quixotica

Dum, tak.
After listening to R. A. Fish

I learned to play the dumbek at 20, but not like this: sufi ecstasy, dervish dance, seizure inspired by awe. I had three drums: clay, ceramic, and one so tall I could set my chin on it when it rested on my knees, made of nickel and brass. This one had long tuning pegs that caught on my skirt when I carried it. Each of them had names. Sixteen years later, the only one I have left is the clay. Its name is heartbreak. 

One Christmas I hauled the giant metal one on the Greyhound from PIttsburgh to Philly, holding it like a child in my lap. Several people asked, “do you play,” and I answered, “sort of,” which meant: not here, not for you, not at gigs, this is private. I had to go visit my fucked up family for a long two weeks and I needed something for me alone. To insert between their drunken loudness and my reclusive sadness, another ringing voice.

Cords

Anti-gravity, dis-
orientation feeling:
flip a coin and decide
your fate. You only get
one chance. Choose
this path, eliminate those.
Cords bind tighter. Cords
cut because you have
to choose.

Let me sink
into scalding bathwater
up to my chin.
Lavender scented
claustrophobia.
Mirrors fogged,
door locked.
I”m not coming out,
now or ever. I’ll drain
and refill the tub
until the hot water
runs out, until
the house
falls down around me.

Those iridescent cords
shine by moonlight.
You can’t see them
any other time. The sad
hits right in the middle
of my stomach, then
my throat. I wish I could
spit up sad, spit to cry,
something harmless
to let it all out. 

So I just spent over half an hour on this post, and then tumblr logged me off when I tried to post it, and I can’t get it back. Mother. Fucker. Really? Really?? REALLY???!!!!! I have too much shit to do to bother with this. I have three bad first drafts, which I might add, I have to type in manually using shift-enter because when I cut and paste, the format comes out wrong. I’m still behind. Here they are. Again.

On second thought, one poem per entry, and then those little fuckers get posted. But I will still be late for school.

Scrap

Ceremony. Balancing
act. Tears of departure.
His hair smelt of moss,
always. The visits
were few and far.

The picture with the tiny
green apple perched
within the mess
of his shiny coal curls.

In the picture he wears
tiny oval glasses. His lips curve
in a tiny thin smile.

Where is that picture now
and why do I need it
seven years after? 

Poems for the last three days. These are quasi “language poems.” I dimly remembered this exercise from _The Practice of Poetry_ and had to go look it up (*after* I wrote the poems of course) to share with you all.

»Excerpt from Charles Bernstein’s “Homophonic Translation”

Take a poem, or part of a poem, in a foreign language and translate it word for word according to what it sounds like in English… . Don’t use a dictionary; just rely on what your ears hear and go from there. Homophonic means “same sound”: try to stick as close as possible to what each word sounds like in the original when thinking of an equivalent sounding word in English. Use slang and other nonstandard English words. Let the syntax take care of itself.«

So what I did was take the attendance list from three of my classes and use their last names as the objects of the homophonic translation. I did add a storyline to the poems. I noticed all three of these came out as being about the apocalypse. What *have* I been dreaming about lately? (I started this exercise in the early morning, barely awake).

So here you go: a looong entry making up the days from 4/14, 4/15 and today 4/16. If I knew how to unclutter your dash by making an abbreviated “read more” link, I would. But I don’t. So too bad.

1. End Times

Bald bells
bore a hole into
the a cappella choir.
Coal and crumpets.
Curious and cute.
A fiery font meets
a grey forest. Hills
like branded hands.
Mathematical mice
halt outside the mill.
They roar for money
until a possum calls
off their protest
among the now-bloody
reeds and sweet-scented
fields. A searing shot
of tan sherry. The sky
turns a plague above
our village. Wags
wiggle their tongues
and talk of end times.
When will is yanked
from us. When the sky
shimmers down, will
we be taken, young
and whole again,
up into it?

