You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp between my fingers; shards shatter in the
valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of
beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by
writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a
massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful,
leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets
reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not
generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could
just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth
that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with
the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers
in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too,
from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I
had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly
vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a
massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars:
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
But then my fingers would get dirty. Besides, what difference would five
grush make? Perhaps it is better to leave the dust unturned, the
palm untouched, the words unspoken.
God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. She smelled of myrrh and roses. Look at her now, her face reflecting the moonlight - what would she say if I brought her wilted flowers?
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Jeremiah 19
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp in between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars. But what will I say?
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this stiff vase, I will burn you
and your children.
The flesh you offer to gods,
you will taste between your lips.
Others will hiss at your desperation.
You will hiss, cursing your stiff necks.
I will cry.
The clay feels sharp in between my fingers; shards shatter in the valley, mingling with bits of bone left by the altars that remind me of beds in a brothel: lined up side by side, waiting to be kindled by writhing thighs. If our necks are so stiff, why can't God just give us a massage - or that hooker I saw last night - God, she was beautiful, leaning against the pillars of the temple. Her golden bracelets reflected the moonlight, and she smelled of myrrh and roses. I'm not generally a fan of myrrh, but it worked on her, for some reason. I could just see the trace of her breasts beneath the white linen - a cloth that cannot be mixed with wool, just as our God can not be mixed with the gods of others. What would she say if I brought her wilted flowers in a shattered vase? Or if I massaged her neck? She must get stiff too, from all that standing - or does she do it lying down? I never asked - I had only five grush in my pocket, which I had to use to buy this silly vase, to show the people how they have stiff necks and could use a massage.
Next time, I will trace my words in the ashes that lie by their altars. But what will I say?
You are a stiff-necked people:
You burn the necks of your children
in fires I abhor.
Like this vase, you will shatter.
Over this valley, your remains will be scattered.
I will curse your stiff necks for making me cry.
After all, dead people can't really hiss, can they?
To Marry A Poet
"Never marry a poet", she said. "When the kiss you, they are thinking not of you, but of the words they can write about your lips. When they whisper to you at night, they are imagining metaphors with which to capture your thighs. They forget to clean the sink when they're done cooking dinner, because they're busy writing similes, and they forget to vaacum because they're too busy rhyming."
"So why do you stay?" I asked.
"Because one day, I might become his masterpiece."
"So why do you stay?" I asked.
"Because one day, I might become his masterpiece."
Jeremiah 18 (loosely modeled on "Einstein's Dreams", by A. Lightman)
The potter's hands curve smoothly around the wheel - the clay forms and reforms: dancers' legs, swans' beaks, and duck feathers get taken back to the mountain of gray that will become a glazed vase, to grace an aging dinner table.
The wood saw its master shrivel like a fig-leaf, but remembers when his face was round and purple, waiting to be squeezed like a fig into a virgin's mouth. The son's face is already yellow, burnt out from his days at the office. The yelllow girl beside him opens her legs at night, out of habit.
The table is bored: Their conversation is drier than the vase that rests upon his stomach. He likes the feel of her base, and the smooth crack on her left side.
The vase longs for the feel of water. Why didn't the yellow-man buy the fig-leaf (well, maybe she looks more like a branch) flowers? What could be more delicious than the rimming of rose-petals against her painted white - and why couldn't the potter have used eggshell?
The man takes a sip of his soup. "Delicious", he says.
The woman murmurs something he can not understand.
The potter sits in his workshop, wheeling his hands around the fresh clay. Will it be a dancer's legs, a swan's beak, or maybe even duck feathers? He's tired of white and grey: If it's a vase, he'll paint it egg-shell.
The wood saw its master shrivel like a fig-leaf, but remembers when his face was round and purple, waiting to be squeezed like a fig into a virgin's mouth. The son's face is already yellow, burnt out from his days at the office. The yelllow girl beside him opens her legs at night, out of habit.
The table is bored: Their conversation is drier than the vase that rests upon his stomach. He likes the feel of her base, and the smooth crack on her left side.
The vase longs for the feel of water. Why didn't the yellow-man buy the fig-leaf (well, maybe she looks more like a branch) flowers? What could be more delicious than the rimming of rose-petals against her painted white - and why couldn't the potter have used eggshell?
The man takes a sip of his soup. "Delicious", he says.
The woman murmurs something he can not understand.
The potter sits in his workshop, wheeling his hands around the fresh clay. Will it be a dancer's legs, a swan's beak, or maybe even duck feathers? He's tired of white and grey: If it's a vase, he'll paint it egg-shell.
Vaacuming
Marigolds of lighting and rotten mangoes
rain down upon my shoulders
like your hair, and strawberry lips
whose seeds get stuck between my teeth.
