I wanted to share this poem by W. H. Auden. You might recognize him as the author of the poem John Hannah recited in Four Weddings and a Funeral. This one caught my eye on one of the poetry sites I frequent- sometimes they post an excerpt of a classic to lure people in on the home page. But as I was reading through it, it really struck me today. You know the phrase "arresting image"? It's something that makes you stop what you're doing and pay attention. That's how I feel about the following passage:
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
Here is the poem in its entirety. Maybe it will strike you, too.
As I Walked Out One Evening
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
In the category of Seussical impressions regarding grammatics . . .
this email from September 2005 wins first prize. I was once again doing a random search through my inbox archives (shut up, it's my thing) and was delighted to see how the following poem evolved.
It came at a time when I had just started working for a publisher in Washington, DC. As an editorial assistant, I was tasked with bathing copy in red ink before it went to press. The rest of the time I spent emailing with my dear friend Angela in Chicago. We were both feeling like lone reeds ("standing tall, waving boldly, in the corrupt sands of commerce") and so would cheer each other up with silly back-and-forths about nothing.
This was the observation she made to me that day:
"I think all those years of not capitalizing things is trying to make up for lost time. I keep inadvertently capitalizing random words in the middle of sentences. I feel German or something..."
To which I replied:
It came at a time when I had just started working for a publisher in Washington, DC. As an editorial assistant, I was tasked with bathing copy in red ink before it went to press. The rest of the time I spent emailing with my dear friend Angela in Chicago. We were both feeling like lone reeds ("standing tall, waving boldly, in the corrupt sands of commerce") and so would cheer each other up with silly back-and-forths about nothing.
This was the observation she made to me that day:
"I think all those years of not capitalizing things is trying to make up for lost time. I keep inadvertently capitalizing random words in the middle of sentences. I feel German or something..."
To which I replied:
"I'm so proud of your turning of the proverbial capitalization new leaf. Wow, if any of my old professors would have read that last sentence, I shudder to think of the amount of red ink that would have been spilled in the writing of 'awkward phrasing'."
That last bit put me in Dr. Seuss mode, which then resulted in the following limerick I sent back to her:
Upon penning the most jumbled of phrases,
I awoke from the most dazed of hazes.
I shuddered to think of the amount of red ink
to be lost in my grammatical mazes.
Coincidentally, this poem also wins first prize in the category of Nerdiest Limerick Ever.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The power of the internets
Well, this is the one hundredth post on this blog. It seemed kind of momentous to me, so I wanted to wait until I had something spectacular to say before I got around to writing it. Luckily, something spectacular happened yesterday.
Maybe you'll remember a few months back when I wrote about receiving someone else's subscription to Entertainment Weekly magazine? That person was named Marcus Mungiole. I was wondering why we were receiving his magazine every week, suddenly, after living in that apartment for 3 1/2 years. I gave him the old half-hearted Google search, which turned up nothing, so that was that. Well, whom should I get an email from this weekend but Mr. Mungiole himself!
It seems he stumbled upon the post I wrote about him, and it made him laugh. I couldn't believe it! Fortunately, he was not upset about the fact that I went on and on questioning his identity for three paragraphs. He verified that he was a previous tenant in our old apartment about 10 years ago, and would you believe that the SAME harpy neighbor was yelling at him even way back then? Amazing! So Marcus and I are now email buddies, and he was kind enough to forgive me for not following through with my promise to turn over back issues of his magazines since they were recycled during The Great Move of 2010.
That, my friends, is the power of the internets! And in honor of this auspicious occasion, I would like to leave you with one of my favorite poems. You all know it- just be impressed I was able to refrain from posting it this long.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost
Maybe you'll remember a few months back when I wrote about receiving someone else's subscription to Entertainment Weekly magazine? That person was named Marcus Mungiole. I was wondering why we were receiving his magazine every week, suddenly, after living in that apartment for 3 1/2 years. I gave him the old half-hearted Google search, which turned up nothing, so that was that. Well, whom should I get an email from this weekend but Mr. Mungiole himself!
It seems he stumbled upon the post I wrote about him, and it made him laugh. I couldn't believe it! Fortunately, he was not upset about the fact that I went on and on questioning his identity for three paragraphs. He verified that he was a previous tenant in our old apartment about 10 years ago, and would you believe that the SAME harpy neighbor was yelling at him even way back then? Amazing! So Marcus and I are now email buddies, and he was kind enough to forgive me for not following through with my promise to turn over back issues of his magazines since they were recycled during The Great Move of 2010.
