The Shapes You Need

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2009-08-05T21:20:00.000-04:00

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Ten Word Memoirs

2009-01-20T20:50:00.003-05:00

In late 2008 I tried to get myself to write more by using a prompt I've heard many times before (though sometimes the word count varies). I didn't get very far—three entries to be exact. Maybe this will be something I eventually pick back up this year as well.

Oct 25
Blood blooms on my eyelids
and beneath—
body stamping itself.

Nov 26
Four letters have burned out.
Now it reads: "fun home."

Dec 5
Another dream in which smashing
a champagne bottle wakes me.

These are all very telling, even the last, in which a champagne bottle—normally reserved for popping, for celebration—is smashed so violently it actually breaks my subconscious.

I'm trying to make 2009 more like 200Mine, but if that's the case, I really need to set some goals. I blame winter for the most part.

Merry Christmas, New York!

2008-12-22T23:02:00.004-05:00

A blind man walked onto my train tonight, and wouldn't you know, started singing "The Christmas Song." It was sweet, certainly seasonal, and, being that this is the night before I fly home to Pennsylvania, a little emotional I'll admit. But then, as his voice wailed and his head shook with ferocity, the gears inside my dusty brain started spinning and I thought, "Hey, he seems familiar...."

Just as I had begun to mentally place where I'd heard this gentleman's crooning before, he switched songs. It went a little something like this:

Though it's been said,
Many times, many ways,
Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas, to you...
(beat)
If you want my body,
And you think I'm sexy,
Come on, baby, let me know.

That's right, from caroling to "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"

Nowhere else, but on the New York subway. See you in 2009! Tomorrow at this time I'll be resting in the chimney of my house-shaped home-state.

Flight Tattoo

2008-12-17T17:07:00.003-05:00

Once I save up enough money, I want this image of the birds attached to strings on my right arm and wrist. I've finally decided.

White Winter Hymnal

2008-12-16T22:13:00.003-05:00

I find it baffling that I once fancied myself a writer when I can barely string together a coherent, confident, and declarative sentence these days. Other than, say, "I'm a mess." How else to explain the pit in my stomach that won't go away? I thought moving to New York would be the change I needed, when truth is, I find myself falling into the same patterns as I experienced in Boston. Inherently, there is something wrong with me.

I haven't written a complete poem in months. I haven't taken a photograph in weeks. In fact, I don't think I have much of anything at all to show in the way of creativity. Now I realize there is something worse than a "creativity block," and that's emptiness. Because at least with a block you're trying to work through it. I can't even bring myself to lift the pen or camera.

I think one of my biggest problems is that I can't handle extremes. My life is so stagnant that when the highs are high, I'm in love. But then, when it's over, the low hits so hard I forget all joys and fulfillment.

Perhaps my line of thinking has some correlation to the upcoming holidays. (I am dreading traveling to PA.) But that just seems like another excuse.

All I know is that today, at work, it began to snow, huge flakes just drifting to the wet sidewalk. I'll never get over the power it has to quiet everything, even a city. And then Sylvia, my coworker, told me how she likes to play the piano when it's snowing. Something about the flakes moving like music notes across the page.

Wake Up, Shake Up

2008-11-30T22:15:00.005-05:00

You probably thought I'd forgotten about this old cyberspace muse of mine, huh? On the contrary, not at all. I've had a whirlwind four weeks since I last updated. Let's see:

1. Went on a cruise as part of my good friends' wedding. They decided to bring the honeymoon with them to Florida, and then all around the Western Caribbean. When we weren't on Carnival Legend (clubbing in Medusa's Lair, strolling through the Enchanted Forest, sitting in the casino), we had time to stop and explore Cayman Islands, Cozumel, Belize City, and Roatan Islands. I've never been on a cruise before, and while I didn't know what to expect, I enjoyed myself once I accepted that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. I just don't know if I'd do it again any time soon.

2. While on the cruise, I got a job. I was baffled when I found out. Somehow, against the odds of the economy and other qualified candidates, I nabbed my dream job. I've now re-adjusted to the 9-5 routine of working in an office in a cubicle, but this time I'm right where I want to be: as an editorial assistant in children's publishing. I love it, but it has certainly taken up most of my time, and explains the majority of my silence around here.

3. Finally, after so many months, I am also enjoying another old routine that brings me sanity: reading and writing. Yes, all, I am back to writing. Granted, I can't claim to be writing as much as I once did, but even if I am producing small fragments, they're more than I can say for July-October. I'm also enjoying adult books on my commute and before bed, and buying more poetry! With a job that requires tons of reading (and children's at that), it's understandable that you'd want to get as far away from that as you can in your downtime. But that is a terrible habit to fall into, so I'm fixing it.

4. I just had a wonderful Thanksgiving. My second in New York. Slowly but surely, this city is feeling more like home. Which brings me to . . . .

5. I don't want to jump the gun, but I was talking to a friend tonight about my Christmas travel plans, which immediately led me to thinking about New Year's, and the fact that it is already almost 2009. I won't say anything yet (we still have December to get through after all!), but 2008 has been a huge year for me. Sometimes I can't believe how much I've packed into it, but all I can hope for is more years like it.

Here is a poem by Victoria Chang from her newest collection Salvinia Molesta, which is my current obsession.

Ars Poetica as Birdfeeder and Hummingbird

All winter I watched the empty feeder
and the God light pummel

its stained glass in a sieve. No
hummingbirds, no

humorous little body with a tent stake
as a nose.

Look, little bird, how do you know, how
do you know

your brilliance is what I seek? The way
you lance a honeysuckle’s

heart, take the blood in your bill. I wish
I knew how to punch

a center, inch in and in, lance something
to death, that flowers and

flowers light. You in your array of vibrating
attire. I am not

a weed, I need your praise to survive.
The field will consume me.

The field has chosen sides. The field is
not hungry for the middling.

How I hate the field and what it sees, its
teeth digging out the ochre

of mediocre, what’s left but medi—a non,
a nothing, no-one.

O tiny bird—medicate me, convulse me,
punch holes in me so

some of my light leaks out.

- Victoria Chang

Graveyard Smash

2008-10-15T12:18:00.001-04:00

To get you in the Halloween spirit:

Insatiable Appetite

2008-10-13T15:39:00.004-04:00

Not only do I love Dee Dee Sharp's song "Mashed Potato Time," not only do I want to learn how to shake my groove thang like her backup dancers, not only do I love her sassy "yeah, yeah, yeah" at 0:56 and her come-hither finger-hooks at 1:00, but every time I hear this song, I automatically crave mashed potatoes. All in all, this is a win-win scenario.

Corners of the World

2008-10-06T11:07:00.000-04:00

One of the scariest assignments I had to face in two (count them, two) personal essay classes was writing about a place. In my introductory class I completely bombed it, unsure as a college freshman what one place meant to me more than any other. In my advanced class, I improved, though I would by no means call it a success.

I know that certain places have had an intense effect on shaping who I am and where I've ended up. But those places are almost as intricate as my DNA, so implanted in me and naturally part of my system that deconstructing them is almost unfair. I have obvious feelings toward them, of course, be it anger or contentment, hatred or adoration, respect or . . . disrespect. It's hard to settle on one overall theme, and again, most likely unfair.

Now that I've moved out of Boston, my mind often wanders back to it, convinced that when I walk outside I'll be back in familiar territory. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Anyway, here's an incomplete list of those places in Boston that are forever etched in my memory.

1. The corners of Boylston and Tremont Streets. Famous to any Emerson alum. I remember every angle of this four-corner block. Looking from the Starbucks side, the Dunkin Donuts side, the Masonic Lodge side, and the Boylston T stop side. Every one evokes this strange nostalgia in me, not because it was a particularly inviting or warm corner of the world, but because it was inescapable for four years. All of college rested on that axis, and sometimes I still picture myself standing there, waiting for the lights to indicate that it's safe to cross diagonally.