2. Abracadabra

Under falling embers,
time is done.
Bow out now; no more
daily inconveniences,
bread burnt to brick.
The metal chi of cars
bows, melts under
the incinerating heat.
Chickens chew gravel
until the clarion sounds.
Melancholy foals forage
for guidance, get only
greed’s hissing guise.
Cowards hobble
to kill them. Any meat
will do. Rolling and curling
in the mighty mud —
stasis obliterated.
Purring, peering, risen?
No shelter. Scott free
but burning. Skulls
sewn shut. The snide ones
silenced. The sun
moves closer and closer.
All staves ablaze. Wolves
migrate from the woods
to hunt what they can carry.

3. Storm

Give us your best
blank stare. Camp under
a barrage of pealing
bells that sound more
like death cries every day.
Comb the baked clay soil
for a door, an escape hatch.
Even a fantasy will do:
that last speech you gave
in the cool marble hall,
heckled by the man in front,
his name was Henry?
But hills and valleys
of applause rolled
over you anyway. Joyous,
that day. Now pollen
chokes your nose.
Hoarfrost kills
the recently convalesced.
The maples clap hands
and touch the earth
with their tops. God
has rejected them too,
it seems. Rivers once
over-fished, now a dirt
bed for a retinue of rats.
Yesterday you uncovered
that body with the head
sheared off. The cut, so clean
in this predator/prey world.
Unnatural. It scared off
the children and now
they crowd into the plastic-
sheeted hut, refuse all food.
Smited thrice over by
the solar storm. Fire
strafes the sky. You step
down into the hole
you’ve dug: a bed, a tomb.
Pull the wool over your face
to block the sun. 

I hate finals so fucking much. I feel like I hate, have hated, them now more than when I was a student. But that could be a biased view. I just neeeeeeeed it to be ooooooover. My patience is very thin. Little bits of anger peeking around the corners of my “nice teacher” face.

.

Tanka: Bus Stop

For two days rain pours
off my shoulders. First my clothes
dissolve, then skin. Rain
fills all my hollows. My bones
wash down the gutter like silt. 

.

.

Fidget

I’ve awakened and now I can’t sleep.
I’ve slept here, but you know I can’t stay.
I’ve stayed for too long, compulsively lock
the door behind me.

I’ve fought to reclaim myself, but failed.
I’ve failed to bring this sorrow, fear, to heel.
I’ve healed for too long, compulsively peel
off the scab.

.

.

About Pain

4:30 am pain is worst. The deserted streets
remind me no one knows or cares if I exist.
All cars are anxious for their destinations.
The rain in the gutter whispers: I should pack
my things just in case I fall asleep and awake
unmoored from my foundation. 

High ceiling mottled with sunlight,
low mattress with bedclothes thrashed
and twisted. Two pillows, mashed
against the wall. An open book, spine up
on the floor. The lamp still lit, even
in the noon brightness. Curtains
broaden like full sails in the April breeze.
The temperature is changing. Paint on the sill
is splintered and peeled.

Did you pull yourself to kneel
here, turn your frame in the narrowness
of the open window and drop down,
fingers gripping and sliding,
scraped palms clinging
until you couldn’t
hold on anymore? 

Today I rescued
the four hen-and-chicks
which had been overwintering
in the upside down plastic planter
at the bottom of a mess
of winter brambles.
Repotted, I know they
will flourish, make babies.
If all recoveries were
this easy… 

Still no make-up poem for the day I missed, but at least I got one out for today. This thing is kicking my ass and we’re only 1/3 of the way through. Ha.

… how childish is that?

I missed a day. And and AND this crappy draft took way over 10 mins. It was like an hour of excruciating… never mind. It’s done. So I might have 29 poems and not 30…. or I might make up for it. And yes, I stole words from this article too. Because I’m having a hard time being “inspired” every day. I guess that’s the point: to write anyway. Self-discipline was never my #1 quality.

“Our facts were losing their truth”
-New Yorker, 13 Dec 2010

He confesses about being on
antipsychotics and then tries
to take it back. I swallow

the secret about to burst
from my own mouth.
Perhaps we’re not there yet.