That, my friends, is the power of the internets! And in honor of this auspicious occasion, I would like to leave you with one of my favorite poems. You all know it- just be impressed I was able to refrain from posting it this long.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost
Friday, February 18, 2011
Dead presidents, frozen cavemen, and frozen coke
I'm excited about this weekend because a friend of mine that I've known since 8th grade (!) is coming to see me. I don't think I've seen her in about eight or nine years, but I have no doubt we'll pick up right where we left off. To quote what she wrote about her upcoming visit on her blog,
"we're planning to re-visit 8th grade, which means lots of frozen coke, popcorn, face cream, nail polish, and of course watching our favorite movie from that time, Encino Man. We'll probably use phrases you won't remember like "Owwwww Buddddy" and "Weeze the Jui-uice."
Well said, April! And then she posted an 8th grade picture. I won't do that. I'll just post this senior year pic instead:
In other news, my dad complained that I was including too much "contemporary poetry crap" on here, so here's an oldie but a goodie (just like you, Dad).
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
-Rudyard Kipling
"we're planning to re-visit 8th grade, which means lots of frozen coke, popcorn, face cream, nail polish, and of course watching our favorite movie from that time, Encino Man. We'll probably use phrases you won't remember like "Owwwww Buddddy" and "Weeze the Jui-uice."
Well said, April! And then she posted an 8th grade picture. I won't do that. I'll just post this senior year pic instead:
In other news, my dad complained that I was including too much "contemporary poetry crap" on here, so here's an oldie but a goodie (just like you, Dad).
If
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
-Rudyard Kipling
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
It might have been okay, but then they released Hanson.
When I was running errands yesterday, I had my iPod plugged in in my car and the windows down. I don't know why there's something exhilarating about doing that, whether it's blasting your favorite song or exorcising road rage with something bass-heavy and angry. It reminded me of a time before I got my driver's license.
I was one of the youngest people in my class so all my friends were already riding around, proclaiming their love for Dave Matthews by turning up Under the Table and Dreaming as they peeled out of the school parking lot. Of course we had fun driving around town together, but I longed for control of the wheel. I wanted to blast Jagged Little Pill whether I was with friends or not! My greatest teenage fear at that time was that there would be no more good songs to play by the time I got my license. Literally, the music world would run out of material and I would be left to play the same old Gin Blossoms on repeat for the rest of my life. How tragic to lose the joy of driving before I even had it.
Well, duh, that didn't happen. I am happy to report that musicians have not given up the passion to create, that there are yet thousands of chord combinations to be discovered. And I still listen to some of those '90s songs with the volume turned up because nostalgia is an excellent passenger.
Three Teenage Girls: 1956
I was one of the youngest people in my class so all my friends were already riding around, proclaiming their love for Dave Matthews by turning up Under the Table and Dreaming as they peeled out of the school parking lot. Of course we had fun driving around town together, but I longed for control of the wheel. I wanted to blast Jagged Little Pill whether I was with friends or not! My greatest teenage fear at that time was that there would be no more good songs to play by the time I got my license. Literally, the music world would run out of material and I would be left to play the same old Gin Blossoms on repeat for the rest of my life. How tragic to lose the joy of driving before I even had it.
Well, duh, that didn't happen. I am happy to report that musicians have not given up the passion to create, that there are yet thousands of chord combinations to be discovered. And I still listen to some of those '90s songs with the volume turned up because nostalgia is an excellent passenger.
Three Teenage Girls: 1956
Three teenage girls in tight red sleeveless blouses and black Capri pants
And colorful headscarves secured in a knot to their chins
Are walking down the hill, chatting, laughing,
Cupping their cigarettes against the light rain,
The closest to the road with her left thumb stuck out
Not looking at the cars going past.
Every Friday night to the dance, and wet or dry
They get where they’re going, walk two miles or get a ride,
And now the two-door 1950 Dodge, dark green
Darkening as evening falls, stops, they nudge
Each other, peer in, shrug, two scramble into the back seat,
And the third, the boldest, famous
For twice running away from home, slides in front with the man
Who reaches across her body and pulls the door shut.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day: brought to you by angst
The Look
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
-Sara Teasdale
(yet another poet who killed herself)
Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
-Sara Teasdale
(yet another poet who killed herself)
Thursday, February 10, 2011
When I was little, I wanted to live in a tree.
That still sounds like a pretty good option. Mainly, I'm wondering if this is the only way to avoid aggressively crazy neighbors. Before it was the harpy woman; now it's the pushy dog lady. Always it's the long-term renters who've been around for the better part of a decade.
