feel my words are only expressive. I understand that it's difficult to explain, that biology is involved. I feel there's more to it. The poet sees both sides and doesn't choose; or, maybe he does, but he understands the conflict and struggles to form it into words. Maybe that is poetry.
~~~
For so long I didn't understand what I felt. Now I do. The question begs to be asked. Who cares? The next question is, given my nature, which is to love Terri and not Tommy, and to have words form on the matter, without guile, what to say, if anything? The words form. So? Who wants to read them? Why does the poet write? Is the motive historical or emotive? What motivated William Langland or Rosalia de Castro? Is it a communicative need, explanatory, informative, persuasive? It is art? Psychology? Is it an oral tradition evolving? I don't know. Do some NOT have words form? It's hard for me to imagine such a void. Are the words that come from minds such as Feynman's or Hawking's less poetic, and the conceits less poetic, than those of John Clare or Lady Gaga? Oh, I am a rambler. I get like this way sometimes. I understand nothing, least of all myself. I think I'll take a bath.
~~~
In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne,
I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were . . .
~~~
Terri takes me to the football field. We lie on our backs on the fifty-yard line and stare into the blue. We hold hands. I love her. She loves me. I thought I'd tell you. It's pretty simple.
~~~
Quotes:
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad,"
~"This Be Verse," Philip Larkin
"You're in all. Are all. Marooning
me in myself,"
~"Black Mood," Rosalia de Castro (translated by John Fredrick Nims)
"In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne,
I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were . . ."
~"The Vision of Piers Plowman," Wm. Langland
Poetry by one trick pony
Read 855 times
Written on 2015-01-05 at 15:27
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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