Why did God create the strawberry with seeds?
Plums, peaches, and apricots all have pits
to ground them. Even the apple
has a core, and so does the pair.
Only the strawberry is free, its seeds small enough
to slide between its pores like sweat - red juice
dribbled down my fingers.
Yet its lightness comes at a price: We do not need one,
but many strawberries, to sate our hunger.
So too, my darling I need many skins, many bones and thighs,
to stick to my tongue like honey - golden and weighted,
it remains faithful to the end, sticking to the crumbs
that will be swept up by my mother's vaacum-cleaner,
sweetening the bits of dust waiting to be sucked into its plastic body,
smooth and unbreakable, faithless as the wind it whips through its teeth,
before dancing over the floor's wooden body, the carpet full of mangoes and marigolds.
rain down upon my shoulders
like your hair, and strawberry lips
whose seeds get stuck between my teeth.
Why did God create the strawberry with seeds?
Plums, peaches, and apricots all have pits
to ground them. Even the apple
has a core, and so does the pair.
Only the strawberry is free, its seeds small enough
to slide between its pores like sweat - red juice
dribbled down my fingers.
Yet its lightness comes at a price: We do not need one,
but many strawberries, to sate our hunger.
So too, my darling I need many skins, many bones and thighs,
to stick to my tongue like honey - golden and weighted,
it remains faithful to the end, sticking to the crumbs
that will be swept up by my mother's vaacum-cleaner,
sweetening the bits of dust waiting to be sucked into its plastic body,
smooth and unbreakable, faithless as the wind it whips through its teeth,
before dancing over the floor's wooden body, the carpet full of mangoes and marigolds.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Jeremiah 18: Prayer
In anger, my tongue spoke. Forgive me.
God is all-merciful, all-kind, all-forgiving. I am human - I grow angry and forget how to laugh.
Is this the only cure for evil - your lips twisting around letters they don't understand?
God is the only cure for evil.
But He works His ways through men.
And women.
Yes, and women.
What do you do when the are no words left to say?
You cry.
God is all-merciful, all-kind, all-forgiving. I am human - I grow angry and forget how to laugh.
Is this the only cure for evil - your lips twisting around letters they don't understand?
God is the only cure for evil.
But He works His ways through men.
And women.
Yes, and women.
What do you do when the are no words left to say?
You cry.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Jeremiah 17 (written while listening to Leonard Cohen songs)
Like a tree, you found me:
You kindled a fire around me,
leaves and petals killed by your pen,
hearts ablaze from the ink spilled on your fingers.
Who praises iron?
Yet a lady's breasts may inspire the words
of a thousand poems, like the twining and untwining
of our thighs, lips, ears, nose, eyes.
Like a tree, you found me,
and fastened of my wood the finest bracelets,
slipping over your arms like iron pillars,
riding your breasts with ink-stained fingers,
burning like words against your cheek.
Who praises iron?
Yet a lady's breasts may inspire the words
of a thousand poems, like the twining and untwining
of our thighs, lips, ears, nose, eyes.
I burn like a leaf for the taste of your thighs.
You kindled a fire around me,
leaves and petals killed by your pen,
hearts ablaze from the ink spilled on your fingers.
Who praises iron?
Yet a lady's breasts may inspire the words
of a thousand poems, like the twining and untwining
of our thighs, lips, ears, nose, eyes.
Like a tree, you found me,
and fastened of my wood the finest bracelets,
slipping over your arms like iron pillars,
riding your breasts with ink-stained fingers,
burning like words against your cheek.
Who praises iron?
Yet a lady's breasts may inspire the words
of a thousand poems, like the twining and untwining
of our thighs, lips, ears, nose, eyes.
I burn like a leaf for the taste of your thighs.
Surrealism Process
In terms of my favorite drafts, currently it's a tie between http://bwpq.blogspot.com/2012/09/sd3.html and http://bwpq.blogspot.com/2012/09/she-laid-out-pieces-of-poetry-like_27.html
I also like the original one http://bwpq.blogspot.com/2012/09/surrealism.html but I wonder if it ends too seriously to make the mocking of surrealism work for the whole poem.
Anyhow, since this is also a process blog for me, I am sharing my "process". (God, that sounds so pretencious.)
Also, I've been reading (and listening to) a lot of Leonard Cohen recently - not to mention Jewish High Holiday liturgy, which, as a friend of mine pointed out, is essentially a lot of poetry (and song), making the Day of Atonement a 25-hour poetry jam.
I also like the original one http://bwpq.blogspot.com/2012/09/surrealism.html but I wonder if it ends too seriously to make the mocking of surrealism work for the whole poem.