Dog Lady seemed all right to begin with. I mean, she had a dog. I love dogs. She offered to let us play with it any time we want. Fun, great. What I didn't realize was that by saying I like dogs I was agreeing to a verbal contract to somehow be responsible for the dog when she's not around. She gave us a set of her keys. Naively, I assumed she was just asking us to be good neighbors and keep an eye on her place, keep a set of keys in case anything ever happened. Then the phone calls started. The day I was waiting for the cable guy to show up and install service, Dog Lady called me and asked if I had her dog. I said no, and she got all huffy saying, "I thought you were going to take him." Well, I explained that the cable man had just arrived and I didn't think it would be a good idea to have the dog running around while he's trying to install things. That seemed to calm her. I later felt guilty (why??) and played with the dog in the afternoon. After that it turned into a game of surprise, here's my dog!
Whenever my roommate or I got home and were standing there unlocking our door, her dog would be barking and going nuts. (It's one of those little white yippy dogs.) So Dog Lady yells out, "Who's that? Is that Omi?" And she would open her door, which is across from ours, and send the dog out. She coaxes it saying, "Go on, Baby, go see the girls." Then she shuts her door and yells for us to send him back when we're done. The dog is so badly trained, he bolts into our apartment and jumps on the couch.
Now it's gotten to the point where both my roommate and I park on the street as often as possible so it doesn't look like we're home. We have done speed tests to see how quickly we can unlock the front door. We keep the drapes drawn and pretty much hide out when we're here. I make sure to be out when she pops home for lunch every day. I'm not proud of this. I know I should confront this woman, but we've only been here about a month and a half and I didn't want to cause trouble right off the bat like we did with the harpy neighbor. But I know I need to give her her keys back and tell her I can't worry about her dog.
. . . Or do I? Yesterday something interesting happened. I was working at the dining room table and Dog Lady arrived back early for lunch. Damn, I thought. I was in the middle of doing laundry and now she was going to know I was home. But then something amazing happened. I heard the building manager outside (let's call her Rose) and Dog Lady said to her, "Rose, I think your son wants me out of the building." Dog Lady was spitting nails she was so mad. Rose's son is our landlord. Rose said something I couldn't make out. Then Dog Lady (whose nasal voice carries like a smoke alarm) said that the landlord had sent her an email saying he was going to take action with an attorney. Something about her not paying rent on time! Then Rose said something about the "young people" being able to do it, and Dog Lady replied, "Well, I told him I can only do what I can do." Then I heard a door slam and the dog was barking his head off and the gardeners were working so that was the end of that.
So maybe she won't be our neighbor much longer? I know that's a pretty terrible thing to hope for. I don't wish her ill or anything but having the issue resolve itself would be fantastic. (Yes, I am a coward.)
In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited I read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
--"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts--
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How--I didn't know any
word for it--how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Dog Lady seemed all right to begin with. I mean, she had a dog. I love dogs. She offered to let us play with it any time we want. Fun, great. What I didn't realize was that by saying I like dogs I was agreeing to a verbal contract to somehow be responsible for the dog when she's not around. She gave us a set of her keys. Naively, I assumed she was just asking us to be good neighbors and keep an eye on her place, keep a set of keys in case anything ever happened. Then the phone calls started. The day I was waiting for the cable guy to show up and install service, Dog Lady called me and asked if I had her dog. I said no, and she got all huffy saying, "I thought you were going to take him." Well, I explained that the cable man had just arrived and I didn't think it would be a good idea to have the dog running around while he's trying to install things. That seemed to calm her. I later felt guilty (why??) and played with the dog in the afternoon. After that it turned into a game of surprise, here's my dog!
Whenever my roommate or I got home and were standing there unlocking our door, her dog would be barking and going nuts. (It's one of those little white yippy dogs.) So Dog Lady yells out, "Who's that? Is that Omi?" And she would open her door, which is across from ours, and send the dog out. She coaxes it saying, "Go on, Baby, go see the girls." Then she shuts her door and yells for us to send him back when we're done. The dog is so badly trained, he bolts into our apartment and jumps on the couch.
Now it's gotten to the point where both my roommate and I park on the street as often as possible so it doesn't look like we're home. We have done speed tests to see how quickly we can unlock the front door. We keep the drapes drawn and pretty much hide out when we're here. I make sure to be out when she pops home for lunch every day. I'm not proud of this. I know I should confront this woman, but we've only been here about a month and a half and I didn't want to cause trouble right off the bat like we did with the harpy neighbor. But I know I need to give her her keys back and tell her I can't worry about her dog.