2. Elm Street in Davis Square. How much time did I spend on this street my freshman and sophomore years? If I counted it would probably total more than a few months. But it was such a sweet escape for Cheena and me. All the hours we studied (and didn't study) in Diesel Cafe, or browsed the bookshop next to it. The Chinese restaurant we ate at on our second Thanksgiving together, sophomore year. The Hollywood Express where we visited friends, the concerts attended at Somerville Theatre, the ice cream from J.P. Licks . . . eventually my time in Davis Square decreased. I'm not sure why exactly, but having my own apartment was probably a big reason. Living in the dorms, Davis Square was an escape. Once I had my own place, I nested until it was the most productive environment. Either way, I'll never forget this neighborhood that had such an impact on me.

3. I remember the first time I ever looked up and really noticed the Back Bay skyline was in my freshman year, December. A bunch of us were going to Wendy's for dinner, but it was already dark. We needed to fill our stomachs with food before embarking on a night of drinking (of course), and this seemed the cheapest option with an added bonus of walking there together. I just remember it being this new awakening for me. (Wow, that is really pretentious, but let me explain.) I was fresh from a Thanksgiving weekend with Cheena, and suffering from this ridiculously minor heartbreak that I couldn't shake for some reason. After the holiday I bounced back and felt that I'd come into a new group of friends that motivated me and inspired me, and this simple walk to Wendy's cemented that notion. There was just the right amount of cold in the air, and the lights from the John Hancock building glowed so perfectly, as did the rest of Copley Square and the streetlamps that guided us to the Promised Land (of Wendy's, duh). Sometimes I miss that walk, and I know I'll miss it in December, when it's dark by five p.m. and there's a chill in the air that only the presence of good company at the right time and in the right place can counter.

Rabbit Rabbit

2008-10-01T10:14:00.003-04:00

It never fails that I hold out hope for the current month to be better than the previous. October is already filling up with good things. Now it's just a matter of seeing how they pan out.

I have yet to see the documentary about Philippe Petit, the French high wire artist who's famous for his walk across the Twin Towers in the early '70s. But I am extremely fascinated by him and other tightrope walkers. Thinking about their feats creates a pit in my stomach.

Two Weeks

2008-09-29T21:40:00.004-04:00

I still can't get over this song. Even though it reminds me of summer, I think I'll carry it long into winter.

Nervous Tics, Physical Responses

2008-09-26T16:27:00.001-04:00

(Warning: This post is unorganized, unpolished, and unsure of itself. It doesn't work to resolve anything. It just rambles.)

Last night, determined to help rid my eyes of their purple bags, I applied cucumber slices over each of them, rested my head on a pillow, and put on some music.

After about two songs I gave up. I forgot how much I hated having alien objects anywhere near my eyes. Not only did the cucumbers’ cold temperature frustrate me, but the residue—the very thing that probably helps alleviate tired eyes—made me tense.

That’s why today I’m rubbing my eyes and looking more fatigued than ever.

Well, that’s probably not the only reason. Some suggest I need better or more sleep. Other resources tell me I’m doomed: This could all be the fault of genetics.

What this got me thinking about were nervous tics and physical responses. Like a lot of people, I mutilate my fingernails at the mercy of my razor-toothed mouth. Frequent nail biting is not so odd, but my other tic doesn’t seem as common, though, who knows, I could be in great company.

I often tend to wrap my right hand around my left wrist whenever I’m anxious or nervous or uncomfortable. Once I’ve got a firm grip, I ring my poor wrist like a wet washcloth, taking pleasure in being able to feel my bones and arteries.

I had to stop wearing a watch because it interfered with this habit. I found myself pushing the watch as far up my arm as it could go, which, in and of itself, was a rather gratifying tic, but better than that, it allowed me access again to this vulnerable region of my body.

Why do this? Is it a physical manifestation of my anxieties? A bad habit I’m capable of breaking? Or a defense mechanism? A way of “closing” myself off, a physical hint to back away.

Mostly this probably reveals that I’m a nutcase, and an insecure one at that.

But at least it’s getting cold, so I can always use that as a disguise. “Sorry, don’t mean to cradle myself in front of you. Just trying to warm up.”

I made a deal with myself to stop letting things get to me and to start getting over myself, but man, no wonder the cliché “easier said than done” exists. Right now reinvention sounds so much simpler. Lately my mind wanders into nomadic territories, how I am this close to packing up and moving out if I didn’t already have things to take care of where I am already.

For now I browse other cities’ Craigslist profiles, trying to figure out which one is most likely to accept my nervous disposition and ever-changing ideals. Just in case.

Fickle

2008-09-18T10:28:00.006-04:00

Ignore my last post. Forgive me, Blogspotty. I'm back for good.

I have to laugh at myself for thinking Tumblr was a suitable alternative. As if I could find the material to post something every day, even if it is small. I belong to way too many online communities as it is—what's the point of re-posting pictures I've already uploaded to Flickr?

But back to laughing at myself: Huge theme in my life lately. On September 1st I permanently moved to Brooklyn. (Well, for at least a year, says my lease.) I live in a very cute but very expensive apartment that doesn't quite feel like home yet. Yet. I know I have to give it some time.

The problem is that I am drawn to stability, and there's nothing like moving to a new city and trying to find your footing in it that says "stability." I like to think that I can adjust to change, but there is nothing about the process that I particularly like. Yes, I enjoy discovering new places and the quirks that lie within, but it's such a lengthy procedure until I finally feel comfortable. I guess that's what happens when you move to the largest city in the United States.

I was finally used to Boston and then I left her. For as much as I hated it at times (terrible subway system, awful sports fans, and sometimes not enough to do), there were as many good things to counter the bad. Namely, friends. A place to call "home" is nothing without the people you care most about in it. Four years of friendships and now I practically have to start over.

That's not fair. I have people here who care about me. But not four years' worth. I'm lucky that I'm only a four-hour bus ride away from some of them, but realistically, how often can I make that bus? Especially when I'm trying my best to save money, yet it still manages to disappear faster than I can track.

I sound like I'm having a terrible time, and that's not true or fair either. There are moments that whisper, You made the right decision. But I'm waiting for the exclamations!, the shouts!, the tintinnabulations! (which I just learned from Dictionary.com's Word of the Day) of bells in a cacophonous swelling that says I'm where I'm supposed to be, at least for now.

But I'm just spoiled. Instantaneous gratification is a nice fantasy, but rarely happens. (Except for eating. Food satisfaction is always instantaneous.) So I spend my time idly enjoying life post-BFA degree. I haven't found a full time job yet, which is disheartening. I have a feeling that my dedication to a new job that I care about would greatly curve my apathy and give me something that is mine. The longer I wait, the more confused I become about my future. I said MFA programs were off my radar, but sometimes I have to at least entertain the idea. I miss the deadlines of writing, which seem to be what I need in order to produce anything. I'm trying to kick the habit.

Otherwise I'm going to be knitting and watching too much TV-on-DVD. Not that I'm complaining. I'm going to have a warm fall scarf and be able to quote Jerri Blank even more. I guess, for the first time in a while, I'm experiencing the "What's next?" phase. I've never been great at dealing with everything when it's up in the air. I like to have points A and B every now and then. But it doesn't seem like there are many options now. Or maybe there are too many! I just have to embrace the confused twenty-two-year-old that I am.

And embrace it I will.

There's a Bandwagon . . .

2008-09-04T21:19:00.003-04:00

. . . and I'm jumping on it! Tumblr does seem easier for me to update with, though I'm sure it will come to suffer from the same neglect my other online communities know.

cardiogram.tumblr.com

Adieu, Blogspotty.

Eighty Days

2008-08-08T15:10:00.004-04:00

It's been 80 days since I graduated. Between then and now I've: Visited Florida, had a great time at the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, all but moved to New York while interning full time at Scholastic Press, and had another vacation in Cape Cod. It's been a summer unlike any other.

After a serious creativity drought (I couldn't squeeze anything out at Bucknell it seemed), I'm writing again. I've started a series on serial killers. Morbid, yes, but that's what a four day fever will do to you: Keep you in bed reading crime libraries and Wikipedia. Death isn't a subject I've explored a lot in my poetry, but it's more about giving someone else a voice (the killer, victims, witnesses, etc.). I'm so used to working from autobiographical accounts that it's nice to get away from that.

Out of boredom I started sketching again. Disclaimer: I'm not good, but I like working in other mediums sometimes.