Anyhow, since this is also a process blog for me, I am sharing my "process". (God, that sounds so pretencious.)
Also, I've been reading (and listening to) a lot of Leonard Cohen recently - not to mention Jewish High Holiday liturgy, which, as a friend of mine pointed out, is essentially a lot of poetry (and song), making the Day of Atonement a 25-hour poetry jam.
SD3
She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
(Where is my hamburger? Strawberries.)
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
(Where is my hamburger? Strawberries.)
Surrealism Draft
She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats. (blood circulating through her cunt. Where is my hamburger? Strawberries.)
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats. (blood circulating through her cunt. Where is my hamburger? Strawberries.)
SD2
She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
(Cunt. Strawberries.)
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
(Cunt. Strawberries.)
S Other Draft
She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats. (blood circulating through her cunt. Strawberries.)
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats. (blood circulating through her cunt. Strawberries.)
Surrealism Pre-1
She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
(I'm still waiting for that hamburger. Cunt. Strawberries.)
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
(I'm still waiting for that hamburger. Cunt. Strawberries.)
Surrealism
She laid out pieces of poetry like dinner plates.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
She wrapped words around her waist,
and sliced through pain with her fingers.
She chewed on puncuation and spat out the seeds -
until he kissed her.
Then silence sailed in on a golden raft (or maybe it was a napkin holder, made out of clay, that her mother had bought back from India; no one ever accused silence of being picky - and does it really matter? Strawberries.)
She wrapped the quiet around her,
but it became undone, exposing her nakedness (cunt. Get me a hamburger.)
so she searched for a safety-pin,
or a crumb of a letter to eat.
In the space beyond words, she spread her fingers over floor-boards full of the dust of abandoned puntuation.
All she heard were heart-beats.
The Strand
Of the five books I bought at the Strand,
I read two:
I'm saving the last like a kiss,
for you -
the twisting of lips is a hard thing to do.
Of the two books I read, one speaks of time,
one speaks of you:
Poems lament long goodbyes,
and sing of the moonlight in a lover's eyes.
Of the five books I bought at the Strand,
I read two:
When will I share a kiss with you?
I read two:
I'm saving the last like a kiss,
for you -
the twisting of lips is a hard thing to do.
Of the two books I read, one speaks of time,
one speaks of you:
Poems lament long goodbyes,
and sing of the moonlight in a lover's eyes.
Of the five books I bought at the Strand,
I read two:
When will I share a kiss with you?
Monday, September 24, 2012
A Pseudo-philosophical Conversation Between Jeremy and Sandra
"They say my love-stories are too sad", Jeremy said.
"When you lift your pen, do you think: How can I make someone cry today?" Sandra asked.
"But that's the problem - they're not making people cry."
She put her palm on his thigh. "When I was younger, they told us Leah's eyes grew weak from crying, and that's why she was unattracted to Jacob. I was afraid to cry after that."*
He laughed. Their hands laced into each other.
"Do you know why Song of Songs say "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it"?"**
She shook her head.
"Because Solomon knew love is the most destructive force on earth."
Her fingers paused in the middle of tracing the hairs on his chest.
"What is love if not an excuse to keep on hurting someone?"
"Or sleeping with them", she said. He laughed. Her fingers started up again, moving lower and lower down. The sounds of breaths and bodies.
"Do you think words ruin sex?"
"I think the first time you sleep with someone, it's a miracle, and when you talk about it, that lessens it, somehow."
"It's the opposite of the Splitting of the Sea, where the Israelites witness of God's glory added to the miracle."
"Like taking a crap".
She laughed.
"No, I'm serious - what could be more miraculous than that? Yet we have an entire culture - and plumming system - dedicated to hiding it."
"That's because facing our corporeality involves facing our own mortality."
"And now I suppose you're going to tell me about death and sex, and how orgasms were once labeled "petit morts" in French."
"It makes sense - I mean, when you feel a pleasure so intense, you feel you could die from it - like your soul is climbing higher and higher, and if it keeps on rising, it won't be able to climb down, back into your body."
He sat up straight.
"Have you ever experienced that?"
"Maybe". She blushed.
He laughed. "You could have just said yes."
"I was afraid you'd ask me with who, and I'm not sure I want to answer that." She nestled herself into the space between his arm and his chest. They lay sat in silence.
"What are you thinking?"
"You don't want to know."
"Try me."
"The first time is always the best - after that, you begin to notice the imperfections in each other's bodies - and that's why men cheat."
He kissed her neck and whispered in her ear, "I won't cheat - I promise."
She shook her head. "Don't make promises you can't keep." She climbed onto him, and whispered "I have found nothing better for a body than silence"*** into his ear, before kissing his lips. For the rest of the night, there were no more conversations.