. . . Or do I? Yesterday something interesting happened. I was working at the dining room table and Dog Lady arrived back early for lunch. Damn, I thought. I was in the middle of doing laundry and now she was going to know I was home. But then something amazing happened. I heard the building manager outside (let's call her Rose) and Dog Lady said to her, "Rose, I think your son wants me out of the building." Dog Lady was spitting nails she was so mad. Rose's son is our landlord. Rose said something I couldn't make out. Then Dog Lady (whose nasal voice carries like a smoke alarm) said that the landlord had sent her an email saying he was going to take action with an attorney. Something about her not paying rent on time! Then Rose said something about the "young people" being able to do it, and Dog Lady replied, "Well, I told him I can only do what I can do." Then I heard a door slam and the dog was barking his head off and the gardeners were working so that was the end of that.
So maybe she won't be our neighbor much longer? I know that's a pretty terrible thing to hope for. I don't wish her ill or anything but having the issue resolve itself would be fantastic. (Yes, I am a coward.)
In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited I read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
--"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts--
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How--I didn't know any
word for it--how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Too bad I look stupid in hats.
This is the third comb I've broken trying to get it through my wet hair in the shower. Yes, I have a lot of hair, but this is ridiculous. I honestly think the hair is fighting back. Do I really need to buy a special metal tool to tame this beast? To give you a visual, if left to its own devices my hair would balloon and drape itself around my head, emulating Cousin It. How I long for the type of bone structure that would be flattered by a pixie cut.
I once was assigned to write a self-portrait poem in college, and the only thing I can remember is the first line: "All I am is hair." Not much has changed, but I wonder where that poem is now.
Anyway, I'm off to buy a comb.
Haircut
I get off the IRT in front of the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture after riding an early Amtrak from Philly to get a hair cut at what used to be the Harlem "Y" barbershop. It gets me in at ten to ten. Waiting, I eat fish cakes at the Pam Pam and listen to the ladies call out orders: bacon-biscuit twice, scrambled scrambled fried, over easy, grits, country sausage on the side. Hugh is late. He shampoos me, says "I can't remember, Girlfriend, are you tender-headed?" From the chair I notice the mural behind me in the mirror. I know those overlapped sepia shadows, a Renaissance rainforest, Aaron Douglas! Hugh tells me he didn't use primer and the chlorine eats the colors every day. He clips and combs and I tell him how my favorite Douglas is called "Building More Stately Mansions," and he tells me how fly I'd look in a Salt 'n' Pepa 'do, how he trained in Japan.
Clip clip, clip clip. I imagine a whoosh each time my hair lands on the floor and the noises of small brown mammals. I remember, my father! He used to get his hair cut here, learned to swim in the caustic water, played pool and basketball. He cuts his own hair now. My grandfather worked seventy-five years in Harlem building more stately mansions. I was born two blocks away and then we moved.
None of that seems to relate to today. This is not my turf, despite the other grandfather and great-aunt who sewed hearts back into black chests after Saturday night stabbings on this exact corner, the great-uncle who made a mosaic down the street, both grandmothers. What am I always listening for in Harlem? A voice that says, "This is your place, too," as faintly as the shadows in the mural? The accents are unfamiliar; all my New York kin are dead. I never knew Fats Waller but what do I do with knowing he used to play with a ham and a bottle of gin atop his piano; never went to Olivia's House of Beauty but I know Olivia, who lives in St. Thomas, now, and who exactly am I, anyway, finding myself in these ghostly, Douglas shadows while real ghosts walk around me, talk about my stuff in the subway, yell at me not to butt the line, beg me, beg me, for my money?
What is black culture? I read the writing on the wall on the side of the "Y" as I always have: "Harlem Plays the Best Ball in the World." I look in the mirror and see my face in the mural with a new haircut. I am a New York girl; I am a New York woman; I am a flygirl with a new hair cut in New York City in a mural that is dying every day.
-Elizabeth Alexander
I once was assigned to write a self-portrait poem in college, and the only thing I can remember is the first line: "All I am is hair." Not much has changed, but I wonder where that poem is now.
Anyway, I'm off to buy a comb.