May Day

2008-05-01T10:28:00.003-04:00

It's almost time to put a period at the end of my college years. Tuesday at 2:00 p.m. I will be done until commencement on the nineteenth. I give it two thumbs up, but it's ending at the right time. I don't think I could handle anymore. I learned a lot, mostly about myself and all that stuff college is apparently about, but I also figured out what inspires me creatively and professionally. Now I just have to convince myself and my parents that all the tuition bills were worth it.

The last few weeks were challenging and stressful, but I survived. I'm proud of my thesis. Twenty-one poems from freshman to senior year that have been revised countless times. And the BFA thesis reading was the culmination of all four years of hard work summed up in seven minutes. It felt really, really good, so good that I'm ignoring everything I've learned in copyediting to include two "reallys." I was disappointed that a lot of my friends couldn't make it, but I've learned to move on. I was the one that needed this reading for myself. (And I was in such good company of other readers.)

I turn 22 on Monday. And then where the period ends, I guess an ellipsis (four-dot method, don't worry copyediting, I know!) begins....

Senior Creative Thesis Reading

2008-04-19T08:52:00.003-04:00

If anyone is reading this, will have some free time, and lives in Boston, you should seriously consider attending the 2008 Senior BFA thesis reading at Emerson College. It will be fun! And I bet there will be bait, i.e., Aramark snacks and refreshments.

Where: Emerson College, 80 Boylston St, Beard Room (formerly Emerson Room)
When: Tuesday, April 29th
Time: Begins at 2:00 p.m. (probably lasts until 4:00 p.m. at the longest)
Directions: Green Line to Boylston stop
Featuring: A tremendously talented cast.

Adam Ahmed
Steph Appell
Elizabeth Casal
Kira Cowan
Jess Del Balzo
Evan Fleischer
Cheena Marie Lo
Raphael Luckom
George Mote
Rebecca Nison
Jessica O'Byrne
Brett Wright

The Latest Toughs

2008-04-10T22:08:00.013-04:00

All right, here is what I hate about being sick:

I can never identify what, exactly, is plaguing my body. Is it a cold? Merely sinuses? A combination? A doctor could solve this, but...
I hate doctors. Quit testing me for hypothyroidism.
Low energy levels that force me to stay in bed. I know this is contradictory to everything I love, i.e. rolling around in my bed, but when it's 70 degrees out, I'd prefer to be sipping on a margarita and rolling around in the grass.
Blowing my nose. I'm almost 22 and I still don't know how to properly hold a tissue to my nose so that snot doesn't hit my mouth.
Not knowing what to eat. I don't want to live in a world where the sound of pizza, bacon cheeseburgers, hot dogs, or chicken tenders doesn't excite me. That's sick.
On that note, passing up ice cream even though it's 70 degrees out. I know, right?
Loneliness. Voluntary quarantine forces me to re-evaluate my life and listen to Michelle Branch. If you want to, I can save you. Still waiting, Michelle.

Speaking of my life, here is the (mostly accurate) breakdown of the upcoming weeks until graduation:

~~Complete copyedited chapter and style sheet for Copyediting, due 4/16~~
~~Final draft of publishing glossary for Book Publishing, due 4/17~~
~~Must be prepared to present final book proposal for Book Publishing by 4/24, present either 4/24 or 4/29~~
~~Senior BFA Thesis reading, 4/29~~
~~Design poetry thesis for Desktop Publishing, due before 4/30~~
~~Bound poetry thesis, due 4/30~~
~~Prepare for first major life crisis, 5/5~~
~~AKA celebrating my 22nd birthday, 5/5~~
~~Copyediting~~ ~~final exam, 5/5~~
~~Present final project (poetry thesis design) for Desktop Publishing, 5/5~~
~~Book Publishing final exam, 5/6~~
~~"Well, that happened." Getting that diploma, 5/19~~

Even though I just typed all of that out, I still don't know where to begin. I don't have the slightest idea how it will all play out. I'm just taking it step by step, day by day, a fresh start over, a different hand to play, the deeper we fall, the stronger we stay, and we'll be better, second time around.

I'm losing any grip I had on reality.

Paper Wishes

2008-02-11T23:09:00.000-05:00

As ferocious wind gusts continued to ravage the area these past two days (my bedroom window was powerless against its beastliness—I woke up encased in ice practically), I couldn't help but think back to something I always did as a child. I forget where I first heard about it (probably on Nickelodeon), but I remember learning about a Japanese tradition in which people would write down their wishes on pieces of paper and then tie them loosely to tree branches with the hope that winds would carry them away and in effect cause them to turn true. I could be grossly manipulating this idea in my head, but that’s the way I interpreted it back then at least. (Tanabata seems to be what I'm butchering.)

I became obsessed with this idea the same way people gamble with the lottery. But I quickly realized that it was almost as improbable as randomly selecting arbitrary numbers. Setbacks plagued my wishes from being granted. I’d wake up in the morning and sadly see that the paper was still tied to the tree. Or I’d find it in the mud a few feet away. Determined as ever, I decided I must have been choosing the wrong weather days. I had to wait for stronger winds. So I did, and when that failed I caved and accepted my fate. I wouldn’t get the new toy I wanted. My brother wouldn’t stop beating me up. My dog that ran away wasn’t coming back.

I’m gullible. I’ll believe in almost anything, place my faith in everything, and put all my chips in if I sincerely think that something will work out. It took me longer than I’d like to admit, to recognize that my paper dreams weren’t a plausible solution to what I wanted. I was too young to know how much work, dedication, and elbow grease were needed to make things happen. A healthy portion of faith is necessary, but not absolute.

Paper and trees aside, a lot of my dreams are coming true lately. And it’s nice because up until recently my life felt too stagnant to be healthy. I like routine, but it’s as if I’d used up all the fun left in me.

So many things are working out for me that my next question is always “What’s the catch?” That’s the pessimist surfacing in me, but I think it’s natural for people to feel that way. However, I will say that those feelings are fleeting. And that’s what gives me hope for the future. Place a check next to another thing I’ll believe in.

I’m somehow lucky enough to have the affection of someone like Nick, a one-in-a-million chance that I never thought I'd get. I’ve fallen into one of the most supportive networks I’ve ever had thanks to my friends. And every now and then the future seems secure, that, who knows, maybe I will land a legitimate job to pay off my college debt so I don’t have to resort to less glamorous means of moneymaking. (I ruled out a business in paperweights when I was six and found out my mother had been throwing them away as I gave them to her.)

And then there’s this, one of the most exciting things to happen to my poetry:

“Dear Brett,

It is our pleasure to inform you that you have been selected to attend the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, 2008. Congratulations! The fellowship you have been awarded covers the expense of tuition and accommodations, including housing and meals.

Dates for the 2008 Seminar are Sunday, June 8, through Sunday, June 29.”

One of those paper wishes must have been carried away far enough to make all of this real.

What the Body Told

2008-01-25T21:09:00.000-05:00

Though I rarely talk about the body, anyone who has read any of my writing knows that I am obsessed with and infatuated and mesmerized by the physical human body. The fact that the body is able to endure so much throughout one's life yet still maintains a sense of gracefulness is inspiring. On a poetic level it's beautiful. My body's boundaries have been tested with wild adventures as a child. It's been through emergency surgery. It even survived how many years of physical education? But it still has the power to conceive new shapes, to withstand restlessness for as long as possible, to have incredible sex. On a physical level it's wholly miraculous that the body is able to be tested with such binaries: that on one hand it fights off so much harm and on the other experiences such great pleasures.

Of course, the body does break down as we all know. Sometimes we're able to overcome, and other times we're not so fortunate. The unluckiest ones don't even get a chance to resist.

I have limited knowledge of how the body actually works. I passed health and biology classes, but there's a reason I'm not studying medicine. I'm a commoner who just happens to think about the mechanics of the body daily. Every morning when I walk to the subway my mind wanders to my legs. I mean, they're just two skinny (some might say "chicken-like") limbs, but they take so many strides and steps and sure, they're tired at the end of the day, but they get up and do it again and again.