* Genesis 29: 17 "Leah's eyes were weak". Rashi comments, "Because Leah expected to be married off to Esau, and she wept, because everyone was saying,“Rebecca has two sons, and Laban has two daughters. The older [daughter] for the older [son], and the younger [daughter] for the younger [son]” (B.B. 123a)." Thanks Chabad for making this source available for free online.
** See Songs of Songs 8:7
*** Pirkey Avot, 1:17 "Shimon the son of Raban Gamliel said, "All my life I have grown up among sages, and I have found nothing better for a body than silence."
Sunday, September 23, 2012
On Jeremiah Chapter 16
He tried not to taste his tears: They had grown stale, like the bread-crusts he ate for breakfast everyday. He heard the sounds of burning and low cries coming from the street, but he was too tired to let that bother him - besides, such noise had become mundane by now. He wondered bitterly if he was not better off without a woman - no one to mourn.
Redemption had been promised - but when? Even this one night seemed interminable. "My Lord, You are my strengh on the day of affliction", he murmured, and in doing so, swallowed his tears. They felt hot against his lips, perhaps the way the lips of a woman might have felt, had he lived in a different era.
Sometimes he envied Moses for having been chosen for a mission of redemption: To take forth a people and teach them how to eat manna and leavened bread, to split salty seas.
Jeremiah swallowed his tears. He looked forward to a breakfast of stale bread, and a lunch full of fears.
Redemption had been promised - but when? Even this one night seemed interminable. "My Lord, You are my strengh on the day of affliction", he murmured, and in doing so, swallowed his tears. They felt hot against his lips, perhaps the way the lips of a woman might have felt, had he lived in a different era.
Sometimes he envied Moses for having been chosen for a mission of redemption: To take forth a people and teach them how to eat manna and leavened bread, to split salty seas.
Jeremiah swallowed his tears. He looked forward to a breakfast of stale bread, and a lunch full of fears.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Time to Use Emoticons - Woohoo! (When will we have emoticon poetry? I am waiting for a sonnet entitled "Lol ;)")
I am currently reading "Poetic Form: An Introduction" by David Caplan. While I do think the books a writer reads influence her (or his) work, I don't feel the need to share every book I read. In this case however, I have been using my readings about form to revise my "Chemistry" which is why it keeps on getting more structured - repeated lines, etc., with each revision. I even found myself counting syllables at one point - a tool I seldom use, and probably would not have had I not just been reading all this material about syllabic uses in different forms. So here is a little shout-out, even if to you it seemed long ;)
Chemistry - Alternative Draft
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Will rose go with lavender, or is it too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs?
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Shampoo sudded into hair by swollen fingers
mingles with water - a clear petal seeps into the glass
she presses to her lips. In her veins, purple flowers:
Carefully distilled poison stains her fingers
lavender.
He wanted to name the cinnamon-lavender shampoo after his wife,
because she cooked with cinammon, and her favorite flower was lavender,
but that task belonged to a different department, staffed by failing poets
paid to come up with the consonance of "lovely lavender" and "sensual cinnamon".
When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
is that too, not a type of dying?
A soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches,
red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images,
wet and sweaty between my fingers?
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she massages her head with "lavender-lotus delight".
The next morning, he whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Beneath the lens, the brown cells resemble bubbles,
waiting to be popped, or dissected and categorized.
Will rose go with cinammon, or is that too soft, like the insides of his wife's thighs?
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
When beaded water flows from your lips, breathe
in the scent of cinnamon and raspeberries -
Open petals.
Will rose go with lavender, or is it too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs?
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Shampoo sudded into hair by swollen fingers
mingles with water - a clear petal seeps into the glass
she presses to her lips. In her veins, purple flowers:
Carefully distilled poison stains her fingers
lavender.
He wanted to name the cinnamon-lavender shampoo after his wife,
because she cooked with cinammon, and her favorite flower was lavender,
but that task belonged to a different department, staffed by failing poets
paid to come up with the consonance of "lovely lavender" and "sensual cinnamon".
When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
is that too, not a type of dying?
A soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches,
red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images,
wet and sweaty between my fingers?
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she massages her head with "lavender-lotus delight".
The next morning, he whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Beneath the lens, the brown cells resemble bubbles,
waiting to be popped, or dissected and categorized.
Will rose go with cinammon, or is that too soft, like the insides of his wife's thighs?
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
When beaded water flows from your lips, breathe
in the scent of cinnamon and raspeberries -
Open petals.
Alt. Chemistry draft- just playing around
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Will rose go with lavender, or is it too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs?
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Shampoo sudded into hair by by swollen fingers
mingles with water - a clear petal seeps into the glass
she presses to her lips. In her veins, purple flowers:
Carefully distilled poison stains her fingers
lavender.