Haircut
I get off the IRT in front of the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture after riding an early Amtrak from Philly to get a hair cut at what used to be the Harlem "Y" barbershop. It gets me in at ten to ten. Waiting, I eat fish cakes at the Pam Pam and listen to the ladies call out orders: bacon-biscuit twice, scrambled scrambled fried, over easy, grits, country sausage on the side. Hugh is late. He shampoos me, says "I can't remember, Girlfriend, are you tender-headed?" From the chair I notice the mural behind me in the mirror. I know those overlapped sepia shadows, a Renaissance rainforest, Aaron Douglas! Hugh tells me he didn't use primer and the chlorine eats the colors every day. He clips and combs and I tell him how my favorite Douglas is called "Building More Stately Mansions," and he tells me how fly I'd look in a Salt 'n' Pepa 'do, how he trained in Japan.
Clip clip, clip clip. I imagine a whoosh each time my hair lands on the floor and the noises of small brown mammals. I remember, my father! He used to get his hair cut here, learned to swim in the caustic water, played pool and basketball. He cuts his own hair now. My grandfather worked seventy-five years in Harlem building more stately mansions. I was born two blocks away and then we moved.
None of that seems to relate to today. This is not my turf, despite the other grandfather and great-aunt who sewed hearts back into black chests after Saturday night stabbings on this exact corner, the great-uncle who made a mosaic down the street, both grandmothers. What am I always listening for in Harlem? A voice that says, "This is your place, too," as faintly as the shadows in the mural? The accents are unfamiliar; all my New York kin are dead. I never knew Fats Waller but what do I do with knowing he used to play with a ham and a bottle of gin atop his piano; never went to Olivia's House of Beauty but I know Olivia, who lives in St. Thomas, now, and who exactly am I, anyway, finding myself in these ghostly, Douglas shadows while real ghosts walk around me, talk about my stuff in the subway, yell at me not to butt the line, beg me, beg me, for my money?
What is black culture? I read the writing on the wall on the side of the "Y" as I always have: "Harlem Plays the Best Ball in the World." I look in the mirror and see my face in the mural with a new haircut. I am a New York girl; I am a New York woman; I am a flygirl with a new hair cut in New York City in a mural that is dying every day.
-Elizabeth Alexander
Monday, February 7, 2011
I'm a little worried that I mentioned babies so much, but then again I also mentioned cheese.
What a jam-packed weekend that was! I'm still in the process of recovering, as is my roommate's car after I accidentally hit it Friday night. No damage done, although for a second I thought I hit it hard enough to make the trunk pop open (I didn't). Sorry, Omi. That's what happens after a wild and crazy game of Wits 'n Wagers. Have you ever heard of this game? It's Trivial Pursuit meets gambling. Everyone writes down their answers to a question and then we put the answers on a board with the odds laid out on them (3-1, 2-1, etc.) and then you place chips on the answer you think is correct, even if it's not your own. I'm pretty terrible at it. The questions are all something like, "What's the average amount of pizza slices American children eat in a year?" One of my friends actually wrote down the exact number, but failed to bet on her answer. It's 46, in case you were wondering.
Saturday I went to help out at my church's ladies' Valentine's tea. I'll admit I was kind of more excited about all the food we were preparing than the tea itself, but the actual event turned out to be so fun. There were all these older ladies recounting the travels of their youth. Many of them had been flight attendants for TWA and had some great stories. The woman who was hosting the party is 90 years old! She was sharp as a tack. She told us about the history of her beautiful home, which she has lived in since 1958. She and her husband made plans to build the house, but he was called up to fight in Korea (after already serving in WWII!). So she built the house while he was gone and also gave birth to his son in the meantime. Her husband returned 13 months later to a new house and a new baby. What an awesome lady.
And yesterday of course was the Superbowl. I was a lone Steelers fan in a room full of Cheeseheads, which made things pretty exciting. I mean, we're talking people who actually import cheddar from Wisconsin for events such as this. I'm not really a diehard Steelers fan at all, but since my grandma the avid sports watcher had me following their run-up to the Superbowl, I figured I should go with them. Ah well, it was a great game. What wasn't great? Those stupid talking babies commercials. When will they end that campaign? I am seriously creeped out by them, but I guess I'm in the minority. It's just me and Lindsay Lohan hating on the E-Trade babies.
Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About
My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
(Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it."
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
(Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
(I'm better at printing.)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.
The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead.