Amputees often experience the sensation of a phantom limb. Imagine waking up because you feel an itch on your leg and when you go to scratch it you realize it's still missing, same as the day before. I have a few of my own phantom limbs in my life. People and places and things that I miss uncontrollably when they're not around. Those things are probably more related to my heart, however, while phantom limbs have been directly linked to brain impulses.

And that's another thing: heart vs. mind. Both are endlessly amazing for the life they provide us and the metaphors they offer artists. And they've been on my mind lately because of a passage I read out of a book where someone was quoted as preferring the heart over the mind because of its ability to repair itself more easily. Once the mind breaks down, it's seemingly broken forever. The heart is broken an infinite amount of times, but with the same amount of energy it has the ability to feel newfound compassion again, so long as the person wants it. This, I believe, is what keeps me from surrendering, from ever letting myself turn too bitter or cynical.

And really, this is what life is like recently: a heart that feels so much. A longing, a yearning. A happiness, a warmth. Most of all, a sense of "home." A place to unpack my things and rest. Yeah, that's it. Home.

Sometimes I'm afraid my body will give out on me. When my right eye feels blurrier than my left, I panic that I may be going blind. When I feel my heart literally skip a beat, I worry that I ate one cheeseburger too many. When my ear won't pop after I get off the airplane, I pray that I remember what I learned in ASL. But that's all background noise to the feats my body proves daily. One day maybe I'll give it some healthier exercise as a gift, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Turtle

2008-01-13T14:46:00.000-05:00

Today is the twenty-second year of one of my favorite's. Happy Birthday, Cheena!

We've shared a lot of experiences. First there was moving into college. Then we spent three consecutive Thanksgivings together. Our first summer in Boston involved many late night retreats on her roof for wine. We've read poetry together, listened to music in bed together, and planned walks just for photography and gossip. When I'm craving a hot dog, she accompanies me to Spike's Junkyard Dogs. When I need to complain about school, she takes me to Happy Hour. And no one I've met is as talented and creative yet equally modest as she is. No one is more genuine and loyal. No one makes me laugh and enjoy life more than she can.

If it sounds like I have a big ol' crush on her, it's because I do. And I have since 2004.

Growing Up in the Late '80s

2007-12-28T13:21:00.000-05:00

Inspired by a recent post from Cheena and winter break boredom (ex: I'm currently sitting between a snoring Dad and a snoring cat), I went to work digging up some childhood pictures for a glimpse into Vintage Brett.

Cleaning up the earth since '89. Check out my partner's pants.

Listening to some jams while waiting for food. Still a theme in my life.

Waiting for the bus on the first day of kindergarten, showing off my awesome name tag.

Don't ask me. Probably just getting ready to dance the night away. Curse the curfew that kept me in my pj's.

The closest my brother and I have ever been, as you can tell from my expression. Nice dino sweater though, big brother.

Just graduating from preschool (I leaned on the red crayon because it went with the outfit).

I have the same haircut, basically.

Lessons on Softness

2007-12-08T18:33:00.000-05:00

Today was surprisingly warm considering these past couple of snowy weeks. I had to run some errands in the Square and I thought I'd take advantage of the sunny afternoon to walk around my neighborhood.

Whenever I'm hanging out with myself, I always meet the most interesting people. Today it was a brother and sister team handing out free cups of hot chocolate outside of an art gallery for local artists. They said "business was slow" because of the weather, but they were having fun, sneaking in snowball fights between customers. I also talked to a friendly older man who was carrying around a Nikon as well, which was a gift from his daughter. He was still trying to get a handle on it, so I showed him the few tricks I know and in return he let me look at his pictures, which I thought was nice. There were lots of tree branches and empty birds' nests. I was so happy.

Despite finals, despite lack of motivation, despite migraines, it's nice to be reminded that life exists outside of my head. If these are my only setbacks, then I have a lot to be thankful for and excited about. And I am.

It Gets Dark Early

2007-12-04T21:54:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I had a poem workshopped that consisted of three parts. The end of the second part described a dream I'd had, which fell under the scrutiny of some people in my seminar. The obvious question arose: to use or not to use a dream in a poem? One classmate told me, "No, never!" Another told me he didn't have a problem with it, insinuating that typically he's wary of their appearances. Others left it unmarked.

I've never had a problem with dreams in poems. In fact, I rather enjoy them. I don't know if this is strictly a personal aesthetic, or if there is more to the debate. Is using a dream too cheap of a way to include metaphor? An easy image? A dramatic ploy to engage the reader or exaggerate the mood?

I decided to include my dream in my poem because it was, as I felt, applicable and appropriate given the emotions. It was the first time I've incorporated an actual dream into a poem. I always have such vivid dreams, though this wasn't always the case. Sleep used to come easily to me--I could pass out within minutes and not wake up until morning. Then, Summer 2006: I began waking up every night at 2 a.m. without fail. Since then the pattern has only continued, even reaching its current point when I'll wake up again at 4 a.m.

In those valued hours of uninterrupted sleep, I often dream. Some are pleasant (think of the late Selena singing "Dreaming of You"). Some are terrifying (you know, the ones where you actually die and know you're dying). The rest are either fun (I really do wish I had a second floor to my apartment but with slides instead of stairs) or mystifying. But isn't that part of the excitement of actually remembering your dreams?

Anyway, I have no idea where I wanted this to go, but I'll bring it back to poetry. Below is one of my favorite poems by Nick Flynn that doesn't hide from using a dream as a device.

Bag of Mice

I dreamt your suicide note
was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag,
& in the bag were six baby mice. The bag
opened into darkness,
smoldering
from the top down. The mice,
huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag
across a shorn field. I stood over it
& as the burning reached each carbon letter
of what you'd written
your voice released into the night
like a song, & the mice
grew wilder.

Teenage Hopes

2007-11-28T21:34:00.000-05:00

Friends, I'm still alive! Let me double check (____). Good news: I checked my pulse in that pause and it's still beating regularly in my neck, my wrist and chest. It has plenty of reasons to be stronger than ever. I'm reporting post-Thanksgiving break, which was amazing thanks to the hospitality of some amazing friends and one particularly tender boo. Senior year is almost officially halfway over. And one of my poems was selected to be entered into the Association of Writers & Writing Programs Intro Journal Project. If I were to graph life right now, you could expect an upward trend, and apparently I'm really into graphing lately (i.e.: Venn diagrams).

Last night I had a strange but sweet dream about my mother. I don't think I realized it until this semester—when I was writing more poems about her—that I have this odd, almost unsettling, intimacy with her. There's a borderline obsession I have with making her the subject of my writing, yet I feel like sometimes this is the only way I can genuinely be close to her. I want to work on fixing that. Real, emotional relationships > any emotion(s) my writing could convey.

In her honor, here's a short excerpt from a recent nonfiction essay that I wrote. This scene is pretty true to the majority of my childhood, even though I specifically mention second grade.

I spent most of my time growing up beside Mom. Her job—as a first grade teacher—was so much more exciting than the business Dad worked in. I was overjoyed the day I officially became a second grader. It meant I had enough experience and knowledge to help grade Mom’s papers, my favorite assignments to correct being math and spelling. After dinner I’d sit on her bed with a stack of papers split between the two of us while she indulged in all of her recorded ABC Daytime soaps, watching “All My Children,” “One Life to Live,” and “General Hospital” in succession. When a paper was perfect, she taught me how to write a cursive “O,” which stood for “Outstanding,” and could easily be transformed into a smiley face with the decorations of two circles for eyes and a large, semi-circle for a grin. When Dad couldn’t be bothered, she even pitched me baseballs in the backyard when I wanted to practice, which is probably part of the reason I was so bad at the game. Mom could barely get the ball to the plate.

For more on my lack of athleticism, scan the previous entries of this blog.

Click, Click, Click

2007-09-23T23:12:00.000-04:00

Hello! I promise a real post is forthcoming (for the one or two imaginary friends who read this nonsensical blog).

Until then, I've recently acquired a new camera and thus a new Flickr account. If you have one, would you like to be friends? I hope so. Flickr.

Fig. The Human Heart

2007-08-19T18:27:00.000-04:00

Welcome back. There are so many poems in my head that refuse to be written.