He wanted to name the cinnamon-lavender shampoo after his wife,
because she cooked with cinammon, and her favorite flower was lavender,
but that task belonged to a different department, staffed by failing poets,
paid to come up with the consonance of "lovely lavender" and "sensual cinnamon".
When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens -
is that too, not a type of dying?
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, in the shower, she massages her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
The next morning, he whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Beneath the lens, the brown cells resemble bubbles,
waiting to be popped, or dissected and categorized.
Wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
Will rose go with cinammon, or is that too soft, like the insides of his wife's thighs?
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Open your lips. Breathe in the scent of cinammon and raspberries. Open -
Will rose go with lavender, or is it too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs?
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Shampoo sudded into hair by by swollen fingers
mingles with water - a clear petal seeps into the glass
she presses to her lips. In her veins, purple flowers:
Carefully distilled poison stains her fingers
lavender.
He wanted to name the cinnamon-lavender shampoo after his wife,
because she cooked with cinammon, and her favorite flower was lavender,
but that task belonged to a different department, staffed by failing poets,
paid to come up with the consonance of "lovely lavender" and "sensual cinnamon".
When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens -
is that too, not a type of dying?
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, in the shower, she massages her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
The next morning, he whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Beneath the lens, the brown cells resemble bubbles,
waiting to be popped, or dissected and categorized.
Wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
Will rose go with cinammon, or is that too soft, like the insides of his wife's thighs?
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Open your lips. Breathe in the scent of cinammon and raspberries. Open -
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Chemistry
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Will rose go with lavender, or is it too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs?
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Shampoo sudded into hair by by swollen fingers
mingles with the water - a clear petal
seeps into the glass of tea beneath her.
She presses the glass to her lips; on her tongue,
cinnamon, in her veins, purple flowers -
Carefully distilled poison stains her lips lavender.
He wanted to name the cinnamon-lavender shampoo after his wife,
because she cooked with cinammon, and her favorite flower was lavender,
but that task belonged to a different department,
staffed by failing poets paid to come up with alliterations like "lovely lavender".
When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world,
a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens -
is that too, not a type of dying?
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she cries in the shower, massaging her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
The next morning, he whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Beneath the lens, the brown cells resemble bubbles,
waiting to be popped, or dissected and categorized.
Wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
I open my lips and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and raspberries.
Will rose go with cinammon, or is that too soft, like the insides of his wife's thighs?
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Will rose go with lavender, or is it too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs?
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Shampoo sudded into hair by by swollen fingers
mingles with the water - a clear petal
seeps into the glass of tea beneath her.
She presses the glass to her lips; on her tongue,
cinnamon, in her veins, purple flowers -
Carefully distilled poison stains her lips lavender.
He wanted to name the cinnamon-lavender shampoo after his wife,
because she cooked with cinammon, and her favorite flower was lavender,
but that task belonged to a different department,
staffed by failing poets paid to come up with alliterations like "lovely lavender".
When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world,
a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens -
is that too, not a type of dying?
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she cries in the shower, massaging her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
The next morning, he whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Beneath the lens, the brown cells resemble bubbles,
waiting to be popped, or dissected and categorized.
Wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
I open my lips and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and raspberries.
Will rose go with cinammon, or is that too soft, like the insides of his wife's thighs?
Damn! What an inconvenient time to get an erection.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
I changed two lines - not sure how I like the change - just trying it on for size.
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Cream encompassed in a purple bottle,
sudded into her hair by swollen fingers,
mingles with the water - a clear petal
seeps into the glass of tea beneath her.
She presses the glass to her lips; on her tongue,
cinnamon, in her veins, purple flowers.
Carefully distilled poison: the diluted contents
of a lavender bottle. (The shampoo
smelled of lavender and jasmine, her favorite flowers.)
So too: Did she poison herself slowly,
when she let you seep inside?
And: When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
(a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens)
is this too, not a type of dying?
A man in a white lab coat decides to mix lavender with jasmine,
his fingers curled around a steel microscope.
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she cries in the shower, massaging her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
In the morning, her husband whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Perhaps cinnamon would go better with roses - or is that too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs? He pauses a second, feels himself grow hard
as he re-adjusts his glasses.
Damn! What an inconvenient time to have an erection.
He puts his eye back to the glass: Beneath the lens,
the brown cells resemble bubbles, waiting to be popped,
or dissected and categorized:
wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
I open my lips and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and raspberries.
Cream encompassed in a purple bottle,
sudded into her hair by swollen fingers,
mingles with the water - a clear petal
seeps into the glass of tea beneath her.
She presses the glass to her lips; on her tongue,
cinnamon, in her veins, purple flowers.