-Judith Viorst
Saturday I went to help out at my church's ladies' Valentine's tea. I'll admit I was kind of more excited about all the food we were preparing than the tea itself, but the actual event turned out to be so fun. There were all these older ladies recounting the travels of their youth. Many of them had been flight attendants for TWA and had some great stories. The woman who was hosting the party is 90 years old! She was sharp as a tack. She told us about the history of her beautiful home, which she has lived in since 1958. She and her husband made plans to build the house, but he was called up to fight in Korea (after already serving in WWII!). So she built the house while he was gone and also gave birth to his son in the meantime. Her husband returned 13 months later to a new house and a new baby. What an awesome lady.
And yesterday of course was the Superbowl. I was a lone Steelers fan in a room full of Cheeseheads, which made things pretty exciting. I mean, we're talking people who actually import cheddar from Wisconsin for events such as this. I'm not really a diehard Steelers fan at all, but since my grandma the avid sports watcher had me following their run-up to the Superbowl, I figured I should go with them. Ah well, it was a great game. What wasn't great? Those stupid talking babies commercials. When will they end that campaign? I am seriously creeped out by them, but I guess I'm in the minority. It's just me and Lindsay Lohan hating on the E-Trade babies.
Fifteen, Maybe Sixteen Things to Worry About
My pants could maybe fall down when I dive off the diving board.
My nose could maybe keep growing and never quit.
Miss Brearly could ask me to spell words like stomach and special.
(Stumick and speshul?)
I could play tag all day and always be "it."
Jay Spievack, who's fourteen feet tall, could want to fight me.
My mom and my dad--like Ted's--could want a divorce.
Miss Brearly could ask me a question about Afghanistan.
(Who's Afghanistan?)
Somebody maybe could make me ride a horse.
My mother could maybe decide that I needed more liver.
My dad could decide that I needed less TV.
Miss Brearly could say that I have to write script and stop printing.
(I'm better at printing.)
Chris could decide to stop being friends with me.
The world could maybe come to an end on next Tuesday.
The ceiling could maybe come crashing on my head.
I maybe could run out of things for me to worry about.
And then I'd have to do my homework instead.
-Judith Viorst
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Today's poem brought to you by wine
You thought I was going to be drunk when I wrote this, right? Well, I'm not (yet). Thanks to @pxie, I was alerted to a contest in which a Napa winery called Poem Cellars has issued a call for poetry submissions. Apparently, they include a haiku or a limerick on every cork of their bottled wine that goes out. Until February 5th they will be taking submissions for their 2009 Napa Valley Red Wine. The two poets chosen will receive a case of wine! Go here for more details and to submit.
Of course I couldn't back down from the challenge due to the free wine and all. Here are a few entries I submitted. I dare say a glass of wine might have made an improvement.
Let us open a bottle of wine
and toast to the birth and decline
of relationships past,
present, future, and last
'til we no longer walk a straight line.
Here's to the vineyard
and the grapes she produced;
here's to the winery
for improving the juice.
And this one I just plain ripped off of Neil Diamond:
Sweet glass of wine,
good times never seemed
this good.
Hmm . . . maybe I am drunk.
Of course I couldn't back down from the challenge due to the free wine and all. Here are a few entries I submitted. I dare say a glass of wine might have made an improvement.
Let us open a bottle of wine
and toast to the birth and decline
of relationships past,
present, future, and last
'til we no longer walk a straight line.
Here's to the vineyard
and the grapes she produced;
here's to the winery
for improving the juice.
And this one I just plain ripped off of Neil Diamond:
Sweet glass of wine,
good times never seemed
this good.
Hmm . . . maybe I am drunk.
What's the opposite of a tapeworm?
Because that's what I had for the last week or so. I had some sort of stomach bug that wasn't letting me keep food down, so while the down side was not being able to eat, the plus side was an automatic diet. Just when I was getting used to having applesauce as a meal, my boss made me a plate of roast chicken and vegetables and very sweetly told me to eat it for lunch today. Lo and behold, I discovered that I am back in business, baby. Hallelujah.
Now, does anyone know where I can buy a tapeworm?
Trust
Now, does anyone know where I can buy a tapeworm?
Trust
Trust that there is a tiger, muscular
Tasmanian, and sly, which has never been
seen and never will be seen by any human
eye. Trust that thirty thousand sword-
fish will never near a ship, that far
from cameras or cars elephant herds live
long elephant lives. Believe that bees
by the billions find unidentified flowers
on unmapped marshes and mountains. Safe
in caves of contentment, bears sleep.
Through vast canyons, horses run while slowly
snakes stretch beyond their skins in the sun.
I must trust all this to be true, though
the few birds at my feeder watch the window
with small flutters of fear, so like my own.
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