His curls dance in beach breeze.
At our feet: a gull’s tail feather.
We both look but don’t touch.

Couples toe the shoreline
like mirrored halves. All I have
to offer is clumsy asymmetry.

Steep steps climb their rotting way
up to the hotel. My eyes climb too
and then return to him.

News flash: Nervous Girl Falls
In Love Too Easily. Emotion
distorts all my rational thoughts.

I haven’t opened the notebook
for days, to pin them down.
A funnel cloud twists behind my eyes.

He shakes my fragile balance.
Real and unreal. Language and memory.
Laws, lines, what to believe?

Trapped in this interminable moment
my heart beats in my throat
failure failure failure.

The ocean makes white static for me:
my cue not to panic. But the sand
sucks my heels into the earth. 

Okay, so I started writing this one partially inspired by Joy Katz, who came to visit our workshop last night. It kind of reminds me of Denise Duhamel or something. Maybe a poem she would write before breakfast while nursing a wicked hangover. And then delete.

I ran over time slightly. This took about 13 mins.

.

Intermediated

The tv has a kaleidoscope eye and a smudge on its mouth.
The tv feels optimistic about our future.
The tv is curious about our day. 
The tv says to press its burnished silver button.
The tv has aspirations to become a bigger tv, perhaps with higher resolution.
The tv waits for us to join it.
The tv is a silent partner.
The tv will not express its opinion unless pressed.
The tv’s wide eye stalks us.
The tv yearns for a slimmer figure.
The tv burns with mute shame about the phrase “idiot box” and its connotations.
The tv does not speak our language, but does a fine imitation.
The tv admires all our choices.
The tv appreciates all religions equally.
The tv can be a ribald companion, but will still respect you in the morning. 
The tv jumps to no conclusions.
The tv would not like to be a cat instead.
The tv is an extrovert.
The tv would prefer we start the conversation.
The tv carries our burden of idiocy with ease.
The tv knows our choices before we do.
The tv contemplates a cooking class.
The tv stores our aspirations and plays them back for us.
The tv would like to be a kaleidoscope instead.
The tv does not press us to join the conversation.
The tv would like to start a new religion. 

Meh.

.

.

Dear You.

The morning sun
will chide you awake.

It will chase malevolent beasts
to the corners like so much tatter.

The rhythm of your day
will push itself forth

as one tender pair of leaves
opens across the one before it

to form a bright green star. 

Last night I was at a Terrance Hayes reading and in the Q&A one girl asked if there were any subjects he felt it was off-limits to write about. He said he took a more inclusive attitude, like “what CAN’T I write about?” He used the example of writing a poem about brushing your teeth. How even though “that might not make it into the book” he would write it, if it occurred to him.

When I teach poetry I teach the sonnet. I have an exercise called  Sonnets Without Tears because students haaaaate writing sonnets. I tell them the first thing is to choose a suitably concrete piece of subject matter. Don’t choose Love or War or Why Can’t I Be Happy but rather, eating breakfast or taking out the trash.

At this point, it would be awesome if I could say I wrote a sonnet about brushing my teeth in the 10 minute requirement I’ve set for myself. No, no I did not. Just a crappy first  draft about teeth-brushing. But here it is. Rock on, NaPoMo. Thanks for the tip Mr. Hayes.

Teeth

The dentist peers into my open-wide. Says
my gums are receding. He admits that

“back in the day” they told kids to brush
real hard to get all the plaque off.

That dental hygienist demonstration
which got me out of sixth period math.

The one that showed all my errors,
right after eating lunch. So strategic.

Who wouldn’t want to scrape away
all the bright badness? Now, he says

that may have been the wrong approach.
You can brush real soft. Just remember

to get back in all the crevices. And the nurse
gave me a red child-size brush with tiny

bristles for my tiny mouth. Remember, gently
she said. That brush got shredded. 

My teethbrushing is caged fury, a habit
I’m too lazy to break. In the shower.