1. You're on the Esplanade when your phone vibrates in your pocket. It's your mother and her voice is transmitted shakily so you ask her if reception is poor and she says No, but there's something you should know about your father's heart. It's three days before his fifty-eighth year. Give him a call. He keeps you on the phone longer than he ever has before, says, My birthday present is being around to see it.

2. You're out to dinner. Your drink is called Absolutely Great! It is. You take another phone call in the bathroom. This time it's from your brother. There's been a second attack within eight days of the first and The numbers aren't good.

3. Eventually: quadruple bypass surgery, his entire chest cracked open, a collapsed lung, a ventilator to take all of his breaths for him, weeks in the hospital, constraints tied around his wrists, talks of a possible tracheotomy, and dropping in weight from 200 to 175.

4. Home is now a satellite hospital, but everything is getting better you're told. Each night you fall asleep imagining your chest as an active mine field or as a coastline with earthquakes shaking and fissures growing from your clavicle to your navel.

5. You've put that one song on repeat again: "I Thought You Said Summer Is Going to Take the Pain Away."

6. This is it: summer, sangria, groups of us always walking. You can categorize everything under Heart Activities, always so beautifully alive. Every day just another chance to find what makes it worth it.

Ball Games, Ages 9 & 21

2007-07-05T21:34:00.000-04:00

When I was younger, baseball was a recipe for personal disaster. I grew up in a developing neighborhood, which meant the area was ripe for new families with growing children. As a result, my street was littered with other kids around my age, though just as many were older and younger. It was, by all social guidelines, the ideal place to grow up. And at times it served that purpose, but in other ways it was a dangerously conservative and stunting environment in which to remain trapped.

Let’s get straight to the point: I was, never have been, and never will be athletic. Many feeble attempts were made to counteract my shortcomings. It began with tee-ball. I was on the White Sox team. My only shining moment came in our very last game when I accidentally caught a ball by sticking my glove in the air to wave at my mom. Don’t get me wrong, it felt satisfying and all, but something told me that I couldn’t wait around all season for one glorious moment of acceptance from the team. So, I quit.

I stuck with soccer for a little bit longer. Admittedly, I was in it for the free parties at the end of the season. Nothing beat playing for The Whole Darn Thing, a locally owned sub shop, because we all knew that, if for nothing else, we were going to kick that ball as hard as we could for those free delicious sandwiches waiting for us. But my scarring moment came the day I was appointed goalie. I watched helplessly and defenselessly as one soccer ball after another soccer ball swooshed into the net behind me, my body and strength too weak to act as the backbone of a youth soccer team that wasn’t just for fun no matter how many times they led you to believe that.

That was the end for me and team sports. Later came tennis lessons, but even individually designed sports left me feeling inadequate. Sometimes I would join my brother and his friends in the backyard for games, but more often than not I was pressured into participating in an effort to even out the number of players. It was never fun, but always humiliating. Never mind the fact that I was four years younger than most of the other boys, the bottom line was that I simply could not keep up with their athletic prowess – their abilities to seemingly run forever despite sweat-soaked foreheads and bodies, to gracefully jump fences for over-hit baseballs, to endure games even long into the night when darkness prevented any real play.

I was happiest when left alone. My idea of “recreation” was jarringly different than everyone else’s. I remember wondering why no one wanted to join me in my adventures, but after a while I gave up inviting others to join me and began to enjoy my solitude. I found contentment in digging for dinosaurs, catching grasshoppers and lightning bugs in old glass jars, and staring up into the stars until I fell asleep and was woken up by the cold nudging of frost. None of this was interesting or acceptable in a neighborhood “ruled” by boys on the verge of puberty.

Eventually I always gave in and became that extra hitter or dodge ball target. And that’s fine; I survived. The trick to just getting by was a delicate balance between being present in the game and daydreaming. Some of my best moments were spent fantasizing about music waking me up in the morning (birds) and lulling me to sleep at night (crickets) and about constellations that I’d read about in a book, all the meanwhile I was standing in the outfield waiting for the inevitable ball to come my way. Of course I would cower and mess up the point for my team, but that’s okay; there was a reason I shuffled between the two teams. No matter what, it always came down to the experience.

I once read an essay about poetry that talked about how everything a poet experiences is poetic to him. As pretentious and dramatic as it is, why wouldn’t it be the same for me? My flavor is for the journey, never the destination. I prefer the car ride to the arrival. I’d rather turn the page than finish the book. I’ll listen to a song on repeat as if to fool myself that it never ends, believing that my favorite part can live on forever as long as the loop function cooperates. Sometimes I get so lost in the experience that I become quiet and reserved. I often fear that my silence comes off as awkward at best and hateful at worst, that if I’m barely audible, it’s because I obviously must be having a horrible time. It’s exactly the opposite though. There are moments when I’m so overtaken with happiness that there is nothing I can do but remove myself and watch in astonishment as I realize where I am and what I’m in. How do I get so lucky sometimes?

This is how life feels now. I can like kickball again. Playing volleyball isn’t as terrifying as it was in gym class. Laughing at my athletic skills – no matter how inferior or superior they are compared to hegemonic standards – is a lot more fun knowing that the judgment I felt when I was younger no longer exists. What I’m really trying to say beneath all of these coming-of-age, faux-grandiose statements is that I can enjoy ball games again. Sometimes I whiff, and sometimes I don’t. Who’s really keeping track anymore?

The Triggering Subject

2007-06-19T10:36:00.000-04:00

This morning I finished Richard Hugo's book The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on Poetry and Writing. I approached it with caution, as I do with any book written by a poet about poetry. I was intrigued by a lot of what Hugo had to say in terms of poetry, especially when he spoke in regard to the poet's personal life. Much of what he had to say was both inspirational and practical, motivating me to pick up the pen a little more than I have been lately. Likewise, many of his ideas and theories were similar to some of my own personal thoughts -- though, granted, his are articulated more clearly and creatively than mine could ever be. I feel as though I've come into this book rather late as a self-proclaimed poet -- it seems like a staple in most poet's collections -- but better late than never, n'est-ce pas?

One of my favorite sections that I dog-eared was in the chapter titled "Statements of Faith," in which Hugo responds to William Carlos Williams' statement that "one reason a poet [writes is] to become a better person." Hugo says:

I don't think Williams was advocating writing as therapy, nor the naive idea that after writing a poem one is any less depraved. I believe Williams discovered that a lifetime of writing was a slow, accumulative way of accepting one's life as valid. What a silly thing we do. We sweat through poem after poem to realize what dumb animals know by instinct and reveal in their behavior: my life is all I've got. We are well off to know it ourselves, even if our method of learning it is painfully convoluted.

When you write you are momentarily telling the world and yourself that neither of you need any reason to be but the one you had all along (72).

In other news, I might expand this blog beyond poetry. There are too many things making me happy right now: good friends, a hot and sticky summer, ice cream, music on loop. Would it be cliche to say my life is pumping new air? Probably, so I won't.

David Trinidad & Memoir in Poetry

2007-06-08T10:05:00.000-04:00

About a week ago I found myself aimlessly wandering around the BPL searching for anything to put on my neglected orange library card. Eventually I stumbled upon David Trinidad's book Hand Over Heart. I fanned through the pages rather quickly and decided to just go for it, be adventurous, take it home.

As it turns out, I'm glad I found his book. I've only read and heard about Trinidad through secondary sources. I've never been able to actually get my hands on his work save for whatever results the closest search engine produces. Hand Over Heart is more of a diary collection than anything else, a memoir in poetry if you will. But it's so refreshing to see such a thing in print. I feel like I've struggled -- and still continue to struggle -- with the balance between narrative and language in my own poetry. What I tend to write are life accounts with some poetry thrown in for good measure, while my goal is to change that percentage. Let's say 60/40, poetry/memoir.

Granted, this book is from the 90s and I have no doubt that Trinidad's writing has evolved. Still, I think it's a great example of how a lot of poets begin and learn to recognize their own voices developing. Hand Over Heart is particularly interesting because of its main focus: pop culture, and how it channels itself into our everyday lives.

Hand Over Heart
David Trinidad

I look up at the clock.
It's time to go, so
I cover the typewriter
and calculator, lock my radio
in the file cabinet
and straighten my desk.
On the way out, I unplug
the Christmas tree lights.
I am rarely the last one
to leave the office.