Carefully distilled poison: the diluted contents
of a lavender bottle. (The shampoo
smelled of lavender and jasmine, her favorite flowers.)
So too: Did she poison herself slowly,
when she let you seep inside?
And: When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
(a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens)
is this too, not a type of dying?
A man in a white lab coat decides to mix lavender with jasmine,
his fingers curled around a steel microscope.
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she cries in the shower, massaging her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
In the morning, her husband whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Perhaps cinnamon would go better with roses - or is that too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs? He pauses a second, feels himself grow hard
as he re-adjusts his glasses.
Damn! What an inconvenient time to have an erection.
He puts his eye back to the glass: Beneath the lens,
the brown cells resemble bubbles, waiting to be popped,
or dissected and categorized:
wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand;
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurl away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
I open my lips and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and raspberries.
Theological Musing
Poetry is a gift from God. It occurred to me that I write all these blog posts about poetry, and I don't take the time to say that enough.
Have a wonderful day, and may we all live lives blessed with the gift of poetry :) - and love of course - to love and be loved by others - what greater beauty is there than that? ;)
I definitely overuse emoticons.
Have a wonderful day, and may we all live lives blessed with the gift of poetry :) - and love of course - to love and be loved by others - what greater beauty is there than that? ;)
I definitely overuse emoticons.
Untitled Draft
The beaded water flows from her lips:
Cream encompassed in a purple bottle,
sudded into her hair by swollen fingers,
mingles with the water - a clear petal
seeps into the glass of tea beneath her.
She presses the glass to her lips; on her tongue,
cinnamon, in her veins, purple flowers.
Carefully distilled poison: the diluted contents
of a lavender bottle. (The shampoo
smelled of lavender and jasmine, her favorite flowers.)
So too: Did she poison herself slowly,
when she let you seep, drop by drop, inside?
And: When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
(a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens)
is this too, not a type of dying?
A man in a white lab coat decides to mix lavender with jasmine,
his fingers curled around a steel microscope.
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she cries in the shower, massaging her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
In the morning, her husband whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Perhaps cinnamon would go better with roses - or is that too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs? He pauses a second, feels himself grow hard
as he re-adjusts his glasses.
Damn! What an inconvenient time to have an erection.
He puts his eye back to the glass: Beneath the lens,
the brown cells resemble bubbles, waiting to be popped,
or dissected and categorized into lists of images:
wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off of water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
I open my lips and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and raspberries.
Cream encompassed in a purple bottle,
sudded into her hair by swollen fingers,
mingles with the water - a clear petal
seeps into the glass of tea beneath her.
She presses the glass to her lips; on her tongue,
cinnamon, in her veins, purple flowers.
Carefully distilled poison: the diluted contents
of a lavender bottle. (The shampoo
smelled of lavender and jasmine, her favorite flowers.)
So too: Did she poison herself slowly,
when she let you seep, drop by drop, inside?
And: When I open my lips to drink the bubble of the world
(a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens)
is this too, not a type of dying?
A man in a white lab coat decides to mix lavender with jasmine,
his fingers curled around a steel microscope.
Every night, his wife dies a little when he comes inside her.
Afterward, she cries in the shower, massaging her head
with lavender-jasmine shampoo.
In the morning, her husband whistles on his way to work,
thinking how lucky he is to be loved, imagining a new scent:
cinnamon and raspberries.
He dons a white coat, curls his fingers around the steel microscope.
Perhaps cinnamon would go better with roses - or is that too soft,
like the insides of his wife's thighs? He pauses a second, feels himself grow hard
as he re-adjusts his glasses.
Damn! What an inconvenient time to have an erection.
He puts his eye back to the glass: Beneath the lens,
the brown cells resemble bubbles, waiting to be popped,
or dissected and categorized into lists of images:
wet beads upon purple lips, a soft translucence on the palm of my hand:
green leaves cling to brown branches, their curves bent by the wind,
laughter reflected off of water, red petals unfurling away from sulky stamens -
is this our world, no more than a series of images, wet and sweaty between my fingers?
I open my lips and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and raspberries.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
I am obsessive today
I just wanted to say that of all the insanely-similar-versions of Jeremiah 15-2 I have up right now, the one I am most leaning towards is this: http://www.bwpq.blogspot.com/2012/09/jeremiah-15-2-2.html
Stay tuned for the next episode of "Literary Idol" - and don't forget to catch our other program, "America's Next Top Question Mark".
Stay tuned for the next episode of "Literary Idol" - and don't forget to catch our other program, "America's Next Top Question Mark".
Alternative of 15-2-2, because I am debating over one word.