At night after facewashing. Punitive.
I can feel the gums push back, more

dentin exposing itself. Yesterday I got
a searing hot cup of Starbucks and sipped

too soon. The upper-right side of my jaw
went whatthemotherfuck?! Receding gums,

that’s what. I’m old. After 30, you realize
about dumb shit, like your gums, which

you might have been paying better
attention to. But he of the fluoride-coated

metal trays, he of the brackets and bands,
retainers and headgear, was obsessed

with creating the perfect girl-mouth,
and I was too. So I could smile all

open-wide in pictures. So that kissing
could be not-awkward. I’ve also

been told that I should wear my retainer
*every night for the rest of my life.*

Really? When I’m sleeping next to my husband,
retainer? I think that petite purple case

left my possession halfway through college.
Even then, my friends made fun of me

for being so diligent. 

I knew Monday would be harder. Perhaps this was little ambitious (14 mins) and w/ head full of spring allergies. Ah well. Here’s to powering through to the end of the first draft.

Apocalypse Weather

This morning I woke to discover
the giant birdhouse on its side.
I flashed back to Sari’s accident:
wrecked van at the bottom
of a gully, wheels spinning in air.

Its gables pointed east, rusted
compass signaling disaster.
The nine bodies inside had come
 unmoored from their foundations.
Tiny torsos barely attached to
spheres of earth. The heads
and arms of the cacti I had spent
so long coaxing toward the fragile
winter sunlight lay northsouthwest.
Some clung to the screen, half in,
half ejected from the catastrophe.

Was it wrong to think of Sari
in a coma, whispering poetry
to her over the long distance
cell connection, wondering
if she heard me from her deep
sleep? We’d cheered when she woke,
but she wasn’t the same. We’d loved
our new friend more gently.

I slowly lowered myself to the floor
conscious of thorns that would bleed you,
tiny burrs that would stick in the skin.
I opened the tiny doors (meant to let
house birds occasionally fly free)
and with my bare hands, steered
each body into my lap. 

I’m liking this experiment. This is stuff I would not actually write IRL.

 Poem/day written in under 10 mins. 

:: self advices::

If you have cash, use it.
Tell that suit to get lost.
Some men are an amalgam
of hunter and prey. 
If you feel soulless
go to sleep or 
spoon the tiny bug
from your coffee
without a word
and get on with it.
If affection had a color.
Flirt with the fiery
library scholar. Slather
those stalks and shave them. 
If you could bottle
that cunning
and then bury it.
So you shake until
you can’t think.
So your teeth vibrate
in your skull.
The cool repose the dead know
is something you will never have.
Crouched on the calendar
the future awaits
your next move. 

poem/day written in <10 mins (actually this took 14 heh).

I cannot get the lines to format normally, even though I have (in my preferences) turned on “edit text using rtf, not html… ” Others’ poems look more like… poems. How do I get rid of these double spaced lines? Anyone know? I can’t even get stanza breaks. Is it the theme? Should I use different one?

So… this is a cut-up. Which is why it took longer; anyway that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Oi, breaking my own rules and it’s only the second day…

::unbalance::

childhood images

uneven

a caustic marriage

after the contracts were signed

they were already tired of me

my father had             always loved a winner

so like a spurned man he stalked out

where to place my awkward, intense

want? fledgling

mostly invisible

rising to toast him

in thick, blood-red self-portraits

I got back

the window            locked in/out

I would

move around the circle

circumnavigating

riots, wildfires

until my self dissolved

I was left to soaring solitary pursuit

humiliation, bitter history

I swallowed it

repeating a catechism

so profound that time stopped

an angel had descended upon me

a cloud of crows

resurrected

a private celebration

I didn’t want to waste time

I wanted to

overfly the ocean

in the lacerating

sun

1 poem/day  written in 10 mins or <

::dinner rush::

ten-hour work clothes

stick like second skin

my thin wrist wrapped

around the black strap

anchoring me to gravity

our human wall

slides and sways

too much touching

even when we

say sorry after