Alone in the elevator,
I listen to a lilting
rendition of "Frosty
The Snowman." The door
slides open. Outside,
it's already dark. I say
good night to the guard
in the parking lot, wait
for my car to warm up.
It does and I drive off.

Halfway home,
I turn on the radio.
Madonna sings
her new hit, "Open
Your Heart." At
the same time, on
another station,
Cyndi Lauper sings
her latest song, "Change
of Heart." Not that long
ago, it might have
been Brenda Lee
singing "Heart In Hand"
and Connie Francis
belting out any number
of her most popular
tunes: "My Heart
Has A Mind Of Its
Own," "Breakin' In
A Brand New Broken
Heart," "When
The Boy In Your Arms
(Is The Boy In Your
Heart)" or "Don't
Break The Heart
That Loves You."
I don't know why
I think about
such things.

I park the car
in the garage, walk
across the courtyard
and check the mailbox.
A few bills, ads,
Christmas cards
from friends I no
longer feel that
close to. No
messages on my
phone machine.

"I'm sorry,"
you said last
night. You seemed
sincere. Later,
I sat in my car
and cried. Was it
love? I thought
it was love. I mean
it felt like love.
It really did.

Sarah Hannah

2007-05-30T08:04:00.000-04:00

Yesterday we received an e-mail that poet Sarah Hannah had passed away. It's so hard to make sense of this tragic loss. I don't think there is a way to. Although I never had her as a professor (I would've in the fall), many of my friends who did raved about her, not only as a professor but also as a poet and human being. I had countless opportunities to tell her how much her first book, Longing Distance, meant to me, and I was never brave enough to approach her. This comes at a time when I'm feeling particularly low, so this hits deep and hard. I love you, Sarah Hannah.

Eclipse
Sarah Hannah

Every so often I am dilated; the pupils
Swallow everything—a catchall soup,
Two cauldrons, stubborn in the bald glare

Of bathroom light. They are hunting sleep—
The sea grass, the blue cot rocking;
In sleep I am a Spanish dancer,

Awaiting my cue at the velvet curtain,
Now and then groping for the sash,
Or on horseback, abducted, thumping

Through pampas. I sleep too much;
I curl in at midday, sheepish,
In strange rooms. Clouds are hurrying by—

The walls, a wash of white; still my eyes
Are mazing through their dark gardens,
The great lamp shut, the crescents duplicating.

It is only a temporary state of affairs.
The sun boils behind the moon.

The Emerson Review

2007-05-24T08:51:00.000-04:00

I debated whether or not to post this, but it's applicable to this blog.

Though school has ended, if you're in Boston and around Emerson's campus, you may be able to find a copy of The Emerson Review, Spring 2007. It just came out a few weeks ago. It's a really great publication with a lot of amazing writing. They were even crazy enough to publish two of my poems! If you can't find any on campus, I'm sure they'll be restocked in the fall.

Speaking of Men

2007-05-14T19:53:00.000-04:00

Bob Hicok is today's featured poet on Poetry Daily with his poem "O my pa-pa" and of course it's packed with one amazing line after another.

For the past four days I've been "home" in Meadville and although it's been a short visit, it's shown me how much I don't belong here. I'm still too connected to write anything about it, but I'm thinking it'll become the subject of many personal writings this summer. That's all I'll say about that because this isn't my diary, it's merely here for poetry. Just know that right now the future has never seemed so unpredictable, threatening, and terrifying.

Something Gritty

2007-05-08T22:12:00.000-04:00

One afternoon while I was in the bookstore browsing the shelves, I came upon Manthology: Poems on the Male Experience. My first thought was, I wish I had known about this for Masculinities paper! But c'est la vie because that paper was long completed. However, my fascination about maleness, gender, and sexuality as represented in poetry is still strong and progressively growing.

There are ninety-three poets featured in the anthology, organized alphabetically. I've only made it to the letter 'H' so far because I am really bad about summer reading. I hop back and forth between books and continuously purchase more before I've finished the others. Regardless, I couldn't continue reading without sharing this poem by Tony Hoagland. In short, it blew me away.

Hoagland adds so many nice touches to the poem. Notice in stanzas five and six how he transitions from the hammer, a simple tool, into the idea of a "song". In the seventh stanza he describes the actions of a gun being "cocked and loaded" but ends with the word "psalm". I'm particularly interested in the contrast and discrimination that he brings into the poem halfway through it, and how he turns it back on himself, especially with the surprise ending. Sorry, none of that probably makes sense, and that's because for two days I've been suffering from a terrible cold. Or flu. Or allergies. All of the above? The jury's still out. Ignore this commentary and focus, rather, on the writing below.

I think this could also make for a great writing exercise. Take a word that means something to you (good or bad) and write about it. See where it takes you from there.

Dickhead
Tony Hoagland

To whomever taught me the word dickhead,
I owe a debt of thanks.
It gave me a way of being in the world of men
when I most needed one,

when I was pale and scrawny,
naked, goosefleshed
as a plucked chicken
in a supermarket cooler, a poor

forked thing stranded in the savage
universe of puberty, where wild
jockstraps flew across the steamy

skies of locker rooms,
and everybody fell down laughing
at jokes I didn’t understand.

But dickhead was a word as dumb
and democratic as a hammer, an object
you could pick up in your hand,
and swing,

saying dickhead this and dickhead that
a song that mean the world
was yours enough at least
to bang on like a garbage can,

and knowing it, and having that
beautiful ugliness always
cocked and loaded in my mind,
protected me and calmed me like a psalm.

Now I have myself become
a beautiful ugliness,

and my weakness is a fact
so well established that
it makes me calm,

and I am calm enough
to be grateful for the lives I
never have to live again;

but I remember all the bad old days
back in the world of men,
when everything was serious, mysterious, scary,
hairier and bigger than I was;

I recall when flesh
was what I hated, feared
and was excluded from:

Hardly knowing what I did,
or what would come of it,
I made a word my friend.

Hello, May

2007-05-03T07:52:00.000-04:00

This is it. It's May. I'm a senior in college, and I'm days away from turning that magical number: twenty-one. There are so many posts I've been constructing in my mind that I will be able to get to, finally. Surprisingly, much of what I want to talk about deviates from poetry. Right now it's all about issues of Time Magazine and National Geographic as well as the music of Laura Veirs and all of the books that are piling up for my summer 2007 reading fest. As long as you'll indulge me in all of that, I promise I'll also cap things off with poetry.

Such as, well, right now. I woke up this morning to a featured poem on Poetry Daily by my adviser. One of my favorite hobbies is stalking (re: reading) my professors. But I haven't actually read a lot of my adviser's poetry, even though it's his main genre (he's written creative nonfiction as well), he's a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Iowa, and he used to be the chair of the entire writing department. Due to time constraints I'm forced to end things here, but enjoy his poem.

The Wish Mind
John Skoyles

Eternity might very well
be the longed for kiss
you wish would stop,
or the brazen ambition
to live with god,
now folded in the churchyard
with the horse chestnuts.

Eternity could simply
be the thirty shots of radiation
that took you thirty times
until the ending didn't finish,
nor the beginning start.

A girl pats her forehead
with a powder puff,
as if dotting the letter i.
She becomes an x, you change
to o, and the infinite game
ends always in a tie.

Eternity might take the shape
of a werewolf in the wish mind.
The librarian bends over
to look up a skirt.
The howl is strong
and we hear it forever.

Or maybe it's the dominating
see-saw in the center
of the playground,
whose rusty fulcrum squeals
to the children:
Life is long, William.
Life is short, Kate.

Held to the Earth

2007-04-22T23:40:00.000-04:00

A lot of good news to report: if you take a second to look at the date, you'll realize that it's almost the end of April. My second semester of junior year is quickly vanishing. The curtains are being pulled back, revealing a spring and summer vacation that includes turning twenty-one, reading all the books I've been putting on my "to read during 2k7 summer" list, and -- as usual -- figuring out my future. I shouldn't get ahead of myself though. There's still much to be done before the semester is truly wrapped up. And before April 22, 2007 officially ends, I'd like to wish my brother a happy 25th and the Earth a pleasant day/night's rest.