We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed
as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The
red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Has the fire gone out downstairs? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Has the fire gone out downstairs? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
Jeremiah 15-2-2
We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed
as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The
red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Has the fire gone out downstairs? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Has the fire gone out downstairs? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
PS
I don't want this blog to turn into a link-a-thon, but I can't mention swan poetry without sharing this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell:
The Swan
The Swan
This laboring through what is still undone,
as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,
is like the awkward walking of the swan.
And dying—to let go, no longer feel
the solid ground we stand on every day—
is like anxious letting himself fall
into waters, which receive him gently
and which, as though with reverence and joy,
draw back past him in streams on either side;
while, infinitely silent and aware,
in his full majesty and ever more
indifferent, he condescends to glide.
On Editing
Recently I've been doing a lot of editing, in part because I've been having trouble doing "real" writing. As a matter of fact, I wrote an entire angry rant-poem in my journal, which I've decided not to publish, blaming everyone in my life for my recent literary troubles - except for myself, of course.
I view writing as a gift from God, and as a way of fulfilling my task as a human being. A while back, I had a class with Niyi Osundare and Syl Cheney-Coker, two magnificent poets who of course are lumped into the same category because they are both from Africa, even though Nigeria and Sierra Leone have very different histories. We were discussing poetry-writing; the conclusion was that living your life to the best expression of who you truly are, is a prerequisite for writing real poetry. So when I have trouble writing, the first question I ask myself is: What is it about the life I am living that is giving me literary difficulties? Am I currently living in a way that is true to who I really am?
I am not about to share the answers to those questions online -yes, even I have a sense of privacy. Instead, I would like to muse a little about my editing process: In order to edit Jeremiah 15-2, I recorded it and played it back to myself. To me, writing is a lot about how something sounds when read out loud - after all, literature has its roots in oral story-telling. Part of the reason poetry and fiction were so entwined in the ancient world (Hello, Homer! Now give me a donut.), is that myths, legends, and fictitious stories were all told by heart - so there had to be some sort of rhyme and meter to help the teller learn the words to the story, as well as to keep the listener enraptured. I sometimes wonder whether in transitioning from the oral to the written, we have in a certain sense, lost the communal aspect of story-telling.
But that is a rant for a different time. The point is, the whole "did the fire go out" line struck me as sloppy when I heard my work read out loud. Now I am pondering alternatives: Did the fire go out downstairs? Did the fire go out downstairs yet? A part of me thinks that laboring over the minor cadences of this sentence is ridiculous, but I don't view it as a choice. The words are lodged in my head, and they will combine and recombine there as they like. I might as well give in and type them out - which sounds so much less romantic than "write them down".
This difference in romanticism between to such mundane phrases just confirms my belief, that the difference between great writing and good writing, is that in great writing, even the minor sentences, like "Hello. How are you?" or "Did the fire go out?" are the results of deliberate choice, the combination of words selected by the author because it edged out other similiar combinations in a type of "Literary Idol" contest, only hopefully without the presence of Simon Cowell, or excessive amounts of body glitter. Actually, I really like body glitter.
I used to think editing was over-rated. Writing was about that rush of inspiration, not the repetetive process of moving little words around once the inspiration had quieted. But then, my teacher, Pamela Kirpatrick, showed us the first draft of W.B. Yeats' "The Second Coming" - and it was good, but nowhere near as brilliant as the original. Seeing how the work progressed from draft to draft - and how even W.B. Yeats wrote multiple drafts - made me believe in the importance of editing. But sometimes, when I blog my first drafts, I find it strange to edit, since the first draft is now lodged in my mind as "published material", a category I associate with the post-editing phase. So perhaps it's just as well that I actually got a bit of editing done this weekend. Here's to more "real" writing, and to more editing, in the days and years to come.
Also, while I'm on the topic I have to share my favorite Yeats poem, "Leda and the Swan" It's one of those poems that makes me go "Oh, this is why I write. Because I want to one day create something as beautiful as this."
I view writing as a gift from God, and as a way of fulfilling my task as a human being. A while back, I had a class with Niyi Osundare and Syl Cheney-Coker, two magnificent poets who of course are lumped into the same category because they are both from Africa, even though Nigeria and Sierra Leone have very different histories. We were discussing poetry-writing; the conclusion was that living your life to the best expression of who you truly are, is a prerequisite for writing real poetry. So when I have trouble writing, the first question I ask myself is: What is it about the life I am living that is giving me literary difficulties? Am I currently living in a way that is true to who I really am?