In celebration of finishing my big African American history paper, below is the link to a Thomas Sayers Ellis poem I especially like, "Slow Fade to Black." Of course my paper focused on black poets. To be brief, I wrote about contemporary black poets who have broken free of the "reactionary poetry" so many of their predecessors were stereotyped into. I brought in various essays as framework to support the authoritative and revolutionary qualities of these poets, and then commented on a few specific poems, one of which happened to be Ellis' below.

Unfortunately I don't have time to go into any more detail, but enjoy this one for now and I encourage anyone who's reading to check out Ellis' 2005 collection entitled The Maverick Room: Poems, available from Graywolf Press.

"Slow Fade to Black" by Thomas Sayers Ellis

Emerging Poet Alert

2007-04-18T19:21:00.000-04:00

Matthew Olzmann is one of those poets I've heard about through the grapevine. I've had to use my Google prowess to find his poems, but all that clicking is worth it. To my knowledge (re: my Google/Amazon knowledge) Olzmann doesn't have a book of poems out yet, but here's hoping he will soon. I can't wait to read a whole collection by this intriguing poet. Below I've posted just one of his poems and linked to a couple more. I have nothing substantial to say at the moment about these poems -- after all, there are only a few -- except that they've been responsible for taking me out of a prolonged bad mood, and for that I am grateful. In that light, sit back and happy feasting!

When We Both Looked Like Bukowski and The Legends I Built All Let Me Down
Matthew Olzmann

I was led to believe by now I'd be famous, or simply
Unemployed & incoherent with at least one healthy
Narcotics habit hiding in my past

Or up my sleeve.

This was before I knew how it felt to hold a man back,
Three stories up, he was determined to die
His eyes went blank & his feet were

Slipping on the ledge.

I remember asking my mother what she wanted for her birthday.
She said, "I used to ask for good kids." But Mom,
You've got great kids! She smiled,

"Now, I just want honest kids."

On Sunday mornings, my neighbors hurl beer bottles
Until they hurt. It's a weekly ritual attempting to prove
The American myth is alive & kicking with

A weak bladder & a bad liver.

In a past incarnation, I stared at my reflection ’till
It went blind. I dreamt my lover covered me
In crushed lotus petals & called me Barabus.

I've never been to Disneyland.

I'm not sure if I can scale the walls, but I was
Born in Detroit, where it's always possible to catch
A quick glimpse beneath your skin

Pulled back by a universe of pins.

The rats ’round here get thick on last week’s garbage.
If you listen, you can hear them: Them humans
Are just as scared of you as you are of them.
Walk close enough

& they'll scurry away.

Other poems:
Statistics
Louisville Slugger
Nate's Glass Eye

Poem of Low Latitudes

2007-04-16T17:11:00.000-04:00

I love the poem featured on today's Poetry Daily website. I'll leave my commentary at that and post the poem below. I'm on the lookout for the poet's book, but no luck so far. Enjoy this in light of National Poetry Month and despite the tragedies at Virginia Tech today.

Poem of Low Latitudes
Mike Dockins

Let's crumple calendars, smash watches.

Let's throw ropes around the Moon,
never stop swallowing its linens.

Let's recline the way the horizon does,
every evening, yawning across Tropic lines.

Let's fill a hammock with limes.

Let's fall asleep on the reef,
stare up through clear water at trembling stars.

Let's climb a coconut tree & squeal like monkeys.

Let's ride a trade wind like paper airplanes.

Let's watch the sky wheel & wheel
from under straw hats.

Let's count a billion stars,
lose track at a billion minus one, then start over,
until we glitter with white sand.

Let's tumble together until the earth is flat.

Let me sail like Magellan into you,
unfold the maps of your roundness.

Let's hope for the volcano.

Let's reinvent the godless universe ballooning.

Let's crawl into a conch shell
& bang on a bongo.

Let's build a bonfire
that boils away the atmosphere.

Let's sublimate, evaporate, condense.

Let's get drunk on the real stars—
helium engines strumming
our own cores to a glow.

Let me wear your warm skin.

Let's simplify: skin, nerve, synapse, nucleus,
hydrogen, quark, the unpronounceable....

Nancy Morejón, Cuban poet

2007-04-08T19:10:00.000-04:00

So far in my Cuban Literature course I’ve enjoyed the poetry of José Martí, Eliseo Diego, and Nicolás Guillén. Recently we finally studied a female Cuban poet: Nancy Morejón (b. 1944). She belongs to the second generation of poets who came into the Revolution (those born after 1940) and who supported its ideals. She was the first black woman to graduate (with honors) from the University of Havana and the first black woman to win Cuba’s National Prize for Literature in 2001. She published her first poetry collection, Mutismos, when she was eighteen and has gone on to write thirteen books of poetry, three monographs, a play, and four volumes of critical studies on Cuban and Caribbean history and literature, not including her involvement in other genres such as translation, essay, and journalism, as well as her collaborations in the fine arts and theatre. Phew.

Morejón’s poetry is infused with black history, feminist issues, Yoruban mythology, and Cuban nationalism, but she prefers to write from her “poetic soul.” Writing with this angle in mind is what makes her poetry so effective. She’s able to avoid the traps that so many others fall into when writing about such subjects. Her poetry is as multilayered and complex as her identity, easily reflected after reading Looking Within.

But what I want to touch on is the idea of whether or not the knowledge of a poet’s biography is important. Does it help a reader better understand a poem that alludes to and references content that otherwise is unknown to them? Or should a poem be able to stand on its feet without extensive research into the poet’s life? I believe that the latter is always present in a good poem. At the same time there’s no debating the former question. Of course insight into the poet’s life will shed new light upon his or her writing, and I find this especially true with Morejón’s poetry.

In this case, knowing more about Morejón undoubtedly enriched my appreciation for her poetry. After I investigated and read more about her, I revisited a particular selection of poems from Coffee and Clarity from the Looking Within book. While there were many poems that I enjoyed from these two sections, it was “A Havana Patio” that caught my eye.

Immediately I was reminded of Gabriel Abudu’s (also the English translator of the poem) article on Havana as a poetic and personal space in Morejón’s poetry. In the article he mentions that her “Havana patio is priceless because of the values that she learned growing up there; in fact, her courtyard is as valuable to her as last year’s seeds are to the farmer.” He also goes on to say that, in a different poem, Morejón “reiterates the importance of the courtyard not just as a physical space but, more significantly, as a space that she connects with her sense of self and identity.”

This is evident in the poem in which “memory,” so “dear” to everyone as Morejón suggests, is easily accessible in a place “without tall walls.” In fact, the patio brings forth memory so easily that Morejón is reminded of her past (“preserves the bones of the dead”) even without the influence of a “rainbow” or an “Andalusian flower” her “grandmother so much demanded.” Rainbows can symbolize many things, but in this poem it seems hopeful and fearless because of its “intrepid glow.” And the flower isn’t just any ordinary flower, but a Spanish one that her grandmother (notably part of her lineage) specifically not only liked, but “demanded.”

A few things to generally note: (1) Morejón is obsessed with her past, and often uses poetry as a way of exploring it. It is in those poems that she revisits Africa, encounters the grandparents she never met, and experiences the hardships of slavery. As a result, she often gives voice to people who don’t normally have one. (2) Morejón is a strong believer that our ancestors and loved ones who have passed on (family, friends, anyone we’ve shared a close bond with) continue to affect our daily lives, their presence still clearly all around us.

The magic of the Havana patio lies in its ability to open up not only the past, but also the future to the speaker. In the first stanza, it’s clear that the patio is essentially a time capsule of sorts that keeps past “treasures” intact. They are as important as “seeds” that represent fertility, growth, and thus future. From the patio the speaker can also see the “stars twinkle,” symbolizing the heavens, where the dead “reside” and can influence and watch over the living. Knowing how important ancestry, mythology, and Havana factor into Morejón’s writing not only greatly improved my understanding of this poem, but also more importantly, my respect and admiration for her poetry. It also emphasizes the importance of personal space, and how the places that mean the most to us are a lens through which we can see our past, present, and future selves.