I am not about to share the answers to those questions online -yes, even I have a sense of privacy. Instead, I would like to muse a little about my editing process: In order to edit Jeremiah 15-2, I recorded it and played it back to myself. To me, writing is a lot about how something sounds when read out loud - after all, literature has its roots in oral story-telling. Part of the reason poetry and fiction were so entwined in the ancient world (Hello, Homer! Now give me a donut.), is that myths, legends, and fictitious stories were all told by heart - so there had to be some sort of rhyme and meter to help the teller learn the words to the story, as well as to keep the listener enraptured. I sometimes wonder whether in transitioning from the oral to the written, we have in a certain sense, lost the communal aspect of story-telling.
But that is a rant for a different time. The point is, the whole "did the fire go out" line struck me as sloppy when I heard my work read out loud. Now I am pondering alternatives: Did the fire go out downstairs? Did the fire go out downstairs yet? A part of me thinks that laboring over the minor cadences of this sentence is ridiculous, but I don't view it as a choice. The words are lodged in my head, and they will combine and recombine there as they like. I might as well give in and type them out - which sounds so much less romantic than "write them down".
This difference in romanticism between to such mundane phrases just confirms my belief, that the difference between great writing and good writing, is that in great writing, even the minor sentences, like "Hello. How are you?" or "Did the fire go out?" are the results of deliberate choice, the combination of words selected by the author because it edged out other similiar combinations in a type of "Literary Idol" contest, only hopefully without the presence of Simon Cowell, or excessive amounts of body glitter. Actually, I really like body glitter.
I used to think editing was over-rated. Writing was about that rush of inspiration, not the repetetive process of moving little words around once the inspiration had quieted. But then, my teacher, Pamela Kirpatrick, showed us the first draft of W.B. Yeats' "The Second Coming" - and it was good, but nowhere near as brilliant as the original. Seeing how the work progressed from draft to draft - and how even W.B. Yeats wrote multiple drafts - made me believe in the importance of editing. But sometimes, when I blog my first drafts, I find it strange to edit, since the first draft is now lodged in my mind as "published material", a category I associate with the post-editing phase. So perhaps it's just as well that I actually got a bit of editing done this weekend. Here's to more "real" writing, and to more editing, in the days and years to come.
Also, while I'm on the topic I have to share my favorite Yeats poem, "Leda and the Swan" It's one of those poems that makes me go "Oh, this is why I write. Because I want to one day create something as beautiful as this."
J152
We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed
as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The
red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton, my hand on the small of his back.
Why do your eyes keep glowering?
Jeremiah 15
We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton. My hand on the small of his back, I see your eyes, glowering.
In all the stories I have read, people long for daylight. I kiss prayers into his shoulder, waiting for the dark.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton. My hand on the small of his back, I see your eyes, glowering.
In all the stories I have read, people long for daylight. I kiss prayers into his shoulder, waiting for the dark.
Jeremiah 13 (Third Draft)
Take the white and tie it beneath the rock.
Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.
Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.
Water flows over rocks the color of your fingers;
white breaks like bracken -tongues swirl like eddies.
Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!
Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.
Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.
Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel he disliked her gingerbread cookies:
She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.
Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?
You shushed kisses into her ears,
felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
the furling and unfurling of tongues - the bracken, floating
between round rocks that once held white foam,
between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.
Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.
Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.
Water flows over rocks the color of your fingers;
white breaks like bracken -tongues swirl like eddies.
Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!
Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.
Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.
Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel he disliked her gingerbread cookies:
She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.
Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?
You shushed kisses into her ears,
felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
the furling and unfurling of tongues - the bracken, floating
between round rocks that once held white foam,
between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
LD2
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer.
Can lies rot like flowers? If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not -
Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer.
Can lies rot like flowers? If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not -
Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
Loose Draft Based on Jeremiah 14 Draft
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
Can lies rot like flowers?
If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not - Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the brownness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that - along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals we are, we fold our days into the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
Can lies rot like flowers?
If kisses burn like wood, I don't mind this conflagration. But if not - Can you please hand me that glass of water? Thanks.
alternative again
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through the door: How will it's wood taste? What
will the browness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it
stick, giving us
splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like
passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell
with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs,
and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
The wind blows through the door: If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers? I stroke your hair.
Kisses. Flowers.
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
The wind blows through the door: If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers? I stroke your hair.
Kisses. Flowers.
Jeremiah 14 (Alternate Draft)
I stroke your hair, drier than the wind that blows through rotting sheaves lining the pathway to the door: How will it's wood taste? What will the browness feel like, gliding down our throat - or will it stick, giving us
splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like
passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell
with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs,
and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness?
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers?
The dried wind blows through sheaves lining the pathway to the door. I stroke your hair. How will the wood taste, when we can taste no more?
No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water.
If love is no more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum, let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer.
If kisses can burn like wood, can lies rot like flowers?
The dried wind blows through sheaves lining the pathway to the door. I stroke your hair. How will the wood taste, when we can taste no more?
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