A Havana Patio
Nancy Morejón

A Havana patio,
as Machado requested,
is dear to memory.
Without tall walls,
without that intrepid glow
of the rainbow,
without the Andalusian flower
grandmother so much demanded
in the flower vases . . .

A Havana patio
preserves the bones of the dead
for they are ample treasures,
a farmer's old seeds.

A patio, ay, from where
so many stars twinkle.

National Poetry Month

2007-04-01T13:30:00.000-04:00

It's April 1st, which means National Poetry Month has officially begun.

Enjoy the next thirty days by reading, writing, and loving poetry! My personal goal for the month is to fit one or all of the above into each day, either by reading or writing (even if it's incomplete).

Writer's (Un)Block

2007-03-28T19:57:00.000-04:00

I've mentioned the following quote before, but in a different capacity separate from this blog. Thus, I'd like to include it here. There's a lot to be said about Laux's statement, but I'll simply state that, for the record, I agree with her.

Q. Is there such a thing as "poet's block"? What advice would you give aspiring poets to get us over those inevitable moments?

If you read The Poet’s Companion you’ll see that I don’t believe in writer’s block. I believe that there are times when you are full and overflowing, ready and willing to write poems, and other times when you are busy being filled with what you need to write poems. I know many writers that do something else during those times, paint or draw, play music or listen intently to music, give blood, teach someone to read, live their lives. All this goes into the pot that makes poems. The trick is not to worry too much about it and to always be ready by reading and writing as much as you can, allowing yourself to write bad poems, horrible poems, make big mistakes, and go on.

- Dorianne Laux, interview

On Loop

2007-03-25T10:34:00.000-04:00

A good poem, like a catchy song, is completely infectious. It's rhythmic, it's quotable, and it lasts with you after your train ride, through work, and right before sleep curls up in your eyes. There's a point when a poem becomes addictive, figuratively put on repeat, and read until its lines are delicately memorized. In fact, if it were socially acceptable and possible to randomly quote poetry in public without coming off as crazy, I would.

This has been the case with Bob Hicok's poem "Angels of mercy" from his newest poetry collection, This Clumsy Living, which takes its title from a Rilke poem. Hicok's fifth book is startling true to his title, but that's precisely what makes him stand out amongst contemporary poets. He trips over himself in poems, constantly moving from subject-to-subject in a matter of lines, sometimes within the same line, resulting in a complex layering of thought processes full of wit and humor. He's perfected the one thing I can't seem to incorporate in my own writing: comedy with substance. What Hicok is able to say, what he's able to comment on through a myriad of well-crafted lines, extends further than his talent for being clever, hitting the reader right in the gut. This isn't a complete review of Hicok's book, but it is my recommendation to read the poems in this book if you haven't already.

Back to the poem. I am strangely attracted to writing that centers around and involves any and all of the following: hospitals, medicine, health, doctors, surgeries, etc. Some of my favorite writings from William Carlos Williams are those that clearly draw from his experiences as a doctor, e.g., his short story The Use of Force. And there's this spectacular poem from Sarah Hannah's book, Longing Distance, called "Anaesthesia Green," which ends on the familiar lines of waking up from "going under" when she writes:

The same shiver wakes you
To this iron bed,
At your lips the taste of tin.
This is the coldest you have ever been.

Try reading Hicok's poem and not taking a deep breath afterwards. It's impossible, especially after the last stanza.

Angels of Mercy
Bob Hicok

Everyone waiting reading the coverless magazines
reading brochures on Alzheimer's & bone-loss two kinds
of forgetting

I call my father don't tell him where I am he says
they think his heart now maybe his kidneys now
maybe doctors what do they know stay away
from doctors son yes dad

The woman across from me yawns pushes her hands
up her face pulls the skin back her hands
are wings she's thirty years younger for a second
a moment of plastic surgery when her face sags home
it's a scrotum

The man beside me is held together by liver spots
he coughs I hold my breath

Two doctors come out sit in our laps kiss our mouths
lick our teeth our eyes stroke our heads purr
two doctors in white coats of feathers wearing piles
of snow two doctors speaking Spanish and Hebrew and rap
speaking tongues two doctors with six knees apiece
with accordians in their voice boxes two doctors burning
glowing two doctors made of lava tell us we will die
but not today we will die but not forever and then
and o they give us suckers I'd like orange please life
is sweet

Toxic Triangle of Writing

2007-03-22T17:55:00.000-04:00

In the March/April 2007 publication of Poets & Writers, Boston-based writer Caitlin O’Neil focuses on the “toxic triangle” of writing, which “refers to the metaphorical vortex writers get pulled into while trying to balance making a living, being committed to their literary lives, and staying connected to the world around them.”

Surely this term is applicable to various professions, but it’s particularly interesting in terms of writing, and especially at this time in my life. For the first time since my freshman fall semester, I’m currently not enrolled in a workshop, forcing me to deal with this “toxic triangle.”

In the past, workshops have been structured environments intended for the purpose of writing nonstop. There are schedules, assignments, and deadlines, all of which, though sometimes stressful, require you to crank out work at a seemingly endless pace. Sometimes you get lucky and write something brilliantly, and other times you write something awfully but it still provides you with a line or two that could eventually find its way back into a later piece.

Without this setting though, my priorities have shifted. I’m in classes that focus my attention differently, I’ve picked up more hours at work, and most of my pre-weekends are spent figuring out how I’ll entertain myself during the weekends rather than setting aside personal time to write, read, and research.

This recognition partly reinforces my intentions to, at some point or another, attend graduate school, where the extension of a structured writing environment will be key in my development as a writer. At this point in my life I’m positive that I want to earn my MFA as well as hopefully go on to publish and teach. The advantages of teaching are numerous, including its uses as a social outlet (in an art where isolation is almost mandatory), its research opportunities (that keep you connected to the literary world), and its inspirational tones. One of the article’s interviewees says, “Teaching is a passion of mine. I feel it necessary to pass on knowledge and to influence people to stay curious all their lives.”

Of course, there’s always a side B to side A, and there’s a lot to be said for the world outside of academia. It seems easy enough for me to say that I want to go immediately from undergraduate to graduate school to teaching, but that’s because it’s the only familiar setting I’ve known. What if this path produces not only a monotonous life, but also a lackluster writing career?

Another interviewee believes that “writers should steer clear of academia” and should “get out in the world and mix it up, get your hands dirty, get your ass kicked a little bit. Adults who have been in jobs that require risk are way more likely to have stories of failure and glory and betrayal and redemption than young adults in high school and college.”

Fair enough. (I should also point out that in this same issue there’s an article by poet Tony D’Souza on his experiences as a Peace Corps volunteer, something I've seriously considered as an alternative to immediately pursuing graduate school.)

The last – and I purposefully left it for last – side to the triangle is that pesky thing called “having a life,” which in social terms means going out, having healthy relationships, and all those bonuses that comprise a happy and well-rounded life. This is where I fall short, and thus the reason I left it for last, perhaps thinking that if I put it out of my mind, it will work itself out. Another interviewee says that “everyone focuses so much on writing, as if that’s all you need in life, but that’s a fallacy. You can’t have a productive life if no one is in it but you.” There goes my plan. It’s not for any lack of desire or want that I fail at maintaining a consistent social life, there’s just something inherently off about me, and I yearn for moments of solitude in which I can remind myself of the beauty of writing and reading.

For now, as usual, I’m at a standstill. But stay tuned, things change routinely.

(I’d also like to give credit where credit is due, so snaps to Rebecca Morgan Frank, my nonfiction professor from freshman year, who is mentioned and quoted in the article as well.)

The Circle Only Has One Side

2007-03-20T19:28:00.000-04:00

Call it boredom. Call it entertainment. Call it curiosity. Call it exploration. Whatever this blog was born from is completely unknown to me, but here it is, my first online blog dedicated (mostly) to all things poetry: poems, poets, essays, etc. There are so many things I want to share in terms of poetry, and this seems like one of the easiest outlets for me to bounce ideas, opinions, reactions, and desires off of. Thank you, blog, for being my metaphorical wall.

Upcoming: reaction to and discussion of the "toxic triangle" in writing and the "Oh-crap-what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life" panic attack.

(By the way, the title and subtitle are taken from the poem "Two Jeffs" by Richard Siken. There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.)